Leigh Vincola Writes

Essays and Memoir

Container Gardener No More

There it is, my empty garden plot. Waiting for me to tend to, to grow things, to nurture into life. 2013 is the first season in a long time that I will put plants into the ground albeit, a raised bed. The last time I did this, it was a similar community garden plot in Cambridge. But even that, as many have, was a one-season garden, I moved on from that neighborhood; moved out west, back east, overseas and on and on. My perpetual movement has caused me to be a perpetual container gardener with no ground to call my own. Front steps, rooftops, back decks and the street that lined my front door. Tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, herbs, beans, flowers: whatever grows in a vertical direction. Space was never something I had a lot of. A lot of watering. And that’s just the way it has been for a long time. A makeshift garden that was constructed and reconstructed in different locations every year. Production has been mediocre. Forget perennials. I was in a sense, just like my plants, rootbound, with not enough space to dig in and stabilize. The pots only so big, my surroundings lacking the permanence for me to blossom into anything.

But this year is different.

This year I have an empty slate in front of me. It is a slate made up of soil that actually needs turning, in which I can splice my garden spade down deep and turn over the earth. It is not a garden that I have watched lay fallow over the winter and carefully designed while the snow flew in New England. Actually, this garden is not something that I’ve really had any connection to before now when I forked up the $45 and took ownership of plot number 7. So it’s not just a fresh start in that it is spring and we get to do it all over again, but a real honest-to-goodness beginning. A chance to break out of the patterns that have bound me and begin to unravel my roots.

The tentacles of these roots began to be loosen up when I moved to Providence six months ago but a long, confusing winter in which I lost my father, kept me cocooned as I rearranged things in my mind, body and heart and learned what it means to grieve. It was a strange way to move to new place—not exactly an immediate sinking into place–but I found enough hangouts and people to keep me warm and comfortable while my father’s final chapter unfolded through the winter. It’s spring now though and while I am still grieving, there is room for those roots to finally grow outward and down, and begin to take hold of something lasting. I am pretty sure, it will begin in that garden.

I know this because I feel patient in a way I never have before. I’ll grow what I grow this year, get it in when I get it in, and not fret that it’s all going exactly right. The seed catalog arrived from Johnny’s the week before my dad passed away. I didn’t get to it. There’s a lot I didn’t get to. There is no haste because I am not going anywhere-that perpetual movement to cease. There is always next season in this place and the one in which my garden goes in my own backyard, directly in the ground, and I can look at it longingly from my winter frosted window. The roots will be strong by then, spreading still, no longer limited by structural constraints.

During my fathers illness, although the prognosis bleak, he began reading up on growing grapes and building a grape arbor. An intellectual prone to symbolism, my father often expressed that making plans for future gardens meant that life would continue on. I feared in his case, this spring planning was in vain and perhaps, deep down, he did too. But it didn’t stop him. On a small scrap of paper he drew out his garden plans, including the grape arbor. As he was dying, I told him that I’d keep his project going and tucked away his weakly depicted sketch inside the DIY gardening book he had recently ordered.

The book sits on my bookshelf. One day I will be rooted enough to enjoy the previous season’s wine under the shade of my productive grape vines in late summer. One day. For now though, this plot, this season, is my start.

Lambert’s Cove: A Memoir

A wooded path of scrub oak and pine leads me from my parked truck to the beach.  In winter the gnarled trees are bare, leaving the low angle of light to peer its way without obstruction through this coastal forest.  The ground is layered with brown oak leaves.  Oak, the last to fall, holds on with tenacity, sometimes all the way through a New England winter.  It is winter but no snow has fallen yet.  The leaves remain dry and crunchy under my feet.  I walk as I have walked a thousand times before, alone towards the sea.  I walk and each time it feels like coming home.  Each time I am equally taken by the simple beauty and peace that the short walk brings me.  Each time I feel that I belong here.

