Catch-Up

I've not been a concientious blogger this week.

R's apartment has, inexplicably, fallen off the wireless grid. R's neighbors are keeping their own networks uneccesarily inaccessible.

So I'm back at Starbucks, where t-mobile's having its own flaky week.

It's not that it's so very hot that everyone's already pulled a Paris-in-August. But it might as well be, and people who look lost on subway platforms, wearing white sneakers and abroad in fanny-packs, are outnumbering the usual city types.

Anyway, as soon as T-Mobile, obliges, will post some very recent Hudson pictures to sustain us through these dog days.

Hudson has a new nanny as of last week. His first nanny showing neither experience nor that stamina needed to properly care for the little man, has already been replaced by a huge improvement of a nanny sho speaks many languages.

From Chad:
"The new nanny is working out great. She's French Italian by birth and speaks spanish, italian and english."

C - toasting the multi-lingual man of 3 months

He rolls, he bathes

The very latest from our man in Dallas. Though he's owning new moves so fast that his current role may be obsolete.

(he may be flipping)



And lord knows, he'll outgrown the kitchen sink in just days.



C - upstate and, amazingly for a place where cell-phones don't connect and vonage draws a blank, utterly on-line.

Inheriting Grandma

Everyone who spoke Saturday mentioned it, how Grandma gave.

And she had a whole lot to give.

Saturday morning the girl cousins and aunt snooze went through Grandma's jewelry (posthumous giving).

Grandma had had her "good stuff" stolen from Meadowlark Hill sometime in the '60s (there's a story but I can't recall and she'd have been the best to tell it).
Anyway, what Grandma wore for the next 40-some years were adornments more spectacularly Grandma than whatever could have come before. What brooches and strands and cocktail rings and charm bracelets lacked in broad-market value, they trumped in Grandma-exuberance points.

Lots of bright colors, lots of avian and vegetal-themed pieces, cloisonné mixed in with tourmalines, enameled Harvard clip-in earrings beside a triple-strand of not-quite pearls.

And since each was familiar for its place in our Grandma memories, many prominent on grandma's bosom, they were trips unto themselves.

We all wore pieces to the service that evening - Grandma's giving just keeping on...

C - old enough to have her first cocktail ring

And we gathered

That's all the cousins, Snooze, Tommy stuck back in there, plus Hudson, with Grandpop fronting at Ocean Forest, Sea Island this last Saturday.

R and I returned Sunday eve. If you can say you had an amazing time during a weekend spent mourning a great lady's passing, then we did.

The few days of cousins gathered, time beside Grandpop going through photos and Grandma's iconic jewelry (cocktail rings and enormous brooches), thick-hot Sea Island heat and funny smelling water, mingling amongst moredistant Forster cousins and friends of the G's, telling Grandma stories, making sandwiches and playing RumiQ with/against) Aunt Snooze - well, it wasn't horrible.



I'll post pictures which will do better work of communicating what was good.

And I'll post our words too from the memorial. Grandpop had asked Tenley (eldest Stephenson daughter), me (eldest/only Pyle), and Andrew (eldest Gates) to speak. We managed, i think, to bring Grandma back to life for a few moments and though there were plenty of overlap (congo bars and glue guns got lots of play), we roamed widely in our tales.

Okay - pictues to post and non-blog life to live.

C

Grandpop

It'd be treacle if I praised Grandpop (and Grandpop's pants) as I'd like to - too muc a blog love-in. Plus, everyone who hasn't yet met Grandpop might mob the poor man's quiet life in Sea Island.

So, a few notes on Grandpop but no street address - that's it.



Grandpop retains the gentle North Carolina accent and manners of his youth; a southern gentleman (it seems to me) minus the red-state politics.

Grandpop's kept a factual diary every day since highschool. When he passes, it will be donated to the Exeter Library.

(He's maintained the same pant-waste-size since the same year. I'm going to guess no bigger than 34".)

Grandpop and Grandma addressed one another as "Gorgeous" and "Handsome". They were married for 65 years and he still blushes when referring to her figure.

Grandpop lunches weekly on St Simons with a group calling themselves the ROMEOS: Retired Old Men Eating Out.

He mixes plaids with plaids, seersucker with like-stripes. (Grandma shared a love of colors, patterns.)


(Loves his great grandchidlren too.)



When asked by dad, recalled that they drank Dubonnets and ginger ale in at the Shah Abbas Hotel in Isfahan, Iran in 1975.

C (Hoping our own era produces like-gentleman.)

Sharing Grandma

This is, mostly, what I wrote/said for Grandma. I followed Tenley (eldest cousin, she spoke fluently, intimately), and was followed by Andrew (eldest/only boy of the first 7 cousins, who spoke warmly and hysterically).


