The End of the Line

We're into meteorological fall and if I have a second favorite season...no, that's the holiday season, Halloween through New Year's...okay, meteorologically, it is fall.  I'm fortunate enough to live in the True North, where the colors can be spectacular for a few weeks; the days, sunny with bright blue skies; temperatures which require sweats or jeans and sweaters and also insist that the Flip Flops be returned to their hiding place in the closet.  I always bid them a fond farewell and thank them for their fine work over the past few months, reminding them their sojourn in the storage boxes is temporary and once the Spousal Unit™ returns his Santa Suit to its Christmas bag, it will only be a matter of days before they hear, "Who wants to go to Florida?"

The air takes on a distinct odor, carried on the increasing volume of wind, as we move away from summer.  It smells like September--just a little less full of summer breeze and more impending crispness.  While the sun is warm, it is tempered significantly by the shortened days, lengthening shadows.  Sitting in the lounge chair is still feasible with a hoodie (hood pulled up), sweatpants, often wrapped in my Twins Snuggie.  It's just not as idyllic for me when I don't sweat.

The garden has turned itself over as well.  Watering yesterday, I could tell it had come to the days of reckoning when it will be, in short order, The End of The Line.  During the growing season, I give everything all opportunities to be successful, even if it appears as if this is not going to be a particular plant's year.  For the most part, the veggies appreciate my faith in them and in return, do their best.  But as the Byrds once told us children of the sixties, "To everything, Turn! Turn! Turn! There is a season, Turn! Turn! Turn!" and the growing season is fast reaching its end.  There are only a couple tomatoes left to be picked and savored in my daily lunch salad, along with the final few cucumbers.  The leaves on the squash vines are browning and dying back, revealing fruit I didn't know was there--such a great discovery!  More soup to be made and frozen, more meals to be planned around squash.

In our house, it's also the metaphorical End of the Line.  Faithful readers know that my oldest daughter, Molly, moved in with us during and after her divorce, her intention being to save for a down payment for a house.  She has met this goal and she and my grandsons Jackson and Beau will be moving out this Friday.  

I came home from teaching one fall night to find her car in our driveway.  This can't be good, I thought.  It wasn't...she had decided to end her marriage and needed to move out.  It was...she asked if she could live with us.  Multiple friends and family told us it was a good thing we hadn't sold our house, rather deciding instead to remodel and remain since we had enough room for her and the boys.  True.  Probably more serendipitous than anything else.  Perhaps divine intervention.

For the past few weeks, the interior has been what is described in the parlance as "a hot mess."  I run an obstacle course through the rooms and hallways filled with boxes--and things the boys have removed from packed boxes because they hadn't seen them in a while.  It makes no sense to pick anything up as it might be something that is in the decision making process--keep to move, store, donate. 

Truthfully, the little boy mess has been a constant over the 2 1/2 years they've been here.  Not too far into their stay I decided not to attempt to stay on top of it--an exercise in futility.  From my perspective, Molly and the Spousal Unit™ had a higher mess threshold than my druthers, but so be it.  Coming up on The End of the Line, where now there will be a place for everything and pretty much everything in its place, I anticipate experiencing moments where I'll miss the trucks and cars and dinosaurs and dragons and Magnatiles and pens or paintbrushes held together with a rubber band into the shape of an airplane.  Or Legos crossed into the shape of an airplane.  Or computer generated photos of airplanes, all of which Jackson flew around the house, usually accompanied by an uncannily representative sound of airplane motors, so much so that there have been times when we're outside and Jack is flying one of his multitudes of planes, I glance up to look for the airplane in the sky.

At the End of the Line, there is more I will miss than not miss.  The mornings  Beau sneaks into our bedroom and whispers into my ear, "Grandma, can we snuggle?"  His never ending enthusiasm for all things that battle, including some that do not (like the two pairs of underpants he brought me one morning with  a fight in mind).  The extraordinarily elaborate worlds he creates, first in his fertile mind, then drawing them out on reams of paper.  Overhearing him in his bedroom, role playing interspecies with dinosaurs, dragons and stuffed animals.  Reading to him, especially Captain Underpants stories that always make him chortle.  Playing board games where he frequently adjusts the rules.  Having him squish my earlobes and turkey neck because he likes the way it feels.  Oh, Beau.  I will miss you living with us.

I treasure precious one-on-one time with all of my grandchildren and that has been expedited with having Jackson live here.  Sitting in the backyard, each on our own lounge chair or curled together in the hammock, listening to him observe nature.  Commenting on the shapes of the clouds.  Listening to the wind whistling through the trees.  Calling out the birds singing to us.  Asking me the same question overandover, most recently providing the correct response for me.  Watching the boy who was not supposed to be able to walk or talk go flying down our street on his strider bike with all the attendant glee one has at exerting command over one's body.  Oh, Jackson.  I will miss living with you.

A question often asked of me was how I got along living with Molly.  With no offense to my other three children, I usually replied that she was probably the easiest for me to live with.  She is fierce.  Independent.  Dedicated.  One of the brightest stars in the universe.  A mother to be emulated.  Our shared expectation was that she was the boys' mother and would do what mothers do even though they were living in our home.  Her journey is not over and how privileged I feel to have been a way station for her and the boys.  Oh, Molly.  I will miss living with you.

So.  The End of the Line.  I'm cutting down the basil and some parsley to make pesto tonight.  The carrots are beginning to poke their heads above the ground, telling me they're ready to be harvested.  Beau already picked his pumpkin to accompany him to the new house.  I'll go to the local Farmer's Market tomorrow to purchase a flat of canning tomatoes and use that to occupy what looks to be a week of indoor time.  I anticipate within the next ten days, everything will die back and whether I like it or not, the flowers that continue to bloom on the vine will never fruit.  Oh, well, I'll tell them.  There's always next year.  And it's not as if Molly and the boys are moving to Timbuktu.  Retirement affords me the space and time to just be with the grands.  All the way to The End of the Line.

or, the end of the vine, as the case may be.  Beau's pumpkin.