Along the path where the oak and pine stop and the beach plum and poison ivy begin, an old split rail fence meanders its way out of the shaded woods and into the cold sunshine.  The poison ivy that shimmers with intimidation in the summer seems bland and harmless on this winter day.  I do not look at with the resentment I would in the summer.  A tattered T-shirt hangs from a fence post and a solitary sandal sits in the sand. Today traversing this sand dune is easy, but in the heat of mid august the grains spill over onto each other burying your bare feet step after step.  I think of summer days I spent here with my family.  My parents would sit in beach chairs in the sand while my brother and I would float on rafts and play in the small surf.  In those days we packed picnics of plums and crackers and listened to playoff basketball games on neighboring radios.  In those days the Celtics won championships and Lambert’s Cove meant something different.

In part it was growing up, and in part it was my parents splitting up, but in young adulthood Lambert’s Cove Beach became an essential part of me.  I turned inward as I never had before and sought the quiet and solitude that I found there alone.   Home had become a place I no longer wanted to be.  The urban condo my parents moved into was lovely, but inside the air was stale. There were few meals and holidays, less laughter and signs of contentment.  It wasn’t a home, but rather a house where we lived as four individuals, not really a family.  The playful days that we all knew well were slowly slipping away and being replaced by a silenced unhappiness.  My parents had been disenchanted with each other for years and with their kids leaving the house, not always thrilled to come home, they were finally beginning to acknowledge it.

Soon we stopped going to the beach as a family and my visits became something I did on my own.  I chose as often as I could, to drive the hour and half south to Woods Hole and cross on a familiar ferry, the Vineyard Sound.  Once there, looking down over the railing at the foaming Atlantic, my mind would clear and quietly ease itself out of the complicated scenario that life had become elsewhere.  The more complicated things became the more I resisted, and this solo journey became not just an enjoyment but a necessity.  When I left the mainland I could breathe again.

Alone on the beach I could really listen to the waves and look with careful attention at every stone and shell as I passed them by.  Having finished high school, unimpressed by the idea of college, but unsure of what to do; I was filled with questions that nobody was helping me answer.  On the beach I allowed my body to fill with the nourishment I knew I needed in order to head out into the world again and attempt to make sense of it.  I fell in love with solitary September beach days when the water was warm and the sun slightly cooled.  I would walk a mile out past Paul’s Point and stake out a spot with no one in sight except the lobster boat off shore, and the cormorants drying themselves on rocks.  With a towel and only sometimes a book I would bask and swim and feel peace, all alone.  Soon September stretched into October, November, December and all the way through the winter.  I always found a way to make it back to the beach.  The luxury of soaking in warm sun turned into the unmatchable exhilaration I was to find from a winter walk on the beach.  The beach in winter brings with it a clarity not present at other times of the year.  In winter the beach is even more my own.  The wind blows past my ears as the cove welcomes large whitecapped breaks. My eyes penetrate across the sound and easily focus on the neighboring island of Naushon.  The colors are bright, the footprints few, and the loud wind and water focus my attention on my next step.  I gaze out over James’ Pond whose brackish water meets the sea at high tide.  Swans float on the pond in summer, but in winter its surface remains empty and still, protected from the ocean by dunes covered in slender beach grass whose tips draw circles in the sand as they move with the wind.  When I was younger I didn’t notice these details and with each visit I paid closer and closer attention, becoming familiar with something new.  The dusty miller that grows out of sun bleached stones, the razor clam shells in August, the jellyfish in October, the water irises that bloom near the fresh water that flows into the ocean from inland, and the cottage tucked back in the woods that the bare winter trees reveal.  When I was younger I did not have the eyes to see these things; I was distracted by the happenings of a contented family.  Only when the contentment became less, and I was driven to solitude did the beach’s true beauty reveal itself.  Each time I returned I marveled at how the beach had somehow changed since the last time I was there. Stones were piled in different places, the tide carved out a new line in the sand, the water a new shade of green.  I looked forward to the change, no matter what it was, and the simple enjoyment of noticing what was different.

