Sorting Memories

Over the past few months, I have been picking away at the colossal project of organizing my office. As I’ve taken to working on my laptop in more convenient (and less messy) locations, this third-floor room has lately become a dumping ground for various stuff. Old camping gear and mismatched picture frames were chucked haphazardly into one of the small closets. Files and writing clips and photographs for unassembled albums were stacked in every corner. To hide the clutter, I would simple close the door and pretend it didn’t exist.

But this summer I have finally taken it on. I’ve cleaned out many years’ worth of junk from the closets. I’ve sorted my children’s art work and other keepsakes neatly by year into individual storage containers. I’ve recycled hundreds of gift boxes, which I’m not sure why I saved in the first place, since I’m a lazy present wrapper who generally skips the box and goes straight for the paper.

Amid the muddled mess were several boxes of personal items returned to me when my parents moved into a smaller house. For four years, these have been sitting in a disheveled heap in the corner of the office farthest from my desk. Occasionally I’ve peaked into a box to find an old journal or photograph. Inevitably, I’d end up sitting on the floor, flipping pages and digging through memories until one of the kids called for me or I remembered there was something on the stove or an appointment to keep.

The boxes contained my high school and college diplomas, VHS tapes of school performances, college reports, old ski passes, and faded sepia photographs of my great-grandparents (which will someday be hung in the hallway, if I ever get around to painting it). Some of these relics from the past have been easily sorted into the throw away pile, others reorganized and packed away more neatly.

Then there are the letters.

Over the past several days I have sorted through thousands of letters filed into shoeboxes and Christmas cards bundled by brittle rubber bands. The correspondence stretches back a bit longer than 20 years – before e-mail, certainly before abbreviated text messages. Some of the letters came from friends, a few from people I don’t now remember, and many from my parents, who were loyal correspondents of the news from home during the decade I spent elsewhere.

There are graduation cards and wedding cards, 20 years of Christmas greetings and birthday wishes, dozens of congratulatory notes from when my children were born, thank yous from kids I coached or people whose stories I shared in newspaper articles. The majority of these letters and notes have found their way to the recycling bin. But before I toss them away, I’m reading each one, gaining glimpses into different periods of my life, difficult to recall as I make my way through the now.

The biggest collection of letters arrived in my college mailbox during my first year away from home. These letters from my childhood friends are filled with all the insecurities and anxiety of being away from home – and from each other – for the first time in our lives. Amid hastily scrawled lines of uncertainty are stories from college, of classes and parties, new classmates and potential romances.

Most of the news contained within these letters is irrelevant now, more than two decades later. But I have enjoyed reading them, trying to remember the girl I was then – one who had great friends, was crazy about soccer, and had some kind of cow fetish. (So many soccer books and magazines. So many cards featuring cows!) One hockey-crazed friend wrote the names of Boston Bruins players in the return address instead of his own. Another sent me 15 handmade birthday cards one year. Many called me by nicknames I’d long ago forgotten.

As we all grew more comfortable in our worlds away from home, the letters evolved from college angst to news of new friends, anticipation of graduation, then the beyond-college adventures of 20-somethings moving to cities or out west, tackling grad school or med school or new jobs.

By then, e-mail was becoming prevalent, and long letters became increasingly rare. (One exception was the blue air mail envelopes containing pages-long letters filled with the left-handed-slanting scrawl of my former soccer coach in England and all the news of what was happening across the ocean, along with newspaper clippings with the scores and standings of English soccer leagues.) But occasional brief notes and stacks of Christmas cards each December still arrived in the mailbox. Eventually the notes and cards contained word of impending weddings, professional achievements, the arrival of children.

In my parents’ letters, their excitement and joy at my accomplishments and adventures is practically palpable, as is their shared disappointment and worry during challenging or indecisive times. My mother caught me up on what my brothers were doing, which friends of mine she’d run into recently around town, and other day-to-day happenings. My dad’s letters are a bit shorter and generally a little goofy. These contained soccer advice, notes on my finances, and reminders to get the oil changed in the truck.

