It is Sunday and the last of our Summer Sunday backyard dinners before we all transition into autumn and begin our next series of adventures, the kids dispersing once again to colleges near and far, and Kate and Jake heading to Argentina to travel and tango for a month in celebration of their 25th anniversary and Kate’s birthday. Our final dinner will cap off a couple of weeks of partings for me, partings in which I am the one who is left behind.
The leave-taking is taking its toll. In this last little while, I’ve said good-bye again to my daughter Harrison; to a man on whom I gambled my heart; and to an increasingly elusive muse. Not easy stuff. And still ahead: these partings with some of my dear friends.
I drink a little too much wine before the others arrive, as I prepare our last supper, and, defenses down, I finally surrender to my need for much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.
* * * * *
As a child watching the Sound of Music, I dismissed Captain Von Trapp’s initial love interest – the Baroness – as an uptight, boring, out-of-touch woman. Who wouldn’t prefer singing, romping, berry-picking, curtains-to-clothes-transforming Maria to that icy thing – even if Fraulein Maria did have a really bad short pixie haircut?
As a grown woman, though, I find the character of the Baroness intriguing and oddly inspiring. She knew how to say good-bye. Yes; she sees how the Captain looks at Maria that night at her engagement party – her engagement party! – and she knows what’s coming. She senses the shift in the Captain’s affections, she tries to fight it, but when he finally says “It’s no use, Elsa” she surrenders. She just accepts that it’s the end. Her eyes might well with tears, but she doesn’t cry. Rather, she utters one line – something witty that even helps the Captain clue in to the fact that he’s falling for Maria – “And I suspect that somewhere out there is a young woman who won’t become a nun,” she says – and she leaves. And that is that.
She is one classy dame.
Despite the fact that the character of the Baroness was scripted by men, I aspire to be like her when a parting, for whatever reason, is at hand. But truth be told, here’s how that scene would go down with me:
The Captain stands on the porch, gazing out over his grounds and the nearby lake. He is quiet, contemplative. The Wench walks over to join him, and hugs his back. The Captain turns his head and smiles a little at the Wench, but clearly is distracted.
Wench [knows something is up but tries to make small talk and re-engage the Captain]: So, I was thinking that maybe today we could head over to the farmer’s market and then go to the movies or maybe take a hike or go on a bike ride or something, or . . . [trying to get a laugh] . . . maybe get his-n-hers “luv” tats . . .
The Captain [looking at the Wench with a mix of affection, sadness, resignation and resoluteness]: It’s no use, Wenchie.
Wench [playfully punching him in the arm]: Silly! What do you mean ‘It’s no use’? No use going to the movies? No use taking a hike or a bike ride? You make it all sound so hopeless. Really, the exercise and fresh air would do us good, make us feel better, get the blood moving.
The Captain: No, I mean, it’s no use, use. You know.
Wench [in denial]: What do you mean ‘It’s no use, use. You know.’ No, I don’t know. Can you explain?
The Captain: Ummmm. Ahhhhh. I’m just not feeling it.
Wench: Not feeling what? Like going to the farmer’s market? A movie? A hike? I was just joking about the tats.
The Captain: No. It.
Wench: Which “it”? What?
The Captain: Not that. Those. It. Us.
Wench: Us?
The Captain: Us. Yes.
Wench: Us? What? How? Why?
. . . and so on and so forth, until the scene is one in which the Captain, like most men who must speak of such things, is squirming uncomfortably but finally, in desperation, makes a clear and direct statement, and the Wench continues baring ever more of her soul – as if saying more would change anything – forgetting that she will only regret having NOT done it more like the Baroness, who knew that when it’s over, it’s over, and as a result, escaped with her dignity.
* * * * * *
I aspire to someday accept partings gracefully and flexibly, and not on my strict terms. But too many have come precipitously, unsought and unbearable – such being the way of life, perhaps – so if I am awkward and even bumbling and unable to let go of how I think parting could be, I cut myself slack.