While my family was morphing into something new and unfamiliar, I found clarity on Lambert’s Cove.  There, walking alone, pushed forward by the driving wind, things made sense.  I felt like I knew something that mattered. The rest of my life felt like a scattered conglomerate of people and places with no thread that tied them together or secured them to something solid.  In and out of college, and constantly leaving and coming back from various traveling adventures I was searching idealistically for the unattainable.  I was both physically and mentally unable to stay still.  It was not entirely my crumbling family that made me live this way, it was simply who I needed to be at the time.  I went places, I met people, I experienced things for the first time.  But, no matter where I was going or returning from, Lambert’s Cove was there to send me off and welcome me home.  I knew very well that I needed this place.

The last Thanksgiving my parents spent together our family gathered at our house up the road from the beach.  I convinced them to celebrate the holiday there.  I wanted the holiday to feel like coming home, coming home to a place that held more than my parent’s apartment.  This was the house where our memories were and the holiday gathering was an attempt to make us feel like a family again.

On Thanksgiving morning I went for a walk to the beach.  I left the bustle of preparation and again entered my own world.  I walked farther than usual that day, almost all the way around James’ Pond.  I approached a house with many windows that faced the sea.  It was empty, its owners gathering around another dinning table on this day.  I wondered who they were and what they felt about the beach that lay before them. Did they come here to find the same solitude I did, or were they still building sandcastles and splashing in waves?   I will never know but to this day on my annual Thanksgiving walk I think about that house and the family I stood and contemplated that morning.

My cousins were arriving at the house, and I wanted to head back to greet them, but something held me there where nobody knew where I was.  I walked to the top of the small dune that separates the fresh from salt water, and skipped stones at their confluence.  With each stone I was postponing my return. Nobody knew of the intimate relationship I had cultivated with this place, and I was not going to choose now to share it with them.   In an effort to bring things together I was actually isolating myself.  On the beach that morning I separated myself from my family, creating an even deeper rift between the person I was as daughter, granddaughter, sister, cousin, and niece, and the individual I was in my own head, walking on the beach on a November morning.

I eventually walked back to the house where the holiday was getting underway.   My mother’s sister and her family have always brought lightness and laughter to our own, and despite our unhappiness this holiday would be no different.  For now, for this day, I was happy to enjoy it and to pretend to be a family that worked. The word divorce had yet to be spoken, and when it was eight months later it would come as huge shock to family and friends of both generations.  We had been pretending for years, all of us, hanging onto a previous notion of family, one drastically different from the one that existed today.  This Thanksgiving was one of our last efforts to hang on successfully.

I cooked garlic mashed potatoes that today are still talked about; we played board games on the living room floor, and made a late night trip into town for ice cream.  I remember the laughter of my cousins, the peculiar comments from my uncle, the quiet presence of my grandparents, and my mom making sure everyone was comfortable.  Who I don’t remember clearly is my father.  In recent years his presence at this house had become less, choosing stay in the city while my mom and I, separately and occasionally together, became the unofficial caretakers of the house on Lambert’s Cove.  In less than a year the house would belong to my mother, and slowly be transformed back into a home where a family gathered.

By the time I was twenty-two I was quite familiar with periodic trips to the beach and it had been a number of years since I had brought someone with me to Lambert’s Cove.  Living way up north in Vermont during the thick of a sticky divorce, my friends were used to me disappearing on Friday afternoons only to return on Sunday with sand in my boots and stones in my pockets.  The beach remained something I didn’t want to share, not because I didn’t want anyone else to enjoy it, but rather because I felt no one would have the same appreciation for it as I did, and more importantly, I still needed it all for myself.  With a companion I would lose focus and potentially not be able to receive all the support and guidance that it had given me time and time again.  To bring someone with me was to take a risk I was not yet ready to take.

In the years that followed my I befriended a fisherman named Matt Breuer.  He made me laugh the way my cousins only did.  On long drives around the Northeast Kingdom in his truck we talked endlessly about our lives, and one spring he joined me for the six -hour drive south to Woods Hole.  We arrived at night to an empty house.  My mom, still in between lives, had not yet settled into the house and I knew this would be one of my last opportunities to be there on my own terms.  “The house” was still an ambiguous place to which no one really took ownership or complete responsibility.  It remained there on Lambert’s Cove Road, waiting for sporadic visits from my mother and me.