I’m nearly through the boxes now. The journals will be filed by date and tucked into one of the cleaned-out closets along with a few photographs I’ll save. The school reports have, for the most part, been discarded. Most of the letters that filled three good-sized boxes have been recycled, and those saved now fit into one much smaller box.

Sorting through so many memories has made me feel a bit older, sometimes melancholy, often contently nostalgic, and relatively stationary. For a decade after leaving the only town I’d ever called home, I moved – beyond the region, across the country, abroad. The items contained in those boxes documented each new phase: the college freshman thrilled at making the soccer team, the graduate heading to the mountains of Colorado, the traveler moving to the west of Ireland, and – eventually – the New England girl coming home, getting married, starting a family.

Now, I’ve lived in the same house for nearly 10 years – longer than I’ve lived anywhere other than my childhood home. My parents are around the corner. New friends have come into my life and others faded away, although I’m still in touch with many of those who wrote me letters a long time ago, before we turned to shorter e-mail messages, fleeting texts, and notes passed through Facebook.  

I’m not sure what compelled me to save all those cards and letters, or why I am content now to let most of them go. Perhaps I was afraid of losing track of where I’d been or who I was. Probably it was just easier to move the boxes than to unpack them. Either way, it’s been good to sort through the memories while cleaning house – to hold on and let go all at once.

Original content by Meghan McCarthyMcPhaul, posted to her Blog: Writings From a Full Life. A version of this essay also appears in the August 22, 2014 edition of the Littleton Record.

Signs of Spring

I ordered my first batch of seeds for the vegetable garden this week, reminding myself that even as March snowfall blankets the ground in a clean layer of white, spring is – eventually – coming. March is notoriously fickle around here, changing from cold and snowy to warm and sunshiny, then back again. All of spring, really, is like that; last year a Memorial Day snowstorm had my flip-flop-wearing kids scrambling to find warm coats and mittens as they ran outside to build a snowman.

This year's buds, last year's leaves, and new snow.

Last week, as the season’s persistent subzero temperatures met us each morning, even my winter-loving children had had enough. “I just want it to be spring,” moaned my daughter, as her siblings agreed. When I reminded my skiing-sledding-shoveling-snow-angel-making kids that they loved winter, my son replied, “But, Mama, I like winter better when it snows.”

Lucky kid got his wish, waking up to a thin layer of snow Tuesday morning, followed by a major storm midweek. He rushed through breakfast and headed outside to shovel before going to school. As I approach the deadline for submitting this column, it’s snowing hard, with a foot or more predicted. That translates to three happy little skiers and a happy ski mom.

Of course, by mid-March, many folks are winter weary and ready for spring. Often, these are the same folks who don’t like winter in any month, and I find their choice of living in New England odd. But I admit there are days, as March stretches toward April, when I, too, long for warmer days and fewer layers of clothing.

This yearning happens to me at the waning of each season. Near the end of summer, I crave the crisp coolness and color of fall. As that color fades to stark brown and grey, I wish for the sparkle of winter’s snow and ice to brighten the landscape – and my psyche. After months of cold and winter white, I happily anticipate the return of color to the landscape.

The animals are ready for spring after a long winter of cold, too. In our field, the deer have returned lately to the old apple orchard, traversing our ski- and snowshoe-packed tracks and scratching through the crust to reach the cold, hard apples that fell last fall. More birds are arriving at the feeder, which during the coldest months is frequented mainly by chickadees and a pair of blue jays. I’m hesitant to refill the feeder now, as I’m sure the bears, too, will emerge from their winter hideouts soon.

Spring here can be a season of strange juxtaposition. Snowbanks piled high from a March storm stand adjacent to mushy mud puddles in the driveway. Leaf buds swell on the tips of tree branches even as icicles drip from the eaves of the house. Snow boots and winter hats mingle with mud boots and ball caps in the front hall. My children these days are likely to ski in the morning, then come home and haul their bicycles out of the garage in the afternoon.

