Mother Willow

 PART I - THE BRIDGE

For the most part, we’re a very “new” people. Every generation is somehow new, more thoroughly cut off from the past than the one that came before.  

- Daniel Quinn, Ishmael (1992)

Chapter 1: Mother Willow

Sunday, September 3

TIME here is always present. One could almost touch it, if so desired. Not to grasp or possess, of course. Rather, to feel its presence, and know you are part of eternity.

We were sitting on the cedar wraparound porch facing southwest. Afternoon light filtered through hickory-oaks, red-maples and great beeches that defined the Hudson Valley Preserve boundary.  I was taking account of this year’s harvest growing adjacent to the willow pond. It was plentiful compared to other seasons. Not in terms of volume, but diversity.

Some years, my mother’s garden was reduced to necessary household herbs – parsley, oregano, and thyme, to name a few. Yet during a plentiful early-fall harvest like this, the earth gradually unveiled herself. Heads of velvet cabbages and Danver carrots with heirloom varieties emerged from the soil like newborns. Silky, green fennel stalks rose proudly alongside an array of ripe cherry and Roma tomato vines, and the occasional asparagus shoot intermingled with summer cucumbers and ripening, colorful bell peppers. 

I took a deep breath. The air smelled like brewing mint leaves, fresh ginger and lemon.

“Nancy gave me a bunch of figs,” said my mother. “Too many. I’m going to make marmalade again.”

“Seems like a good season,” I said, referring to the garden protected by makeshift chicken wire. While not perfect, it helped to keep out rabbits, whitetail deer and the occasional red fox.

“I guess your old mother was inspired this year.”

I rolled my eyes and sipped tea. My mother has referred to herself as old for two decades. I still recall the first occasion: winter break of freshman year. It was only a 2.5-hour drive to the Binghamton University campus, but it was the longest period of time I had been away from my mother – nearly four months. She was apologizing for not visiting during the entire fall semester. “I know it’s just a short drive upstate, but your mother’s getting old.”

I dropped a small cube of brown sugar into the tea and stole a glance at her while stirring.  Afternoon light flooded the veranda and lines on her face illuminated a thousand stories. Many, I know, were never put into words, nor did they need to be. She appeared to me like so many rings in a tree – composing themselves into one great volume of existence.

I was her only child. A “love child,” as my mother would say. “You were conceived between the sounds of music, my son. You are my love child.” 

In reality, I am a Woodstock baby. Born and raised, literally just miles away from the beating heart of it all. The tye-dye colors and “Peace” engraved wood carvings were as much a part of my upbringing as rusty swings and ice-cream floats.

“So, who will you bring to the Philharmonic?” my mother asked. “It’s completely sold out this year with Yo Yo Ma in town.”

I shrugged. “Why can’t you go?” I asked, already sensing the reason. It had been nearly two years since my mother last stepped foot in New York City.

“Oh, I’m afraid I’m double-booked. It’s Marty’s 75th. Can you believe that? Marty used to fix our roof and now he can barely climb three rings of a ladder.”

She smiled and rocked steadily in her wicker chair. “I’m telling you, we’re getting old.”

We sipped on our tea and stared out into the silence. We had done this countless times together. Less in recent times, but quantity was never a meaningful asset in our home.

I could smell brisket coming from the kitchen. Softening carrots from the garden marinated alongside pureed tomatoes, dissolving red onions, celery, and seasoned beef that my mother had probably started cooking at sunrise. It filled my senses.

“I can see you staring at me, Sam,” she said, turning her gaze in my direction.

My mother had hazel eyes and wavy hair that fell naturally over her shoulders, like a myriad of gentle flowing streams. Gray, streaming slivers of hair separated the dark, earthy brown tones like glaciers. She wore it well, and, like pretty much everything else in our home, things had a natural way of finding their destined place.

I already knew what she was going to say next. “I’m fine, Sam. Please stop worrying. Everything is right here.”

Despite what you might believe, growing up without a father didn’t require me to be the man of the house. Never once did my mother pressure me with societal norms of masculinity. Never once did she ask me to be the man of the house. She was gainfully employed as an elementary school teacher and never possessed any debts. She was fully capable of changing summer tires into winter ones and maintained a freehold ownership of our property in the Hudson Valley.

In fact, she had been offered large sums of money for the estate. While our actual home was modest in size, the land stretched in each direction to encompass nearly .25 acres – enclosed on most sides by the Hudson Valley Preserve and accessible only by a dirt road that feeds into a handful of other homes in the cozy area. All said, it was a comfortable, simple place to live. Still, despite my mother’s secure financial condition, she transformed our home into a summer bed and breakfast for nearly two decades. And it was always full.

I helped as soon as I was able, with guests patting me on my head for sweeping the veranda or replacing ashtrays. It never occurred to me that this was actual work until one of the city folks slipped me a $5 dollar bill after I brought him orange juice I had just squeezed.

Regardless of where the guests came from, I soon learned that most of them were here for the same reason. To escape something. All seemed grateful for the peace and the quiet atmosphere. All seemed to appreciate the fresh Northeast scent that swept down from Canada, across the Adirondacks and into our little Hudson Valley preserve. They loved the smell of freshly baked rye served alongside fluffy ricotta and jarred marmalade. They always expressed wishes to return, or desires to never leave. For nearly fifteen consecutive summers, our home was filled with guests. Many turned into regulars. And some were more than regular.

The best part was that we only had two rooms and a minimum stay of five days. So none of this was a big operation, and I never got tired of hanging bedsheets by the willow pond with wooden clothespins.  

People booked a year in advance just to reserve summer dates. I often questioned this, as there was nothing remarkable about our home or landscape. I knew of at least a dozen other bed and breakfasts in the area with much more amenities. When I mentioned that we should consider paving the long driveway to ease ingress for guests, my mother told me that they would need to pave over her body before that happened. 

I soon learned that many people returned for the same reason. Their memories were engraved into the wooden beams of our home. Framed photos of visitors aged on our walls until they were part of it. The nag champa incense remained infused within the threads of their fabric all year round as a constant reminder– not even the city could remove that scent. It was everything inside our home that made them return. In many ways, they never left.

And I knew every nook. Every splintered piece of wood. Every page. Every track. 

Most of all, though, they returned because of my mother.  

“Let me check on the brisket,” she said, steadily rising from the wicker chair. I started to stand but she stopped me. “Stay, I’ve already set the table. Go enjoy the air.”

I finished the tea and ventured out through the patio door. An occasional plane flew overhead on its way to LaGuardia Airport, but that was about it.  On summer nights, you could hear the cicadas. On all nights, you can hear the crickets and pickerel frogs. There was also the occasional barn owl. 

I was always amazed by how far the city felt, and this evening was no different. The earth was soft under my feet as I walked. The air was warm, potent with the scent of mulch. I wandered past the colorful patch of baby squash resting in the soil – they would be ripe in a couple of months. I followed a small footpath that led towards a natural pond enclosed by mossy stones. The sun was eye level, piercing its light through the thick Hudson preserve. A slight northern breeze reminded me of the changing seasons, and I watched it greet the willow in its timeless embrace.