For Grandma
July 15 2006 at Ocean Forest, Sea Island
I know I was asked to speak not because I'm the eldest - representative of a too-fast dwindling Pyle/Brown/Newhall contingent - but because I was (you all know this), always Grandma's favorite.

Now I'm sure Andrew will follow me up here with a counter-claim. In fact, I think each one of the cousins, given a chance at the podium, would repeat the same claim – clear in their memories and utterly authentic - in which they were indeed Grandma's true favorite. Memories in which they were the center of Grandma's universe, the projects launched together, the meals and congo bars prepared, the wreaths assembled and the garden time shared were, all, intimately , tailored by Grandma to that cousin. Each Grandma episode was effortlessly custom-spun by a woman whose warmth, intelligence, imagination, creativity and life force swooped up each cousin in turn, hugged her/his interests in close, inspired them outwards and pushed them on.

Grandma nurtured each of us in turn by egging on our own, oftentimes peculiar, passions. Always a regular field-side at the grandchildren’s sports events, Grandma thought nothing of standing in the chilled, holiday-empty Exeter hockey rink as I completed lap number zillion of the ice. My sole spectator, alone ice-side, Grandma cheered me on as, one arm loose and the other tucked behind my back, I rounded the rink once more, pursuing my Eric Heyden dream (in figure skates).

Grandma was also a strong proponent of empowerment via the right gadgets - herself an early adopter of the microwave, the George Foreman Grill, the Cuisinart and drip-dry sheets. She taught us all how to wield a glue gun (for which I remain grateful) and, on graduating high school, gave each one of us a plying/wire-cutting/hammering/wrenching tool that would, she said, see us through any college need.

With my own parents newly grandparents themselves, I've been thinking about the title, and the role, for which my own might have written the book.

Fortunately, though, this isn't a eulogy for Grandpop and Grandma. We can celebrate the team that's been split up, and remark as we often do in the wonder that was their loving and enduring marriage/partnership, but we are here to celebrate Grandma for she was, as she taught each one of us cousins to be, first and foremost an individual.

Dancing well around the strictures of her time, Grandma moved natively into disciplines and passions. She invested so much of her wonderful “self” into her “projects” that they became parts of the Grandma entity - unimaginable as separate interests. Grandma’s indoor gardening, wreath-making, Chinese history studying (and snuff bottle collecting), decorating, curating and group-organizing were no more “hobbies” than Grandpop's post-Dupont work with alma-maters Exeter then Harvard was simply a way to pass his later years.

I've lost, we've all lost, 3 women and 3 generations in a madly short span of 4 years. My mother Nancy, sister Lindsey, now Grandma. Hoping not to sound flippant: if it's possible to have peace with a death, then Grandma's has been by far the easiest of those three to bear; not only because hers was a long life and well-lived, but because the gifts Grandma gave so fluently and wholly through all of our lives have meant that my Grandma-appreciating has been going on for some time.

And what gives me greatest comfort now, in Grandma's final passing, is that each day I feel a little bit more of Grandma coming out from me – as if (and this may be hubris) my pores are breathing out a Grandma-essence.

For some time, on vacation with R in Antigua last New Years, trolling the rough-edges of my wilderness-garden in upstate New York, I've been channeling Grandma without naming her. Squatting on our hotel's beach to sift sea shells, marvel at driftwood, then bring the lot back home in baggies (as I did again last week with Maine rocks), setting out the bird feeders and following the progress of the finches, the easy glamour of the cardinal and the noisy work of the woodpecker (studying the books Grandma has given), assiduously reading my pruning book then wandering my woodland with trowel and clippers in hand, collecting sea glass, pressing flowers and identifying trees as we had at the Arnold Arboretum, buying my first sewing machine some months back...

Grandma runs through me, through each of us.

Often, I find that when I like myself the best, and am getting the purest pleasure from whatever little venture I've launched on, I'll realize, with a start, that there's Grandma again.

CTP

All Hudson

Hudson:
can't talk
just manages to keep his own head aloft,
rolls left from tummy center,
arches when he's filling his diaper,
dribbles white gook hours after feedings,
screams,
cries real tears,
pees aloft during changing,
fills out a onesie,
sometimes sleeps through the night, and sometimes doesn't,
stares,
finds calm in the treetops,
prefers outside to in,
puts up with the baby Bjorn,
doesn't get goosebumps,
mostly likes baths,
and has taken all of our hearts and clenched them in his tiny hands.

And he's looking a lot like Lindsey these days. It's hard not to think there must be reason in there, answers and some wisdom.

