For The Love of Money

I never loved money.

But I grew up surrounded by it.

My impressionable adolescent years were spent on my island home in an environment created largely by the rich and even richer—blue bloods who made their living off the imported sweat dripping off the backs of folks like my Irish ancestors who crossed the Atlantic and then criss-crossed our nation with steel rails, guided by the black smoke marking their manifest destiny and filling the New York city coffers of my neighbors. They carved their summer cottages in the graven images of Europe, palatial knock-offs in gold and marble which lined the Bellevue Avenue of my youth where I pedaled my bike beneath the graceful dreadlocks of giant weeping beech branches. Imports, all of us.

So it wasn’t easy for me to be impressed by ordinary wealth—new money, as they call it.

Still, for a time, I was.

I grew up, parked my bike, and headed north to a small, liberal arts college where there were a lot of rich kids. And I fell in love.

I first encountered John Senior when I was sitting on a covered bridge watching orange and red leaves swirl below me in the currents of the Contoocook River which threw its watery arm around our campus like a protective lover. My reverie was interrupted by a rhythmic wooden sound and I turned to see a boy striding towards me with a chunky, carved walking stick I would soon come to know as Half-Step marking his progress. He wore a funky knit hat and a broad, confident grin.

“Hey,” he said, passing by me.

“Hi,” I said, turning back to the blinding sun in my eyes and then around to watch his retreat. In and out of my life, just like that. And that might have been the end. But it wasn’t. Not yet.

I saw him loping around campus but not up close again until one day when I was out running along a wooded path that followed our river and there he was again, his long brown hair unmistakably swinging my way with Half-Step setting his pace.

“Hey,” he said again, his grin closing the gap between us, “What’s your name?”

“Kelly,” I said, slowing to a jog to answer.

He might have asked me what dorm I lived in, I don’t recall, but I do remember the knock on my door soon afterwards and a voice, “Phone’s for you.” In those days we had one hall phone for everyone that hung on the wall—no booth, no privacy.

“Hey, it’s John,” a voice said, “from the river?”

“Hi,” I said, my heart flipping around like the coiled phone cord in my hands which delivered his voice again to my ear.

“Do you wanna go to the movies Friday night?”

Yes, I sure did. I don’t remember what movie we saw, but I do remember there were some scary parts that had me diving for the safety of his shoulder and we exited the theater with his arm wrapped around me like the river.

From there, our romance marched forward in full steps and soon I was spending much more time in his dorm room than in my own. When his room-mate failed to return to school after Spring Break, we put the twin beds together and I took his place more or less permanently.

John was the life of the party—the kind of guy they warn you not to marry. His crooked grin charmed everyone he met and his confident charisma made him the center of attention, always. When he turned his wide smile and deep brown eyes on me, there was no escape; his dark eyebrows blocked all exits. John was outgoing and generous, attracting a large circle of friends. There was no capturing him, even though I became his number one girl. He was all kinetic energy, always on the move, always ready for fun. Even when he sat down, his foot shook incessantly, ready for its next move.

I fell hard for him and there would be no easy way back up. He wrote me poetry and played songs with lyrics intended for me. We were young, strong, and smooth-skinned and I loved the feeling of his long fingers entwined in mine. Half-Step was our constant companion while we ambled through the forest, kicking our Bean boots along woodsy trails which soon filled with snow. When winter released its icy grip we threw open the sunroof and drove the countryside in his blue Honda like we'd just been born. John introduced me to Tanqueray and tonic and was rarely without a beer or drink in hand.

Our freshman year ended and we parted ways, he back to his home and me to a summer waitressing job in my neighboring state. It was too far and soon I moved over to his state and into the sprawling suburban home of his mother. John came from a trust-funded life of privilege, a boarding school brat from a world I had encountered on my own island but did not know intimately. I studied it like a refugee from my firmly middle class background. He was purportedly an heir to a Poppin-fresh fortune that would make any dough boy giggle. New money. His friends liked to party. Hard. It was the late 70’s and recreational drugs were not uncommon. We spent the last carefree days of summer swimming in his pool, hanging out with his friends on their estates or at Lake Quassapaug, and hosting a wild birthday bash for him. His last.

