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Easter
I was writing this on the bus and I got as far as ‘I’m writing this on the bus’, when my laptop battery went dead. So I’m not writing this on the bus anymore. The bus is the only reason I can work at Cornell and I’m deeply grateful to Tim for pointing out its existence to me – my job at Cornell is the best job I’ve ever had. Tim had told me to apply for a job there, any job, but I said an hour and a half commute was too far away. I had been working from home for 8 years and my daily commute was maybe 10 seconds, 30 if I stop for coffee on my way in. So that one little email that said “Take the bus” and a url (url is not in Word’s dictionary??) to the Cornell commuter page changed my life. I applied for 26 positions. The first one I applied to (the NSDL) was the first to respond and they hired me after the first interview. I didn’t make the cut at the other 25. Go figure. I took my mom to lunch yesterday. Barb is out of town so I was bach’in’ it and my mom would be alone if it wasn’t for me, and her church of course, and it was Easter. We made the date a few weeks ago and when I called to confirm she said she wanted me to come to church with her (begged actually). She does this. Not as often as she used to, but it bugs her that something so crucial to who she is, is something that I have just too many questions about. I really can’t participate in all that joy and faith -- I developed a bad case of skeptical when I was young and never really recovered. She knows this. It bugs me that she asks (begs!). She wants me to meet her friends. She wants me to love what she loves. I’m tempted. I tell her I’ll think about it and I do. When I call her back the next day I tell her I’ll pick her up at church and meet her friends, but I won’t come to the service. She’s disappointed and I tell her that she had to know that I’d say no, and she replies that I said yes three years ago at Christmas (it was four) and that gave her hope that I’d say yes again someday. My mom is nothing if not relentless. When my dad was alive, it was like the irresistible force (mom) meets the immovable object (dad). I of course inherited both traits. When I pick her up at church, everyone knows me or has heard about me. I'm not surprised. My mom brags me up somethin’ fierce at church and the celebrity is somehow hard to take. It’s the other reason I find it hard to go to her church. And it’s the church of my youth – it was my church from birth to 17, I was married there the first time. As she tells someone that I have a wonderful singing voice (I don't anymore) I actually act out my discomfort by ducking my head, kicking aside an imaginary pebble, squirming and saying ‘aw shucks ma’. It’s funny and gets a laugh but it really is how I feel – 12 years old, the center of unwelcome attention, Special. When I had asked her where she wanted to go to dinner, she had said someplace out of town. So I take her to Ithaca. We eat at the Boatyard, a nice place down by the water. It's really noisy, packed, the food very good, the service great -- she tells me to check out the waitress’ beautiful teeth (sure mom, her teeth, anything you say), which are indeed lovely -- and afterward I take her up the hill to meet Cornell. I want her to love what I love. I drive around campus showing her the different schools, the buildings, the gardens, the greenhouses, the observatory, the dairy bar with dairy products from Cornell cows. We drive around the rhododendron gardens and I promise to bring her back when they’re in bloom. And then around the lake, checking out the walking paths, and then the boathouse and the art gallery. We park and I show her my office. She lingers, touching things, asking questions, looking at the pictures, the view, appreciating it. We walk over to the chapel and it’s open (it isn’t always). It’s one of the most beautiful buildings on campus – fine woodwork, mosaics in the floor and on the walls, incredible stained glass, huge pipe organ. The chapel’s full of symbols and meanings, darkly beautiful, somber, peaceful -- we speak in whispers, self-muted. We walk to the bell tower and look out over the residences and on up the lake. It’s breathtaking. She sees that I love this place and this work and says that she thinks maybe I’ve found a home. She wonders if I would have found it sooner if I’d gone to college, she regrets not making me go. But she couldn’t have done it and I tell her that. It wouldn’t have been like this for me then anyway. I’ve mostly followed the path I can see and it’s led me here, now. I feel like a plant must feel when it's planted in just the right spot in just the right soil -- the sun, water and nutrients are just right, the roots go down smooth and easy, I bloom. She says she’s very proud of me and has been proud of me for a long time. She thinks maybe I don’t know. She hasn’t always been proud of me and she’s let me know it. I don’t think she realizes that I value her honesty as much as her pride. Maybe more -- it gives her pride more value. I show her one of the libraries and she wants to know where all the books are and the card catalogs. The books are in tight, airless stacks in the upper floors. The card catalog is in the computers thjat are everywhere. That’s what I do now. The place is teeming with students. No one looks older than 20. It seems like everyone is checking us out – many glances, even some stares -- and I’m sure they have no idea what we’re doing there. I decide that we’re alumni checking out how our lavish gifts have been spent and feel less out of place. It's a lot of walking and her legs are fading. We walk up the hill and back to the car, checking out the flowers, the hotel. And I show her my last secret – the back way home. The day after: I got this email from my mom the next day, after I wrote the piece above, and before she'd seen it. I can't remember the last time she wrote me a long letter like this -- must be something in the air. I didn't ask her but I don't think she'd mind too much my adding it here. She really is a great mom... Dear Jonathan,
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