Here's to the man who kept 9 adults in thrall.

C

Sea Island with Linds

A long time ago in our mom-made dresses.

I travel south in a few hours and we'll say our official goodbyes to Grandma tomorrow afternoon. I'll be back here by Sunday eve.

So many places from my childhood and goodbyes this year. And then the big hello to Hudson. Ooosh. Fate's are busy and time-outs few.

C

Women we've lost

Lindsey and Grandma, celebrating Grandpop's 90th in Sea Island last year.

Others have losses, these happen to be ours.

Grandma passed away last week. Grandpop was by her side (he'd been for 65 years) and Snooze and John, Susanna and Keith were there as well.



We'll gather as a family in Sea Island this weekend to celebrate Grandma, check in with dear Grandpop and provide everyone with some fine Hudson time.

(Back from Maine last night - better part of trip spent on Bangor then Boston runways.)

Love to all

C

Hudson's firsts

Scenes from Hudson's first:
boat trip (to tiny Islesford aboard Sea Princess)/
lobster boats and traps up-close/
presence at table while others ate lobster with bibs/
encounter with vehement mosquitos waylaid by aunt/
view of a sunset over Seal Harbor and Northeast.

As with all of Hudson's firsts to date, he was mostly magnificent and attracted admirers.

C

Scenes from a Maine christening

What he wore

Babe to a christening.

Hudson considered more traditional (and frankly girl-y) christening outfits but ultimately opted for a rugged, yet textur-ally elegant, ensemble.

Hudson wore a understated light blue one-piece number, with tiny embroidered train detailing. (The outfit began with a matching hat but what with the mutliple dousings...) For warmth and swagger, Hudson was swaddled in an all-that Calypso cashmere super-baby swaddling blanket.
(Outfit by MK, blanket by friend of Chad's.)

He was, by and large, an agreeable and adorable christening-subject.

Well-dressed but no dress, throughout.

C (Your fashion-eye in Seal)

Letters to a young Hudson

PROMISE
The readings, letters, poetry and wisdoms written/read/sent on Linds and Hudson's behalf, will be available to all very soon. Cintra generously offered to host the many pieces but, discussing just now with dad, I think we'll go build a simple site for Hudson that can host it all - video too.

Stay tuned for that.

In meantime, I'll start to post some of the readings and prayers from the christening.

My own (happened to have handy), is excerpted from Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet. Heady advice for the little fellow.

"We must assume our existence as broadly as we in any way can; everything, even the most unheard of, must be possible in it. That is at the bottom the only courage that is demanded of us: to have courage for the most strange, the most singular and the most inexplicable that we may encounter...

We are not prisoners. No traps or snares are set about for us, and there is nothing which should intimidate or worry us. We are set down in life as in the element to which we best correspond, and over and above this we have through thousands of years of accommodation become so like this life, that when we hold still we are, through a happy mimicry, scarcely to be distinguished from all that surrounds us.
We have no reason to mistrust our world, for it is not against us...

How should we forget those ancient myths that are the beginnings of all peoples, the myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave.
Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us..."

So you must not be frightened dear Hudson.

C - your aunt who will quote things you won't get till much, much later

H on the beach

It's not as if Hudson's life came to a full stop post christening - since, his days have been filled with Maine sort of events.

There was the beach cook-out he attended a few evenings back.

R laid a fire pit amongst the stones, we (minions) gathered dried wood bits, sausages were bought and hamburgers made.

And the weather - Maine's real ace - stayed agreeable.

Via R's great gift, the corn was perfectly timed to be completed and yet stay warm as the burgers cooked, then the rolls were browned. As an almost showy finale, R warmed the blueberry pie itself on the grill and all declared it cooked through.

And Mr. Hudson, attending his very first beach picnic, by observing all, sanctioning the rock skippers and judging none for their wine/sausage consumption, was a great addition.

Daily we add to his firsts.

Daily he thrills us with his own.

Sleep well dear Hudson.

C

Guess who's been christened

Hair askew and wet from the waters of:
The Atlantic (Seal Harbor-sourced)
The Hudson River (Hudson River @ 70th sourced)
The River Jordan (an auspicious-place sourced)

So many more pictures that I've been too overwhelmed to start in.

Stay tuned though.

C

Making do with dial-up

My heart's with dial-up - I'd hate this Maine I love any other way - but it is limiting blog-wise.

Photos, for starters, take a few eons-each to upload - if at all.

Which makes for dry posts.

Which is that much sadder because I'm RICH in Hudson photos right now. And christening photos and family photos. With the photos I can't show you I could transport you to the tri-part ceremony we made for Hudson Sunday afternoon.