Inside we turned up the heat, opened a bottle of wine, and quickly adjusted to the coastal environment.  The Lowell Mountains and fresh water lakes of the North Country already seemed far, far away.  Always eager for movement, Matt had us in my truck and heading down to the beach only shortly after we relaxed.  On the short drive down to the beginning of the path I only half realized what I was doing.  I knew I was about to take someone to my beach and that it was something I had intentionally not done in a while, but the gaiety I felt in my friend’s company that night and always made it hard for me to acknowledge, or care much about the significance.  I realize now looking back, that this night was the beginning of a gradual letting go of what I had tightly held onto as solely my own.

The night was deep and dark.  A slivered moon hung low on the horizon.  Resisting the urge to describe everything to Matt before he experienced it himself I simply kept quiet and listened to him ramble on, taken by the silhouette of the scrub oak trees whose twisted growth was unfamiliar to him.  We walked together crunching our mud-crusted boots on the thin ice.  As we crested the dune the expanse of Lambert’s Cove lay in front of us.  Standing there next to Matt, the wind blowing strong off shore, I felt like I was giving it all to him.  I knew what it meant to me and the essence of that would never change, but from this moment on I would take great joy in sharing.  Matt could not understand this, nor did I try to explain.  It was not that he needed what Lambert’s Cove had to offer, but rather that I needed it less and had more to give.  Very slowly, my own life was beginning to make more sense.  I still had no idea what I wanted from it or how to go about figuring that out, but mentally the gears had shifted down slightly and I felt better prepared to face the unanswered questions.   It was because of people like Matt who offered me a place, usually the cab of his truck, where I felt I belonged.

We walked to the right towards the Splitrock that lies just offshore past Makoniky Head.  The night was remarkably still, little movement of wind and water. The lighthouse flashed red on the tip of the mainland and everything else was quiet.  I delighted in his delight and for the first time since the summer days on rafts with my brother, this experience was not my own.

Later that spring my mother officially quit her job and moved into the old farmhouse on Lambert’s Cove alone.  She spent that first summer transforming a house full of scattered memorabilia into her home.  She painted the walls of the den red, the living room yellow, and covered the Pink Floyd mural my brother painted in the “bunk room” with lavender.  Furniture came in a truck from the mainland and replaced the sun bleached, torn and stained couches and chairs that had been sufficient since 1980.  Old art projects, batik tapestries, and children’s books were packed or thrown away.  By the fall it did not resemble the house that had provided me with the best of my childhood memories, nor the house I later learned to look to when I was in need of comfort and grounding.   I struggled with this change as I was slowly losing the only place that held any representation of my past.  I resisted each renovation as it happened, but gradually as my mom became more comfortable I realized “the house” had become somebody’s home, my mother’s home.  It hurt me more to resist than to accept this.  I paused the first time I said I’m going to “my mom’s.”   It was a reference I was not familiar with, but was welcoming into my vocabulary.

In October of that year I moved in temporarily with my mother.  I would live there, saving money, until after the holidays when I would travel to Italy for an extended stay.  We learned to live together again, still as mother and daughter, but this time as friends and as women.  With the landslide of divorce still freshly sliding down us both, we were adjusting to a different idea of family.  It was not always easy and still comes with its complications, but this is not a story about divorce, but rather about a place and its presence during a time of significant change.

