“I have to get back,” I said.
“Sure,” said Brendan. “Let’s go.”
Once we were in the car, I told Brendan that I had another deadline and would probably be working half the night.
“I get it,” he said, and smiled. “Buzz off.”
“No, no, nothing like that,” I said. “It’s just, well, buzz off.” Which got a laugh out of him.
We said good-bye in the parking area of Sam’s yard, and I immediately went for a twenty-minute run through the twisty streets around Knollwood. I still weigh the same 130 pounds I did in college and I wanted to keep it that way, even though Brendan said I was too thin.
I thought a little about him as I ran. He was pretty funny. And definitely smart. He also listened when I talked, and most men don’t. But there had to be secrets, issues,baggage. What was he really doing there at the lake? Still recovering from his divorce? The truth was that he was too good-looking and charming and nice to be up there by himself.
When I got back to the house, I stood under the showerhead, letting the hot water beat down on my overactive mind. Then I dressed in shorts and a tank top, made iced tea, and took a few of Sam’s letters out to the back porch.
I sat cross-legged on the floorboards, and as sunshine pinned me to the spot, I opened another envelope that had my name neatly inscribed on it.
Twenty-five
Dear Jen,
When you were a little girl, and so adorably cute and sweet that you could give me a toothache, you used to cry so hard when the summer was over. Every summer. Until I hit upon a plan to make it all better for you.
On the last day of summer, I would give you a big Hellmann’s mayonnaise jar and send you down to the shore to “bring the beach home” with you to Madison.
I knew you’d remember and treasure those smooth, fist-size gray-and-black stones you found when walking barefoot in the shallows. And the pale rounded pebbles that had washed up to the shoreline. And, of course, there was the sand and the cold, clear water of Lake Geneva. It was fascinating to watch you try to fit your whole summer into a mayo jar.
It took several tries over one long morning in late August—“Grandma Sam, is it full yet?”—but you finally figured out that the way to fit in the best of your haul was to put the big rocks into the jar first. After that, the pebbles and snail shells would sift down into the spaces between the rocks.
When the jar looked filled to the brim, you could still get in a few lids of sand.
And finally, when there didn’t seem to be room for another thing, you dunked your jar in the lake and topped off your “beach” with water. Smart girl!
And I told you, Jenny, that living life was like putting the beach into a jar. The point wasn’t to fit everything in; it was to attend to the most important things first—the big, beautiful rocks—the most valuable people and experiences—and fit the lesser things in around them.
Otherwise, the best things might get left out.
I’ve been thinking about big rocks and how much my priorities have changed over the years. What used to be most important to me was pleasing other people; your grandfather and my mother-in-law, to name two. Going to dinner parties and having a house clean enough to stand up to a Sir Charles military inspection, to name two more.
Now that I please myself, my priorities are better. The people I love. My health. Getting the most I can out of every day. The actor Danny Kaye used to say, “Life is a great big canvas. Throw all the paint you can at it.” I like that thought. More important, I try to live by it as much as I can.
I get up really early most mornings so I can watch the sun rise. I put flower buds in a lot of little bottles around the house so I can see the blossoms open everywhere. I feed whole peanuts to the blue jays because they love having their food gift-wrapped, and I never tire of watching them try to fit more than one peanut into their bills at a time. I read good,hardbooks, and if I can’t sleep, I might throw a few logs onto the fire and watchLaw and Orderreruns.
And here’s something I love to do. Once a month I make a huge bowl of pasta and red sauce and invite my friends who live alone to a potluck supper. They like the company over a home-cooked meal. We laugh hard and often, and they don’t gossip about me too much in the car on the way home!
And in case you’re wondering, Doc always comes to the potluck supper. The others just don’t know that he’s Doc.
Twenty-six
Dear Jen,
Here’s a good laugh for us to share.
I’ve just come back from an afternoon in town and realized that the hem of my skirt was caught up in the waistband of my panty hose for the whole trip. I’d been to the grocery store, the hardware store, Daddy Maxwell’s—with my tail feathers blowing in the breeze the whole day. No one said a word.What a hoot!So here’s a thought that I like very much, Jen, and it took me a while to get it right. If you’re going to look back on something and laugh about it, you might as well laugh about it now.
Things are almost never as bad as they first seem. Loosen up, girlfriend! You’re very funny in your columns in theChicago Tribune. But it seems to me that you could giggle a little more in real life. I read somewhere that the act of laughing releases some nice chemical into your brain. You feel good, and it’s free!
Twenty-seven
