Colors of Change

This is my 40^th post since February, when I started the blog. Every week I wake up and wonder what I’ll write about next. Sometimes an idea is waiting to jump onto the page. Sometimes not. Trying to sustain an ongoing dialogue is more challenging than I’d imagined. People mention the blog to me often, though, so I guess at least a few of you are sticking with me. I appreciate the readership!

As a side note, my son Dru has been building my website. The plan was to launch it at the same time my book, Came the Hunter, is placed with a publisher. But then storm Sandy hit New York and my agent was without power for a week. When power came back, his first email dump was 1200 messages and it went from there. So, we missed our window and now we’re going to skip the dead December season in publishing. He will circulate the manuscript in January. My website will likely wait too but, whenever it goes up, this blog will be moved over to it. I’ll keep you posted on that.

As a P.S. to my last post (In the Headlights, 11/18/12) I want to report that my encounter with the deer in the middle of a darkened road was not an isolated experience. Four days later another buck darted from the woods. This time it was during the day and the deer came from behind on the left side of my car. He was trying to outrun me so I gunned it to keep him from getting in front of my car. As our respective trajectories converged the deer suddenly disappeared. I was perplexed by this. Where’d he go? Did I hit him? 

Next thing I know I’m hearing thump, thump, thump across my roof. What was that? Surely not the deer? I looked to the right just in time to see the buck’s underbelly as he leaped from the top of my car. Really? Who was this fellow…Rudolph? How does a deer go from mid-run alongside a moving vehicle, straight up to land on his feet and run across the roof? And he did land on his feet because I have three hoof prints on top of my car that I will keep as momentos. All I can say is the guy driving behind me at the time must have a great You Tube video going around.

Anyway, on to this week’s musings. The kids are both out of the house now but they come back for the holidays. This year Kirstyn brought her boyfriend Dave for Thanksgiving weekend. Thankfully Dave loves hanging around in comfy pants like the rest of us or he’d have been in for a culture shock. For five days we got dressed only when we had to and grumbled about the inconvenience of having to shower and put it together when we did.  

Even the house gave itself over to slovenliness. None of us made our beds. The kids’ suitcases spilled out onto the floor and then all around their bedrooms. Almost instantly, our living room was unrecognizable. Three computers and their cables traipsed across the floor by extension cords to meet up with phone chargers at the outlets. Furniture was dragged from the den to the hearth. Dirty dishes piled one on top of another. Shoes, socks and sweatshirts were scattered everywhere. We had some allergy and head cold action going on so boogey rags began to collect. Every now and again they got thrown out but their replacements were immediately building a presence on tables and on the floor. Of course the dogs thought the rags were fun so I kept having to chase them down to snatch some very nasty stuff from their mouths.

You’d think I’d be beside myself, the house being on the market and all. But there’s this sick state of oblivion into which parents of grown children slip. We are so eager to have the kids come home that somehow they can do almost nothing wrong when they get here.

I remember the days when Cecil and I dared to assert ourselves, to make demands. We had expectations of the children. Now we’re just thankful they want to visit. The power shift has begun. Next they’ll be talking behind our backs about what to do with us when we can no longer take care of ourselves.

For now, though, we’re still good on our feet. So, the day after Thanksgiving we went up the mountain to cut our Christmas tree like we do every year. It felt like a knife in the heart when we discovered the farm no longer serves hot cider. Don’t they know how much a part of our tradition that was? 

We gathered ourselves from the disappointment and climbed onto the hay wagon for the ride out to the back field where the big trees grow. When we got there it was apparent the years have taken their toll on the grove. We hadn’t noticed it before. This time pickins' were slim and it was hard to find a tree that suited us. This one’s not full enough. Look at the bald spot on this other one. How could you even consider that skimpy thing over there? 

Finally, we resigned ourselves to a respectable blue spruce but there was among us the tacit understanding that we’ll likely have to find a different farm next year. Change it is a comin'.

We decorated the tree on Saturday while we sipped wine, ate delectable appetizers, and tried to look natural as a photographer for the newspaper snapped her camera all around us. It seems a columnist is doing a piece that will include a follow-up on Cecil. So, instead of PJ’s, I wore a sweater and jeans. I had to put on make-up and the hair actually had to be combed.

The photographer was as sweet and unassuming as she could be but a camera pointed at your face does things to you. I found myself holding a pose as I sensed her focusing in on it. I actually tossed my hair back so it wouldn’t obstruct her shot. Usually unaware of my expression, I self-consciously fixated on it that day. I kept trying to look pleasant. Once I caught myself furrowing my brow and shoved my face into the tree branches just as the camera went off. I just knew that would be the one shot they’d decide to use.

Most of all, the Knox clan has never been such a sweet bunch. It was ‘please’ this and ‘would you mind’ that. We worked together on those light strands like a well-oiled assembly line. And instead of snotting off that a particular branch already had five bulbs on it and maybe you should find someplace else, it was “Oh that’s an interesting placement.” 

It was all an unspoken throwback to the days we lived in the public eye at the hands of the feds. For those five years we succumbed to scrutiny and couldn’t let our guard down. Every day was filled with anger and fear. Every night was filled with anxiety and sleeplessness.

When a news camera walked in the door last weekend, we were reminded of those trying times, and we sort of reverted back to our plastic selves. But then the camera was gone, and we remembered the drama no longer dominates us. It has drained back out of our lives and we are just regular people again. Time as it passes smoothes roughened edges and brings about a softness that is much easier to live with.

So, I say to my friends and family who are going through difficult times, don’t get caught up in the moment. Any one thing is like a small piece of an intricate mosaic. All the colors have to be in place and then you have to step back and look at the big picture.