Gradually my New Yorker mother began to slow down and enjoy the pace of life a small island in the off-season had to offer her.  She sat in her robe and slippers in her kitchen, drank tea, and watered her orchids.  She listened to Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra and made herself the martini she could never before enjoy without a headache.  She built fires in the fireplace and fell asleep to BBC television.  And, she took walks with me on Lambert’s Cove.  In the morning before I would head off to work she and I took her car down to the lot and parked next to the overgrown rhododendron bush.  At first, like I felt with Matt Breuer, I gave it all to her.  I watched her absorb this familiar place with new eyes.  I took her on walks she had never been on, to vantage points of the Sound she had never seen.  We would meander down private dirt roads that eventually turned to all sand and stand on the top of a wooden staircase whose support beams had buckled from the pounding of the last big storm.  Intimidated by my refusal to acknowledge NO TRESPASSING signs, she followed quietly behind me.  Always however, the destination was worth breaking the rules that in the middle of winter on an island full of summer homes, are really meant to be broken.  Standing there we followed the whole stretch of the north shore coastline with our eyes.  An osprey flew over its nest on the cliff to our right and a ferry pushed towards the mainland.  We were both thankful we were not on it.

My mother was gaining an understanding of the beach I had grown to call my own and gradually, the more I gave, the less I felt like the experience belonged only to me.  For a time in my life I needed this place; it was the only place that made me feel whole.  I could hardly afford to share it with others, for that meant sharing a piece of myself.  I did not have enough of an understanding of what that meant to let it go.   My mom learned to appreciate what that time was like for me, and the difference I felt between the rest of the world and Lambert’s Cove Beach.  She was getting to know that difference herself.

That year I found another home in Italy.   I discovered a piece of myself that seemed to be waiting over there for me.  I found a rhythm I felt at ease with, a language I loved to learn, a landscape that felt familiar, and family members I’d never known.  Full of stories for another time, it was a period in which I settled in even more to the ever- evolving person I am meant to be.   When I came home I felt I stood on firmer ground, knowing myself more intimately than ever.  When I returned to Lambert’s Cove I could tell that my mom had done the same.  For her it was not the exploration of an ancestral connection, but rather sinking in and creating on her own, what she will for a long time call home.  On her hands and knees digging with a trowel in the soil, I watched her as she planted zinnias and peonies in her garden.  I knew I had come home to my mom’s house and I knew it was no longer a representation of what was, but rather what was to come.

Walking on the beach together on a late August morning, my mom showed me what the beach had done for her.  She walked with confidence down the path and kicked off her sandals by the split rail fence.  We walked to the right towards the Splitrock and dropped our things.  After warming up in the sun on her towel in the sand, she stood up and walked slowly towards the water.  I watched her tiptoe cautiously over the stones that littered the shoreline and dive under a small wave.  Slowly she swam across the cove, stroke after deliberate stroke. She knew where she was.  She was home on the beach in a way that in the last decade, I had not seen her be at home anywhere.

During that summer I received a postcard from Matt Breuer.  It was sent from Alaska during the end of his guiding season.

Dear Leigh,

How’s it going?  Alaska is good.  The fishing is great

and I’m working my ass off as usual.  I hope you’re

having a good summer.  When I get back in October I

want to come down to the island and hang out with you

and your mom.

Take care,


I was touched that my mom’s house was a place Matt thought of far away from home.  He had told me once that it was one of his favorite places to visit.  When he did make it back from Alaska I unfortunately could not get away.  But for Matt, going to my mom’s felt enough like going home that he went without me.  He called me one night while sharing a dinner of wild Alaskan salmon with my mother and said he planned to take a walk on the beach when they were through.  I was sorry I wasn’t there but happy he was.  I said goodbye and made him promise he would come up to Boston to see me on his way home.

As my mom’s life had moved away from the rumble of the city and slowed down to a pace with more breathing room, my life did the opposite.  I have learned somehow to thrive on this lack of breathing room in a way I never before thought possible.  In the city my schedule is packed academically, professionally, and socially.  I hardly have enough time to think about what I am missing elsewhere, and for the first time in a while I feel like I have a true home, one that I am not overly eager to leave.  Rarely these days do I cross the boarder of Massachusetts, and my trips across the Vineyard Sound have become something I do on special occasions.  Hanging on the bulletin board in my kitchen where I pass numerous times a day is a picture of Lambert’s Cove.  It was taken on New Years Day a few years ago.  The quality of color does not match the quality present on that winter day, but it is a reminder of the clarity I have always found there.  At times while I’m standing in front of the stove waiting for my espresso I gaze at the photograph somewhat longingly.  It is still my home and it still defines me, but the difference is, I no longer need it.  It is enough that it exists.  Inevitably my clock’s minute hand moves and I too must move on, out of the house and into my day which rarely consists of a solitary walk on the beach.