School bells threatened and we choked out tense and tearful goodbyes as I flew off for a semester abroad in England where I was summoned out of my very first class—a Dickens seminar. A phone call. For me. “Kelly,” his mother said, “Johnny’s dead.” On Labor Day three hired thugs had kidnapped him, shot him three times, rolled him in a rug, and dumped him in the East River as part of a convoluted criminal-plot-gone-bad drama. For a few hundred bucks, rum-drinking strangers had casually killed him. “Wrapping up loose ends,” they explained. Indeed. Any love of money I ever had evaporated.

I was 18 years old and cried the proverbial river until the innocence of my youth swirled away from me in the currents of distant memories. I mourned for John, for myself, for the We that we’d tried to be. I mourned for the smooth body I'd loved so completely, violated so cruelly, so violently; it broke my heart. I managed to keep up my studies but quietly switched my major to mourning John Senior. Walking for miles and miles thru the English countryside, I became a shadow of my former self, sitting for hours in damp stone churches which were always blessedly open and empty. My fingers clutched at empty-handedness while I wandered through the ancient graveyards marking their exits, wondering at all the stories, all the broken hearts which lay buried beneath my feet. I spent a lot of time gazing at the sky and pondering the meaning of life. I could almost believe that John’s unbounded energy and zest for life were a sign we’d missed that he was not to be here for very long—live fast; die young. But it still hurt.

I finished the semester with John’s Cheshire grin filling my thoughts and his death enshrouding me and when I returned home, I transferred schools and began a new field of study.

One day, John’s mother came to visit.

“I brought you a present,” she said. I followed her out to the parking lot where she led me, smiling, to a brand new silver car shining there in the winter sun, orange letters printed across its front doors proclaiming it to be “Le Car.”

“This is for you,” she said. A car? I translated silently.

“Um, thank you,” I said, understanding the French but not fully comprehending this unlikely gift.

She hugged me and said, “I didn’t get you the stereo package; maybe your parents would like to buy that for you.”

It was so surreal. My parents had two kids in college and two more at home and no interest in buying me a car stereo. But I nodded, yes, maybe they would, because my parents would definitely want me to be polite. I could not even fathom telling them that I’d just been given a new car, much less asking if they wanted to provide the soundtrack. I was saddened that somehow she thought this all made sense, this for that, but I guess in her world it did. Le Car was definitely a step up from the red ’64 Dodge Dart with black and white checked bucket seats I manually steered around my island home when not riding my bike. I was thankful to have a sparkling new car instead. But still.

Weeping, John's mom handed me the keys and said, “Thank you for loving my son.”

I did not love cars. I did, however, love that John Knowlton Senior. But nobody needed to thank me for that.

~ K3

Fifty is the new Forty

I’ve been 50 for an entire day or so now and therefore, like many Americans, am ready to start dispensing the wisdom of my decade even though I am basically unqualified and inexperienced. Fifty is the new forty, I’ve decided. I never felt 40 when my calendar flipped from 39 but now I am ready to embrace it fully, hindsight being what it is and all. So here is what I know thus far.

You know you’re fifty when:

1. The Fred Meyer check-out gal asks if you qualify for the Senior citizen discount. And the only thing worse than that is that you don’t. And when you tell your mother about it she informs you that it’s because you have “The Moore” wrinkles.
2. Getting a couch for a birthday present excites you. A couch. For sitting on.
3. A man at the Laundromat informs you while you are loading the dryer that he is “legally blind” and looking for a live-in “helper” and that he lives in a very nice one-bedroom house and is hoping to find someone who is 50. Or 60. And you don’t even realize he is hitting on you until you tell your husband about the encounter later. And you actually compliment him on his vehicle. Which is a wheel barrow parked outside.
4. You start universally hitting “I accept” to all terms and conditions on all electronic devices because you simply can’t read what it says and life’s too short anyway and you don’t feel like getting up to find your cheaters (which are yet another thing.)
5. You quit reading “50 things to do when you turn 50” after one essay on aging gracefully and accepting your new wrinkles followed by another encouraging a little nipping and tucking entitled, “Put your best face forward!”
6. Your AARP card comes in the mail and you start eyeballing motor homes and reading up on the national parks.
7. You should be outside taking a walk but it looks cold and you are in the middle of an exciting Words with Friends game and you are attempting to take advantage of your free app download for your Blackberry (I accept, I accept…)
8. You spend more time watching salmon spawn than, well...
9. You stop buying in bulk.
10. You have the flattest tummy in the OB/GYN waiting room and you’re not necessarily thrilled by that.
11. You apply on a vacancy for the job you once had and are told you are no longer qualified.
12. You actually think Words with Friends is exciting and justify your addiction by thinking it will help boost your brain power, which is another thing you suddenly think about.
13. Your wedding ring band has been worn so thin it can't be repaired one more time.
14. You have friends who are 60 and 70 and even 80 and your 20-year-old friends are your daughters.
15. You post a blog (or email or make a phone call), get in the shower, and think of at least three things you forgot to say, including that you know you're fifty when you have washed your hair with body wash and washed your body with conditioner...
    