These partings shaped me: my father leaving for Vietnam for two years when I was a young child; my father leaving for good when I was thirteen; my estranged brother perishing in the Persian Gulf War when I was a young woman. And while years later I eventually untwisted my wrecked heart, I came to insist that we – I and whomever – do endings, whenever possible, my way. Because I learned that while I can accept the physical parting and even the ending or changing of the connection, I cannot bear the denial of the love or the hope – for want of better words – that gave rise to our relationships in the first place. When it’s time to take our leave, I ask that if we have claimed to care for one another, then at least let’s part in kindness and in peace, honest about and honoring of what we once shared.
And it is for that ending, gracefully executed or not, that I always hold out.
* * * * * * *
“I don’t want to say good-bye,” I said to an older friend years ago, as she readied for a move across the country.
“Imagine, though, if we never said good-bye,” she replied, hugging me tightly. “And we held on to everything and everyone. Eventually, all that baggage would weigh us down. We couldn’t move. And there would be no room for welcoming anything else.”
I recall her words often; and I find that what makes parting easier now is remembering that the leaving is also the going toward something and that all things are possible at that point – a different choice; a different path; a different adventure; a hopefully better future handled with greater care.
Neighbor Kate says “bye for now” when we part company. “It’s much less final than ‘bye’ ” she explains. “Gentler, sweeter. My father always said that to us.”
And it implies reunion. I love that. I have started saying “bye for now” too.
* * * * * * *
I am still a bit tipsy when Lucy walks in, the first to arrive for Sunday dinner. Having cried my eyes out, I’m feeling cleansed, peaceful, relaxed. Before she says a word, I confess that I’ve had a bit too much wine this afternoon, and I apologize if I’m slurring my speech, burning any food, mixing any metaphors, or in any other way being a bad hostess. Nonetheless, I point out, I’ve been quite productive in the kitchen: the meat is marinating; the vegetables are sliced and sprinkled with balsamic, olive oil and herbs, all ready for grilling; the various components of the bruschetta are lined up for assembly. Lucy relieves me of the kitchen knife, sits me down at the table, disappears, and reappears shortly with Kate and Jake. Jake joins me at the table, engaging me in conversation and insisting that I eat the appetizers (“you need some food now”) that magically appear before us, thanks to Kate and Lucy.
By the time the last of the wine has worn off, George and Roxanne and Paula have arrived. George and I get out our guitars and start running through all the songs we’ve learned this summer. We nod at each other in happy appreciation as we’re singing, realizing that we’re sounding good, and we play until Kate calls us for dinner.
In the backyard, around the table, under the strings of twinkling white lights and the starry night sky, we feast on the last meal we’ll share together until Thanksgiving break. We have wine (not me; I’m cut off) and pass the platters repeatedly, until everyone is full. We call Harrison to tell her we love her and miss her and consider her here with us in spirit. (“Are you drunk, mom?” she demands. “Not now,” I say.) Someone throws out a question: What did you learn about yourself this summer? And we take turns around the table, the old and the young adults alike. The answers are thoughtful, reflective and very personal, and I find myself marveling at the love and the trust in evidence.
After dessert and coffee, we request songs of our chanteuse, Roxanne, and once again George and I pull out the guitars. Jake joins us on a third, and I supply Lucy with a set of bongos. We jam together for an hour or so, putting off the inevitable parting, until, at well past midnight, I finally confess that I’m a bit tired, even though I don’t want the evening to end.
My visitors don their shoes and gather their things, and we stand at the front door looking at one another. “So, what comes next? “ I ask, and George says: “Answer in one word!” We answer: “Autumn.” “School.” “Change.” “Exploration.” “Adventure.” “Friends.” “More!” And then we crowd together for a final group hug.
* * * * * * * *
And so our last Summer Sunday is as I would wish all partings could be – a joyful, fun, silly, exuberant celebration. And best of all, when we finally part company, I know that it is only bye for now. Until next time. Soon.
The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail.com