On brilliant days in any season it is not unheard of to get a phone message from my mom saying that she is just back from a walk on the beach. She is calling of course not to make me jealous, but because she knows that we share the same appreciation for what the experience means.  On days when I am underground riding the subway, or classroom bound I cannot help but be a little jealous.  But more so I am happy for her, happy that she has what she needs, understands that she needs it, and knows that I once needed it too.

Last summer I shuffled though a basket of note cards on sale in a gift shop.  On the cover of one was a reprinted painting of a woman near water.  It was not so much the painting that drew me in, but rather the words.  We go to the sea to find ourselves again.  I bought it for my mom and on the inside wrote a note of thanks.

I will return to Lambert’s Cove this year on Christmas Eve with my brother.  My mom will be waiting for us.  In the late afternoon just before the sun goes down I will head off to the beach alone.  My mom will be in town selling last minute Christmas presents to her best customers, and my brother will be too cold and opt to putter about the house making preparations for dinner.  Alone on the beach on Christmas Eve I will walk, perhaps out past Paul’s Point, making the most of my visit.  The wind will blow and the waves will crash as they have on a hundred winter walks.  I will be greeted by smiles and Christmas wishes from other walkers home for the holidays.  I do not anticipate my mind rinsing through my complicated life, because as it seems right now, it is not that complicated.  Full and challenging yes, but complicated?  Not as it was.

Instead of relief I will be overcome with a feeling of gratitude for all that has been given to me, and all that I have been able to let go.  I will notice, as I have learned to do, that each time I return here it looks different than the last time.  This very fact will remind me again that everything, everyone is forever changing.  Before turning back I will stand on the top of the dune and look out over the Sound, James’ Pond, and the tip of the mainland.  I will try to take it all in and hold it, but I will know that it’s already there.   I will turn and lunge down the other side of the dune.  The oppressive sound of the wind will ease as I enter the woods.  I will walk back along the path of scrub oak and pine to my truck where the keys will dangle in the ignition where I left them.  Back at my mom’s house, my brother and I will open a bottle of Montepulciano and wait for our mother to join us.

Festa Della Donna

Festa Della Donna

            It is early spring in Liguria. Staying at a farmhouse on a hill above the town of Santo Stefano, the street noise from below makes its way up the hill.  Every afternoon that I sit in the midday sun I am tempted to shed my outer layer of clothing, exposing my skin to the heat. The buds on the plum trees in the yard have now swelled almost to their fullest size.  Straddling a long wooden bench nestled comfortably next to a table that daily is covered with a clean crisp tablecloth and helpings of cheese, pasta, and wine, I look above my head and study a Wisteria vine. Thick and gnarled with age, it snakes under and around a lattice roof.

            Glicine. Other Italian words have come and gone from my memory, but this one for some reason, is there forever. Wisteria. Glicine. In Italy there are single Wisteria vines more than two hundred years old. But on this day the Wisteria is far from blooming, and remains a mass of twisted determined vines sprawling towards anything they can cling to.  In time it will drip with clusters of delicate purple flowers, but not today. Today there is only one blossom visible to all.

The Mimosa tree. The weight of the season hangs on its fern-like yellow canopy. It shoulders the anticipation of rebirth as its presence acknowledges all that early spring brings to the surface.  Outward it glows, in bright yellow, flinging forth the purest quality of the season.