K3

RIP Mr. George Richardson

Mr. Richardson was a summer fixture for me as a child, more constant than sunscreen (which we didn’t have). I never knew him as a fall, winter, or spring guy. For all I knew, he returned each summer to Pocasset like a loon. Like we did.

With his classic flat-top crew-cut (his hair was always white) and his buck teeth, Mr. Richardson (we never called him “George” in those days) delivered our boat motor each summer and drove the silver ski boat for hours and hours every afternoon, teaching us all to ski with his characteristic favorite advice. You know what he always said. Nothing. And it worked. We all learned to ski under his silent, patient tutelage.

But the most fun to be had with Mr. Richardson was in the evenings. Rushing through dinner, we let the screen door slam behind us when the red truck appeared outside our cabin. Before Mr. Richardson could lift our garbage can off the nail in the tree, we were in the back of his truck, ready to do the garbage run with him, collecting from every cabin and riding all the way to the dump down the road where we hoped to see something exciting, like a rat. Summer just didn’t get any better than that..

Karen and I grew to be best summer friends and I spent a lot more time around Mr. Richardson. So I was lucky enough to discover that behind his thick glasses were twinkling blue eyes. And I got to go horned pout fishing with him in the evenings, sitting in Jennings Stream at dusk with Janet, Karen, and our green drop lines, then pulling the barbed fish up, left and right, while Mr. Richardson patiently took each and every one off our hooks with a gloved and practiced hand. I felt privileged to be in that boat. Mr. Richardson, as usual, rarely said a word.

To see Mr. Richardson was to see a man whose work was never done, but who was never in a hurry. He slowly and purposefully went about doing, well, everything there was to do. When I try to hear his voice, mostly all I hear is a meaningful silence. Followed, sometimes, by a slow, “ayuh.”

It seems that my summer innocence ended around the same time Mr. Richardson became George. It just hasn’t been the same around the beach for many years now without George quietly going about his ways. And even though I know that time marches on and change is inevitable, still, I miss those days. I miss those colorful beach chairs that George built and maintained. I miss that silver ski boat and the long line of skiers waiting to be towed—on skis, not tubes. I miss the red truck and those horned pout and grabbing leaves on the narrow road, which I also miss, and I even miss the dump. I have missed Mr. Richardson for many years now. And now I will miss George too.

Today is George's funeral in Wayne, Maine in the church where we were married 23 years ago. It is the same church where our son, Noah, was baptized 15 years ago and then memorialized a year later. It is an altar we know well. So even though we are 3000 miles away from George's service today, still, we are there in spirit. Rest in Peace, Mr. George Richardson, Lord knows you’ve earned it.

K3

Still Nine-Eleven

Isaiah’s chubby fingers fondled my neck as I strolled along the beach, my almost two-year-old riding behind in his blue backpack. The air suffused our skin with September warmth and the sky blanketed us in blue, the ocean reflecting its beauty with a peacefulness that would soon be shattered. Later, I would recall this tranquility and remember another day twelve years earlier when, like today, an unusual stillness had permeated the air as I took my lunchtime walk along the San Francisco waterfront. The bay had glistened calmly and the gulls were silent. The earth was holding its breath but we didn’t discern its foreboding. In a few short hours it would exhale a 7.1 Richter scale “OHM,” blowing buildings off their foundations and dangling cars and passengers beneath buckled bridges. This day would likewise bring a bustling city to its knees, forcing folks to shed their coats of isolationism and embrace one another like small-town neighbors seeking comfort and reassurance. But this day would not be defined by Mother Nature. This day would be remembered for Human Nature. And I was preoccupied by my own struggle with life and death.

I kissed my son’s fingers as the gentle Atlantic caressed her baby sands, the comforting weight of my chattering bundle an antidote for the loss of his brother, our ninth baby, due to arrive that very day but who had died mysteriously in March. I’d headed to the beach that morning to think about the short life held four months within the depths of my body and which remained in my soul, like a tiny shard of glass not yet tumbled smooth by time. I smiled at the glimmer of hope now known to me by flutter kicks in my womb and prayed all would go well this time. The gulls screamed overhead, sensing no earthly need for silence.