I like to think of these seasonal contrasts as holding the potential for the best of both worlds. Ski in the morning, bike in the afternoon. Roll up sleeves and uncover faces to soak in the first warm sunlight of the year, then tuck into a favorite chair by the fire as the warmth of afternoon fades to the chill of evening. Watch the snow fall, then melt, then fall some more, as we plant the first seeds of spring into pots by the window.

No matter what the weather is outside, these little seeds will sprout and grow, reminding us that spring is – eventually – coming. In the meantime, we’re heading out to play in the snow.

Original content by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul,posted to her Blog: Writings From a Full Life. This essay also appears as Meghan's Close to Home column in the March 14, 2014 edition of the Littleton Record.

Hitting the Big 4-0

I turned 40 this week. The Big 4-0. It still sounds weird to me when I hear myself say it out loud: “I’m 40.” Nonetheless, the proof is there – in the date on my license, the “laugh lines” on my face and the grey hairs, and the experiences of my life. As I approached the big birthday I found myself contemplating age and aging.
 

I’ve never really had a good role model for how to “act your age.” A couple years shy of 80, my dad still skis most days in the winter, hikes with the grandkids in summer, and acts as his own general contractor and head carpenter for a happily endless array of house projects. I’m likely to find my mom, a good bit younger than my dad, but still considered a “senior,” outside sledding with the children or digging in the garden, rather than tucked quietly into a grandmotherly rocker.

So hitting a new decade mark has me a bit bewildered. How is a 40-year-old supposed to act? Where in my life should I be at this age? How the heck did I get to 40, when I feel like I was 27 just last week? When you’re a teenager, it feels like reaching 18, then 21, will take forever. At 21, 30 seems distant. At 30, the beginning of a new decade may still be a personal shock, but your 20s were just a few months ago. And then, suddenly it seems, the 20s are in the distant past, and you’re in the midst of middle age.

In the last few weeks, I’ve read articles and blog posts about aging gracefully, coming to terms with turning 40, things older people regret doing – or not doing – during their youth, and things you can do at 40 that you couldn’t at 20. All a bunch of hogwash, really.

Here’s how I look at it: there are certain things we can do now, at whatever age we are, that we couldn’t do 5 years ago or 20 years ago or last week. And there are things we could do then that we can’t do now. Most of it is not directly tied to age, but rather to perspective and experience.

When I was in my 20s, I could ride my mountain bike for long periods of time, at high elevations, without collapsing. That’s because I used to ride my mountain bike a lot, and I lived in a town whose elevation was 9,000 feet above sea level. I have friends, my age and older, who can still do that, because they ride bikes a lot and are bad asses. Me, not so much.

But today I can do a handstand in yoga class, because it’s something I’ve practiced. I can run five miles without getting too tired or too bored. I can be perfectly content sitting at home with a glass of wine and a good book on a Saturday night. I also get more done most days before 7:30 a.m. than I used to in an entire week. That is a simple necessity when managing three children, a house, a small menagerie of furry pets, and professional responsibilities.

Would I trade 40 for 20? Nope. Just as when I was 20 I wouldn’t have dreamed of fast forwarding two decades to 40. There are certainly things I miss about those younger days – being able to walk down to the bar just to see if there was anything interesting going on, sleeping late on days off from work, skiing endless powder runs without worrying about collecting kids from their ski lessons, and – perhaps this one most of all – having the freedom to hop in the car and head out of town for a weeks-long road trip, or deciding on a whim to move to a different country for six months.

That was all fun stuff, and I’m really glad I did it. There are good stories in those experiences, and a few bad ones, too. They all make up the wandering road of my life to this point. I’m also really happy with where I am now. I think if I were still road tripping around, solo, I’d be pretty bummed. Even back then I knew I wanted to settle down sometime, have kids, do good work. And that’s where 40 finds me.