In the early 1900’s the Triangle Shirtwaist Company in Washington Square, New York employed hundreds of Italian women.  Day after day, locked into a room that prevented union workers from entering, they worked for meager wages.  In early March 1911 tragedy fell upon the factory.  On a Saturday, near quitting time a fire broke out in the building. The young women tried unsuccessfully to escape through the locked doors, and instead began hurling themselves out of the windows.  One by one, and sometimes in pairs holding hands, they fell nine floors to the cold pavement of Greene Street, and to their death.  One hundred and forty six Italian women, some as young as fourteen, died that day.  Their bodies lay lifeless below a burning building. The anniversary of this day is marked by a holiday across Italy. March 8, Festa Della Dona.  It is a day that remembers the tragedy of the past, and equally celebrates the women of today.  The vehicle for celebration is the blooming Mimosa tree.

From up the hill behind me Mariana comes bounding down in my direction. She is singing to herself.  Her small arms are loaded with sprigs of blooming Mimosa that with the help of her mother, aunt, and grandfather, she has diligently collected. Behind Mariana stroll the rest, baskets slung over their arms overflowing with more yellow blossoms.  Mariana reaches me first.

“Guarda questi mimosi!”

Belli!” I say and smile at my newest Italian companion.

The others join us and we spread the flowers across the table. Selecting one delicate clipping at a time, we finish our morning’s work by bunching together fifty bouquets of Mimosa, tying each one with a white ribbon and cutting the bottoms so that they are equal in length.  Men and women across the country are doing the same, and for the rest of the day and the weekend to follow the flowers will be handed out to women young and old in remembrance of those who were lost, and with respect for those who live today.  By the end of the day the slender streets of cities and hill towns will be splattered with yellow as Mimosa are held between the fingers, and cradled in the arms of women.

After lunch Mariana and I decide to walk into town for gelato.  On a path through fields of olive trees that eventually brings us to a street and winds us into town, she laughs and talks endlessly about futbol, and her love for Evita. “Don’t cry for me Argentina!” she belts, giving it her best American accent. I listen and react from time to time, as one does to child content to say in her own world.  We each hold a few sprigs of Mimosa eager to hand them over to women when we reach town.

On a normally quiet hour of the day the town piazza is crowded.  The sun is shining bright, significantly stronger today than it has and the townspeople seem to have brought their siesta outside to exchange greetings with their neighbors.  Mariana and I slither our way through the chairs and people that are scattered in front of the gelato bar.  I order my favorite flavor, straccatella, a vanilla based flavor with flakes of chocolate.  It is very similar to chocolate chip I suppose, but the name straccatella suggests a certain seriousness that chocolate chip never will.

With cones in hand we return outside and join the rest to watch the afternoon take hold.  As Mariana flits around the piazza I watch two older men walking side by side towards the sound of church bells.  They walk slowly, as old European men do, with their hands clasped behind their back.  They are dressed sharply for an afternoon stroll in brown suits and leather shoes.  Even in the most remote village, or on the craggiest hilltop, Italians look their very best when they’re in town.  This I have learned and grown to appreciate. The two men walk together as if nothing is more important, and behind their backs, between their clasped hands, they each hold a short-stemmed Mimosa. Working away at my straccetella, I continue watching as they approach two young women walking in the opposite direction.  The four of them stop and exchange greetings which I cannot hear, but the important part I can see.  The old men offer with no expectation, flowers to the young women, presumably strangers.  The women thank them and keep walking. A moment of gratitude, a moment of acknowledgment, a moment that says nothing more than I recognize you for being a woman.

Mariana’s voice streams across the piazza from where she has found some friends to play with.  Still holding my gelato and Mimosa I saunter over to meet her.  An old woman dressed in all black, sitting on a bench at the edge of the piazza catches my eye. Her tired arm extends towards me.  Her fingers clench a long Mimosa branch and the arching yellow flowers brush up gently against my arm.  She thrusts if forward once indicating that she would like me to have it. “Grazie,” I say softly as I take hold of another Mimosa.  As I continue to walk the blossoms bounce in the air and a couple seeds drop to the ground.  I watch them silently spin downward and land near my feet. When I reach Mariana I hand the same sprig to one of her young friends.  She thanks me and adds it to her collection.