We concluded our walk and drove towards a doctor’s appointment with my radio tuned to its typical NPR, my meditation interrupted by breaking news unfolding a mere hundred miles away in Manhattan. I listened, stunned, as the familiar voice told how a plane was engulfing thousands in a jet-fueled hell while the beautiful blue day shone all around us. I called my husband who turned on the tv as another plane struck the second World Trade Tower. “People are jumping out of windows,” he said.

I continued driving to my appointment, life marching on for the rest of us. “Did you hear about New York?” I asked the ultrasound technician as she scanned my belly, casually chatting, not expecting any more disasters. I should have known better. My three-month-old swimmer had stopped kicking inside of me and now lay crumpled on the bottom of my womb. Like the day, we all finally became very still. Screaming gulls filled the void where a heart used to beat as people stepped out of windows, flying off to meet my baby.

Duncan Munchkin Kittel

11/17/01 – 7/27/11

Who loved: hot dogs, peanut butter, coconuts, snow, bones, tennis balls, other dog’s toys

And hated: fireworks, loud noises, delivery trucks, mailmen, people touching his ears, that old woman who walked on Second Beach with a white hat

Duncan was born the runt of his litter to Tatum Smallwood on the coast of Oregon and became ours as a promise fulfilled to Christiana with the vision of a mid-sized dog. (He never knew his father.) When we moved to Rhode Island from Salem in 1999 we left our dog, Dude, behind with Andy’s parents and Christiana begged us to let her have one of the first-grade classroom quails. Andy said no but promised her she could get a new dog after we settled in. He flew across country the following December and brought her promise home in time for Christmas and snow. From then on, Duncan always loved snow and would bury his nose in it and sneeze. As we traveled home from the airport we tried on names and asked, “What would be a good east-coast name?” Dunkin Donuts being the quintessential representation of New England, we answered, “Dunkin Munchkin!” And so he was.

Duncan chewed on our stairs and scratched our floors, growing in our hearts and family and vastly exceeding everyone’s expectations until he reached 110 pounds. He was one year younger than Isaiah and they grew up together with Isaiah riding him like a horse. He went to puppy training at the Potter Shelter and passed K-9 training and when we moved to Portugal he stayed with Matt, his trainer, spending a lot of time in Vermont that winter playing in the snow and sneezing with Matt’s other dogs. When we returned, Duncan was five and graced the cover of the Newport Daily News in full color walking Second Beach on a winter day with Andy and I during the controversial leash law debate. He had no leash. Duncan spent many, many happy hours walking with us on the beaches of Rhode Island, Oregon, and Costa Rica chasing tennis balls (each ball lasted only one walk), sticks and coconuts.

Duncan ruled Mohawk Drive, often laying in the middle of the road and blocking traffic. Our yard was littered with his collection of stolen pet toys from the neighborhood animals. His morning routine consisted of walking the kids to the bus and waiting for the bus driver, Gene, to give him a dog treat. After waving goodbye he trotted over to the horse barn and played with the dogs that lived there. Once when he wore the cone of shame for some minor surgery these folks signed it as if it were a cast and it was then that we began to realize that Duncan knew everyone in the ‘hood,’ including folks whom we did not. He spent his days between our house and Jack and Kathy’s across the street where he tortured their cats, Grace and Buddy. When the hour approached each day for Don and Rosemary to come home, Duncan headed across the street to await his daily treat from them. He knew everyone and their schedules and was doubtlessly more popular than were we.

When we moved to Costa Rica, Duncan drove with Andy and Micah in the Black Panther from Rhode Island to Playa Conchal, riding in the back seat as their security guard. It was in the tropics that he developed his obsession with coconuts, ripping them open with his teeth, no easy feat, until he came to the nut inside. He waited all day for someone to throw them to him and never tired of retrieving it. Sometimes he dropped them in the pool and sat and stared at them for hours. He was relentless and could carry them, whole and heavy, to the beach where we would do our best to shot-put all 20 pounds of them into the ocean for him to swim after. He loved to swim in the warm, salty Pacific and we always laugh about the time he was chasing a ball around the pool and he slipped and fell into the deep end. When it came time for us to leave, Duncan flew solo internationally on Continental to Oregon where the Smallwoods picked him up and he hung with his ornery mom until we arrived to build the yurts. A few months later we went up the river to a bonfire and brought Duncan along to see his mom, thinking she would be happy to see her son. She was not, barking at him like he was an intruder.