We started at 2 in front of the cottage, by the smaller of the two lawn-stones. Sarah had set out a table-cum-altar that we gathered around. The afternoon's score played on Matt's iPod. The three waters: of Atlantic, the Hudson River and the Jordan, were set out and a picture of Lindsey to watch over us all.

We proceeded to the beach. Reverand/cousin/MC Ashley went barefoot down (our beach is not clog-friendly) and we stood with the islands at our backs as Chad, then Lynn and MK read. And Hudson had his first head-wet.

Then we went into the woods. Hudson was a smidgen edgy for this part (or for my reading in particular) but otherwise, all was primordial-ly fantastic as we stood beneath the pine canopy on a moss floor. Sarah read, and Matt and me.

Then back to the beginning place on the lawn. R read If, Dad "Oh, the Places You'll Go". Ash did a last prayer of welcome, Hudson had his third and final dousing and we tossed him in the ocean.

We didn't.

(checking who reads now there are no pictures to look at.)

But we did take an almost-3-month old with a very sodden hair-do in to be fed.

He's seemed wiser, more grounded and more christened in these days since.

No, not really. But it is certain that he has Maine in him now, and all of our love, for good.

And Linds was for sure there.

Love to all

C

Happy Hudson Christening Day

R has chosen Kipling's If to read to H.

The weather's chosen to hold its cards close all morning, clearing now.

The Times chose to come late to the village store, it's not a timely thing here.

We had blueberry pie for dessert last night, which made people swoon.

And Hudson's in Maine, and to be chistened in just ten minutes.

Hudson's Maine welcome

This Sunday
(Lindsey had scheduled months ago, even made the reservations), Hudson's to be baptized,
or christened,
or doused,

(a loose-ish sort of family)

and read-at by all of us who've paired readings with the task at hand:
Welcoming Hudson to this world, to Maine and, there's a good chance, to fog as well.

With Sarah at the helm, Matt's amassed song requests. Our DJ will come laden with iPod and CDs. Mozart will be represented, as will Jim Croce, John Denver, Ray Charles and Andean flute players. I expect an Hallelujah chorus and maybe some Free to be You and Me to temper that.

As at Linds and Chad's wedding and Linds' memorial, cousin/reverand/friend Ashley Jansen will officiate.

This evening, I took an empty ice tea bottle down to Manhattan's western edge (under the West Side Highway and an embarrassing scramble past geese and down some rocks), and filled it up with Hudson River water. That too will play a little part.

To Maine we go, gathering bits to fete our young man.

I get giddy up there, balsam-infused posts to follow.

Love to all.

C

Hudson's village people

As if needing more evidence:
a sampling from Hudson's album.

Our intellectual

Lynn's front porch booktime happens approximately mid-morning. If you're on Hudson time, it's post feeding and diaper - when the little man is at his most placid.

And intellectually hungry.









Report more soon - catching up on non-Dallas/pre-Maine life but back in blog-swing soon.

Love to all.

C

Grandma

Grandma, almost a year ago, in Sea Island.

Linds had just told us she was pregnant, we were celebrating grandpop's birthday.

Grandma's not well. We're standing by and dear Grandpop is, as he wants it for now, on his own down there with his love and life for the last sixty some years.

The cousins liked to ask grandpop how he met grandma:

He began: "I met her at a wedding,"
And finished with a twinkle, "I thought highly of her bottom."

We love you grandma.
We love you grandpop.

C

It's Hudson time

Chad, Hudson and Mr. Stork

I leave for Dallas this afternoon. American, DFW and nap-time schedule all willing, will have the little man in my arms by 8:45, 9 latest.

Promise not to return without a smile picture.

C

Hudson at 3 (months)

Finally, a proper Dallas report.

Last week in Dallas (as the Mavericks toiled), Dad and Sarah, and then dad for almost 48 hours single-handedly, looked after Hudson. They report a charge who's nights are sublime and to schedule, and whose days are (still) on the fussy, don't-you-dare-put-me-down side. And he pooped lots, ate heartily and smiles for reasons beyond passing gas.

More recently, this in from Lynn:
"Hudson went for his 2 month check up today.
He weighed 10.6 pounds and was 22 inches.
He was perfect until he got 3 needle sticks which included 5 immunizations.
He was so mad, surprised, and hurt that he could only open his mouth wide for a silent scream. By the time he got the 3rd shot he was totally audible.
Lots of deep sighs once he quieted down. Chad was there to comfort him."

