Contemplating the Meaning of Trees

Woke up early this morning, 5:00 am. With the tenants gone (two students from a renowned Boston craftsmen school) my son and I have the house to ourselves. When they were here I forced myself to stay in bed until 7:00 am. By that time they’d be off to classes in piano tuning and book binding and I’d have the house to myself. My tenant Molly, a young lady from Colorado, was the perfect boarder. Quiet, always polite and mature well beyond her 21 years. On the other hand, Bob, a mid-30s fellow from California, was more difficult to deal with. My son characterized him as, “The most annoying nice person ever.” From Bob’s perspective everything was “Cool.” His time with us featured cooking really smelly food, requests to drive him here and there (hints that there were plenty of taxies in town were ignored) and seemingly endless descriptions of the sandwiches he ate for lunch (“Cool!”) or some minuscule aspect of piano tuning that no one was really interested in. Getting along with Bob was a challenge and most of the time both Molly and I would hide in our rooms rather than interact with him. For my infrequent encounters I set a 10 minute rule in which I’d make pleasant chit chat before escaping to my bedroom. Thankfully Bob left a week before Molly. The result was akin to the Munchkins emerging from their homes after the wicked witch was killed. Our “ding dong the witch is dead” moment was accompanied by sighs of relief and spontaneous dancing around the kitchen.

So finally they are gone and I can get up whenever I want. I can indulge in my pleasant morning ritual, making coffee and watching the news while sitting by the backyard window. The dogs are still in bed. It’s just me and the time slowly flows by. Each luscious second slipping past with me not really noticing. 

Trees. I realized this morning as a stream of random thoughts, ”I should start a website. What will I call my art studio? I need boxes.”—passed through my consciousness. Most woman love jewelry to mark special occasions. I love trees. 

I’ll be leaving this house in several weeks. It’s weird how you have to fix up a house to sell it. To leave it for someone else to enjoy. We lived with weeks of chaos. You don’t get a pretty house without contending with lots of noise, dust, and sketchy people (drunk painters, convicts posing as handimen) invading every nook and cranny of your life. At one point I counted 15 people in and around the house all at once. I crumbled under the combined pressure of the work, all the money I was spending, and bouts of deep sadness. Happy memories of raising the family here and the regrets of a marriage gone bad overwhelmed me. I cried. A lot. I felt like a recovering alcoholic, “Just get through the next minute.” Who would’ve thought the 12 steps would apply to home renovation. 

Vera and Dinghy enjoy the newly painted stairway.

Then there’s my trees. They surround the house like sentinels, protecting me. Enveloping me in their comforting presence. The lovely, lace-like red japanese maple nestled in the front yard. A gift from the ex-spouse to mark our first Mother’s Day in the house. The dogwood in the back. It’s velvet-like ivory flowers coming and going so quickly. Also a Mother’s Day gift. And my favorite pea green Japanese maple growing out the backyard window. So many mornings I've enjoyed watching that maple while sipping coffee and waiting to hear the seven-day forecast.  My trees are constant. Stately, Graceful. Some trees look stiff, They creak and groan in the wind. My trees are elastic—they rustle like taffeta and flow like velvet in the breeze. I’ve learned from my trees. Bend. Don’t break. Strength comes when you least expect it. When the wind is blowing hard and it’s so cold outside. Just preserver. 

I worry about my trees. Will the new owners love them as I do. Will they gaze out the kitchen window in the morning, contemplating the day as they enjoy the pleasant waving of my pea-green maple? Will their children grow up romping in the backyard under the dogwood as my son did? I hope so. 

Maybe the diamond ring would have been nice but I don’t miss it. When the marriage is over, that ring which seems so important, a symbol of never ending love and commitment, so often becomes a symbol of a failed relationship. Rings don't grow anything - except maybe resentment. I never looked at my trees that way. When my marriage failed I looked to them for comfort, not blame and like my son I see them as the precious gifts given with love. 

Trials, Tribulations and Golf Balls: A Thanksgiving Tribute to Family

55 years of Krimski family photos.

A week ago Thursday I lost my Dad, Jeff, to cancer. Dad grew up in Baltimore from sturdy polish stock (Pilahowski and Krimski). He was an amazing, complicated person formed by early personal trials which ignited a desire to transcend his mother’s plans for him to work at the local washing machine factory. He left home at 17, joined the air force and was stationed in Nouasseur, Morocco where he met Mom. He was 19 and she was 26. He went on to raise four children, giving us everything we’d need to become successful adults and raise our own families. His career is one of legends; a DJ at two of the countries top AM  radio stations, WBZ, Boston MA and WKBW, Buffalo, NY, he constantly challenged the status quo, changing the face of radio forever and paving the way for the FM revolution. He went on to enjoy a multiple Emmy award winning career as narrator for NFL Films until throat cancer forced him into retirement. After that he enjoyed years of boating and international travel with Mom. I was privileged to go on trips to France, Egypt and cruising in the BVIs with Mom and Dad.  

I recently read a story about a philosophy professor who showed his class a jar filled with golf balls. He asked the class “Is the jar full?” The class said "Yes". He then proceeded to pour pebbles, sand and water into the jar, asking each time, “Is the jar full?” Finally he explained to the class that the jar is a metaphor for our lives. The golf balls are the important stuff; family, health, passions and friends. If everything else—home, job, car— was gone and only the golf balls remained, life would still be full. 

As I sat by my Dad in his last hours holding his hand and washing his brow; as I watched my Mom hold it together while she watched her husband of 55 years dieing; as everyone laughed when I felt moved to perform dopey “Gangham Style” dance moves by Dad’s bedside; and as I thought about all the months my sister Anne has devoted to the care of Mom and Dad, performing all the skills of a hospice nurse without even realizing it AND never asking for credit, all the pebbles and sand and water diminished in importance. The golf balls became larger and larger until they filled my heart with joy. 

I don’t know a family who doesn’t have a jar filled with golf balls. Some are brand new—bright white and shiny. Others are stained, nicked, gouged and aged beyond use. Despite their condition they all belong in that jar. We may begin life as a beautiful bright white golf ball but we all end up less than perfect. My parents always said, “When you don’t have anyone else, you always have your family.”  I’ve pondered that saying many times over the years. Watching my Dad die brought it’s meaning—forgiveness— back to me. With family, forgiveness in the face of the unforgivable takes an open heart and remembrance that the forgiver will most certainly be the forgivee at some point. We may take a golf ball out of the jar but it’s never too late too put it back. 

Dad’s passing has been a life changing experience for me, rearranging my cells to reveal and renew the beauty of family and life. When I eventually get back to the day-to-day stuff will the feeling last? One can only hope. One thing’s for certain. Dad’s golf ball, with all it’s nicks and gouges, will forever remain in my jar. For Mom and siblings Anne, Peter, and Sarah your ball may come out for a few minutes but be assured, I know which drawer I put it in so it will certainly go back in the jar. 

Happy Thanksgiving to all my family of golf balls who where there for me during this difficult time. I love you all. Mommy, son Emmitt & hubby Dave, Shirley, Anne & Richard, Amy, David & Tory, Maya, Peter & Amy, Max, Spencer, Sarah & Broeck, Sam, Noah, Paul, Andrew, Peter, Lisa. 

Oh and don’t forget the puppies; Vera, Sailor, Dinghy, Scruffy, Mr. Bennett, Charlie, Scrappy and Silvie. WOOF!