Duncan was a great friend to G’ma Kittel while we lived with her and she spoiled him with treats and let him sleep in the house. When we finished building the yurts and moved up the creek he made himself at home and usually slept underneath the yurt right beneath where our bed was. Any time we arrived home he came out from under the shade of the yurt to greet us, running alongside the car as we came around the yurts and parked. He was always a very happy fellow and befriended everyone he met. He took to sunning himself in the middle of the forest service road just above our yurts which is where that the Lincoln County dog officer picked him up. It was then that he earned his title, “a dog at large” while serving his time behind bars, even though Andy attempted to inform them that he was simply “a large dog.”

Duncan was diagnosed with bone cancer as we packed up to come home from our second year in Costa Rica in June. When the kids and I arrived on Father’s Day he was so happy to see us and still managed to walk the road with us. But the cancer spread rapidly and he must have been in a lot of pain as the tumors grew daily before our eyes and his hind leg became useless. Still, he rarely complained. He visited Christiana in RI in a dream and told her he could wait for her arrival at the end of July. And he did. He waited for her in the shade under the yurt, gradually coming out only to eat. His friend, Mocha, visited him daily and kept him company. Christiana arrived and Duncan rallied enough to take one last evening stroll with us down along the creek. The next day we loaded him into the van for his final trip to the beach. He made it down the ramp to where we all collapsed in the warm, soft sand and pet him. He watched the other dogs playing and even socialized with a few of them as we made our way back to the car for the sad trip to the vet. The vet came out to the car and relieved Duncan of all of his pain while reciting the poem, “All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small, all things wise and wonderful, the Lord God made them all.”

Duncan’s pain was erased and ours began. He left us with sand in our ears and tears streaming down our faces for our great and terrible loss. We brought his body home and laid him to rest in a large hole under a gnarled apple tree, scattering wildflowers in the freshly turned earth. A moss-covered crook in the branch juts out over the foot of his grave and it is lovely to sit in and swing your feet. It is Bella’s favorite place to climb to and practice her jumping off. Countless times in the ten lovely years that Duncan was ours I would find myself on his tail end as he greeted one friend or another, bearing the brunt of his enthusiasm unhappily as he smacked me with the strength of his strong appendage. Duncan lived the motto, “Wag More, Bark Less.” Now we will sit on a mossy cushion watching the flowers bloom and blanket our beloved Duncan, wishing forever to complain so again.

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When It Rains...

It pours. And it is, pouring, right now. Rainy season is upon us here in the tropics, as well as graduation season. Many years ago I suppose we figured out that this time would come when Hannah would be graduating from some as-yet-undetermined college and Micah from a similar high school. And even though we have had all these years to prepare ourselves, still, it is impossible to foresee anything until it is staring you in the face. I am fairly certain we never imagined that Micah would be graduating from Country Day School in Costa Rica.

But he has. With honors. Perhaps even as valedictorian of his class but the school has been unable to calculate that particular honor, math apparently not being their strong subject, being that the director hit the stage carrying only 7 diplomas to the commencement for 8. Woops. And this one short week after we witnessed Georgetown successfully distribute diplomas to over 6000. (Okay, it is true, however, that GU also distributed over 6000 commencement books to the proud participants on which the cover boldly proclaimed 2011 in gold lettering accompanied by three words - Commencement, Georgetown, and UniverISty. And this in their 222nd year of producing commencement books. I believe they may be hiring a new copy editor if you can handle the pressure.)

Out here on the playa we are CDS-G, as in the Guanacaste branch of our American school in paradise. The original campus is in San Jose and they appear to have the same math affliction as Friday's Tico Times sported a shining photo and listed no less than 78 colleges and univerSIties that their graduating class of 40 will be attending next year. Pura Vida.

We had a lovely graduation night on Thursday last with speeches by each graduate and flowers for each proud Mom. Micah distinguished himself by winning one of the school's two special awards - The Ann Wellnhofer Science Award. Ms. Wellnhofer was the first science teacher at the school some 11 years ago when it opened but it seems she was subsequently fired for being out-spoken. I am assuming he was chosen for his science ability only. Tough shoes to fill, perhaps. Thank you Anne, wherever you are.

And so our year here in paradise is coming rapidly to a close. We came with the intention of allowing Micah to graduate with his amigos. Check. Hats off to Micah. We are very proud of you.

K3