C

Visiting Mom, on Milan

Again (for reason's too mundane), I drove up from the city today.
The Taconic's not whooped me yet, but the 35 mile serpentine stretch up from the Saw Mill is testing me. My mettle's battered, but we're intact.

Again, mom's grave - close to where she and Rod had a house, sits south of my own's home's exit. So I got off at Bull's Head Road for another visit to the cemetary.

Again, not a soul there.

Sat by her embedded stone for a spell, realizing (am always the last) why we have markers, and places, for our dead.
Because it's a place to come to where - at least in our minds - we can imagine the person is. Though they may well be everywhere but, or everywhere and.
Anyway, I appreciated the site. And imagined, though Linds' ashes haven't yet come to rest here, that there was a good chance Linds was about too.

A gravestone is a steady thing, to which I attribute omniscience. Mom as oracle sort of.

Today (I lay meagre flowers on the stone - bushes at cemetary's edge in a fallow stretch and lilac long gone), there were ants about. Not much as a welcoming committee but making their way, obliviously busy, across the "0" of mom's "2002", they were strange comfort. So too the cricket hidden near mom's "N".

It was like catching a moment of Mom's now-life, her view, her day - this season for her.

As if she might observe:
More dandelions about this year.
Not so many visitors.
And it's been so wet.

C - glad for a place to go

Our duck in Dallas

Aunt Annie, in Dallas with usual 5927 Vanderbilt suspects plus gradfather Bill for memorial Day, sent this.

We really like.

Hudson maintains a fine gravitas despite/inspite of terry duck outfit.

Cheers to the man.

C

In a station

Small small - blue jay-scale entry.

Backstory:
I came upstate today (it's rained for my arrival).
My commute from the city requires a simple sequence of subway, through the grumpy day-commuters of lower Penn Station, to my own beautful Empire Line Amtrak to Hudson NY. The Empire Line runs beside the Hudson, its seats have plug points and fellow passengers look, mostly, so relieved to be shedding the city that a state of grace and gratitude hovers over the cars.

(Plus: view's stunning, cafe car's open and everyone loves a train ride.)

But the point.
On my first leg of the journey, on the 72nd Street station platform, a gentleman was singing and playing the guitar. I don't recall the songs, and he sang so avidly I couldn't ask his origins, but he sang in Spanish and with a vigor that Linds would have just loved, and danced to. He was dignified, his voice was very strong and clean; the singer/player transported my platform-segment to a New York moment of group giddiness. To a man/child/exectutive, we shared some tangible gladness to be together. And we marveled at our luck to be at that station at that moment.

Lots of smiles and dollars into the guitar case. Our train came, we dispersed - almost lonely now.

When my next leg ended, with the train doors opening at Hudson Station some 2hrs north and later, dandelion puffs filled the compartment.

C - noting with a stub of pencil that Linds was singing everywhere today.

Happy Memorial Day Linds

Dad and Sarah arrived in the city last night, coming practically straight from Laguardia to Ruslan's new apartment on 70th, which we'd moved into that day.

(R's new apartment is pretty dreamy. Blue bedroom soothing, bathroom counterspace vast, the superintedant fans out the WSJs in the lobby, crazy proximity to the park - like some hotel in the city you/we couldn't afford. But your clothes stay in the closet, your conditioner's in the shower and the Lime Diet Cokes in the fridge less than $5 a piece.)

R's doing final cleaning of the old place this morning (I'll join soon). Dad and Sarah have gone to Oyster Bay to visit with Mimi and pick up 3 decades worth of inherited National Geographics.

This afternoon, the 4 of us will drive north to the Adirondacks. We'll poke around Keene Valley, we'll canoe and make dad row us in the guide boat, I imagine we'll hike about. Maybe we'll have a drink at the Ausable Club.

We'll be missing Linds.


We were last there with the Rowan, Pyle and Brickley cousins, some time in the 90s. Too long ago - it was getting harder to gather family at far-away locations. Linds and I slept, sleeping bag by sleeping bag, on the balsam boughs of the lean-to. The grown-ups laid the fire out front. Harold made blueberry pancake breakfasts and hot chocolate with condensed milk. Harold told bear tales and packed almond hershey bars for our walks. We sought moose at night - quiet-paddling with flashlights.

I imagine Linds would have taken Hudson as soon as he was trail-ready.

Loving you Linds, and we'll be taking it in for you. And making it safe for Hudson.

C

Swaddling

Lynn with the swaddled-peanut.

And here he is up-close, in the calm seconds before he wriggles a hand free, then an arm.
For some reason, when the writhing to-be-free begins, Hudson reminds me of a furious novice monk - imprisoned in ridiculous velcro and cotton by some darker force.

Be free little man.

Be free.

Love

C