So here’s my birthday epiphany for the year I hit the Big 4-0: however old you are, embrace life. Whatever your age, do the best you can at whatever it is you’re doing. Hopefully it’s something you want to be doing, somewhere you want to be. That way, when you look back, you’ll have fond memories instead of regrets. And when you look forward, you’ll have some idea of where you want to be going, even if you’re surprised when that next big birthday sneaks up on you.

Original content by Meghan McCarthyMcPhaul and posted to her Blog: Writings From A Full Life. This essay also appears as Meghan's Close to Home column in the January 24, 2014 edition of the Littleton Record.

Gathering Autumn

The heat kicked on one morning this week (with the thermostat set at a frugal 55 degrees) and there’s a possibility of snow in the weekend’s forecast. Like it or not – and I know plenty of folks on both sides – winter is coming.

The uncommon warmth of the mid-October days this fall lulled me into a sense of continued summer, even as the leaves dropped from the trees and the mornings grew dark. While I’ve been able to slack a bit in preparing for the coming cold, I’ve noticed the animals scurrying about, gathering autumn before it’s too late.

I can hardly drive down a back road these days without slowing for a squirrel scampering to hide his winter nuts. The woolly bear caterpillars, so plentiful a few weeks ago, have gone into hiding. We see bear and deer under the apple trees each evening, filling up on the season’s abundance. The summer cacophony of birdsong has faded to the occasional melancholy cooing of a family of mourning doves that has set up residence in the apple trees nearest the house and the stalwart chickadees who stick around all year.

Following the animals’ lead, I will pull the last of this year’s carrots from the ground this week and pick the final handful of green peas – both products of a Hail Mary planting made well past midsummer. The rest of the garden is cleared out, raked smooth, and put to bed for the coming winter, the bounty of wild blueberries from the summer tucked away in the freezer and the applesauce put up in the pantry.

It was an odd year for gardening and gathering. The summer started hot and wet, the heat luring me to plant early, the wet saturating many of those first seeds beyond the ability to sprout. And so the garden was a bit of a flop for much of the summer. The peas came in well and seemed to promise more good things to come, but they faded fast. The green beans were nearly nonexistent until my third planting, when persistence finally paid off with a decent, but not spectacular, harvest. The broccoli was a bust, the cucumbers sparse, the carrots so-so. I didn’t even have enough zucchini to give away.

Nature, on the other hand, provided in abundance all summer and into fall. We found the first wild blueberries the second week of July, and we picked through the final muggy breath of August. The blackberries provided a decent yield, just as the blueberries began to wither. And in nine summers at this house, I’ve never seen so many apples weighing down the branches of the gone-wild trees dotting the back field.

Feathered, furry, or bundled up in increasing layers of clothing, we all spend time during this in-between season gathering autumn, whether savoring the waning warmth of the sun or storing away the fruits of fall, tucking them into root cellars, dark freezers, or squirrels’ dens. As the bears load on an extra layer of fat, we dig out our winter boots and heavy jackets. As the woolly bears curl up against the cold, we replace screens with storm doors and windows. As the deer eat all the fallen apples they can find, we have cooked ours into sauce, filling the kitchen with the warm scent of cinnamon.

Even as I lament the passing of one season, I am usually ready to welcome the next. And, so, as I miss the colors of fall and bemoan the gathering darkness of the approaching season, I am also looking forward to winter. In the darkest days of the year, as the wild ones hide away, we’ll bundle up against the chill and head outside to ski and sled, build snowmen, and feather snow angels into the crystal whiteness.

By the time the winter solstice arrives, we’ll have mostly forgotten to miss warm days and green grass, distracted by the glow of Christmas tree lights and hot cocoa by a warm fire. And at winter’s end, just when it seems we can’t handle another gray day, leaf buds will form on tree branches, the first crocuses will poke through thawing ground, and the birds will return with their colors and songs, carrying with them the next season, another chance to savor new things and start all over again.

Original content by Meghan McCarthyMcPhaul, published on her Blog: Writings from a full life. This essay is also featured in Meghan's Close to Home column in the October 25, 2013 issue of the Littleton Record.