And this is the way it goes for the rest of the day weekend.  Blooming Mimosa are passed from hand to hand, almost in silence, across the country.  Through the hands of friends, acquaintances and strangers they travel.  Women of all ages are given a gift that for one moment they hold onto, and the next they give effortlessly away to another woman.  A sprig of mimosa given to you on this day is yours for only that moment.  It does not belong to you; it belongs to all women throughout time. What does belong to women in Italy is a tradition that celebrates what they’ve gained, lost, and what they are.  Although in remembrance of that day there is little talk, if any about New York City in 1911.

Year after year the Mimosa is the first sign of what is come. The early blooming trees hold hope that the season will change.  After a full celebration of Festa Della Donna the streets are littered with lingering yellow.  On cobblestones and in storefronts branches have snapped, flowers have wilted, and bouquets have fallen apart.  Women have been rewarded with the flowers of trees that claim their strength and shout rebirth. The evidence remains.  As the next week begins the color of the Mimosa is a shade slightly duller.  At the farmhouse I notice that the plum tree buds have opened slightly, and those on the Wisteria vine are visible.  I look towards the full opening of spring.  Every year after the Italians celebrate their women, it inevitably does.  And so, simultaneously we look back and move forward, always returning to a day that gives power to looking in both directions.

The Start

This is a story of becoming less restless. It is a story of finding roots. It is a story of simultaneously letting the body untangle. It is untangling the mind and body at the same time. It is the unexpected loss thrown into the already complex process. It is about this loss making it all happen. Harder and easier and necessary. It is about the very things that made it difficult to settle coming to a head. It is about realizing what these things are. About being somewhere long enough to be vulnerable. About living a life constantly marked by change. It is about relationships, primarily with men. It is about being challenged to be honest to see my own weakness. It’s about a dog. It is about pushing the restart button. A do over. It’s about coping by being easy with myself—sleeping later, being present, accomplishing less in one day and learning what that feels like. It’s about letting go and no longer holding in my breath. It’s about retraining my muscles and my thoughts. It is about the people I need entering my life when I needed them. It’s about this city. About feeling cocooned. Leaping out and then wanting shelter, wanting boundaries. Not wanting to fly too far. Not yet. It’s about a year in which I rearranged myself. This year.

Laundry Line

On a slow moving Sunday afternoon I went back to and old file on my computer titled IN PROGRESS WRITING. As I had imaged there was the sketch of an essay in there titled “Clothes Line” created on March 5, 2006. I am not sure I have opened it since until today. But clearly there has been a thread running though my consciousness about laundry, wanting to make its way onto a page.

Like many people I know, I grew up with a big drier in the dark basement of an old home. We used it often. It wasn’t until first my summers at camp and then my college days in Vermont that the drier became obsolete and everyone around me used clothes lines to dry their clothes. I found it a delight to, as I wrote in 2006 “putter with clothes pins and rearrange pieces of fabric.” But then as the winter months wore on (and they surely did in Northern Vermont) the laundry would inevitability go into the drier. It’s not as if we didn’t have dryers, we just chose not to use them when the sun and warmth was good enough. Save the planet.

I so enjoyed these moments of arranging my belongings delicately on a line and then gathering them up when they had lost their dampness and became deliciously warm to the touch, smelling like what I imagine to be the scent of the horizon. There was precision in the placement and tenderness in the touch. Today I live in a country where no one owns a dryer. Where hanging your laundry is as much of a daily chore as washing the dishes and making your bed, no matter what season. But somehow it still retains that momentary state of mediation for me. It is in these quick moments before heading off to work for the day or while simultaneously preparing lunch that I feel most human. It is a pause, a moment to breathe. A chore that I actually look forward to.

The difference here is that no matter what season, no matter the weather, your laundry gets hung on the line, or in your living room, in full view of any passerby or any visitor to your home. To a foreigner, the laundry line can scream….hey look at my underwear…and thus, my personal life. To an Italian, the laundry line just is and letting the personal objects of your home life hang out for everyone to see just adds to the beauty of a culture where intimate moments are plainly visible.