Remember in that old "Seinfeld" episode, when George Costanza and his father kept yelling for "Serenity Now!!!"? It's amazing how many times I think of that episode while I'm trying to come up with new activities for the kids--especially while they're busy practicing their favorite go-to activities: whining and teasing.
We've been experiencing a lot of record-heat days this summer in Northern New Jersey, so what's a cabin-feverish family to do on a Saturday afternoon when the temperature is hovering around the 95-degree mark? Go outside, of course! "Ugh," you say? We had our doubts, too, but found a surprisingly peaceful and cool respite in the form of the Frelinghuysen Arboretum. Located in Morris Plains, NJ, the Arboretum comprises 127 acres of woodlands, meadows, and gardens, with a Colonial Revival mansion at its center.
Thanks to all of the blissfully shaded areas, the kids got a chance to run around the garden paths and burn off some pent-up energy...
They also had time to stop and smell the flowers. There are thousands of them...
Almost all of the trees and plants are labeled, so you know what you're looking at. (See those little black signs in the middleground below? Most of the signs are bigger--don't worry.)
The kids' favorite part of the Arboretum was the Rock Labyrinth. When we read the map before heading off to it, I have to admit that I'd been picturing a maze with Stonehenge-size boulders, but the kids were happy with the labyrinth just the way it is...
While they spent a good half hour chasing each other around the labyrinth, I wandered around the grounds and found this bucolic scene:
The Jane Austen fan in me was picturing Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley coming around the bend on horseback, on their way to visit the Bennet sisters.
I've also become strangely obsessed with studying the bark of trees. I can't believe it took me 'til my forties to really look at all of the colors and textures, the nooks and crannies, in tree bark...
I know, I know...I'm such a nerdy tree-hugger!
Anyway, it was a lovely afternoon.
You can enjoy the Frelinghuysen Arboretum for free, but it's nice if you donate a few dollars at the Visitors' Center. Be generous and consider it a thank-you to the Arboretum for a refreshing interlude on an otherwise sweltering day. "Serenity Now," indeed.
Many years ago, when I was proud to call myself a "pop culture vulture" and was interested in the latest gossip and minutiae about every "celebrity" who had at least 15 minutes of fame--I think we're talking the late 80's/early 90's here--I was watching "The Arsenio Hall Show" and Demi Moore was the first guest. Arsenio was leaning toward her, thoroughly captivated and enraptured, as she told him and all the world about how much she absolutely loved to clean out her ears with Q-Tips.
That's right: I'm still bitter that I have brain cells dedicated to knowing this fact about Demi Moore.
But my point is that it's very easy to get swept up into the great swirl of utterly useless garbage that's being circulated on television and now, the Internet.
Not too long ago--we're talking about maybe two years ago here--I used to begin my day by chomping down my breakfast, barely noticing what exactly I was stuffing into my mouth, as I stared like a zombie at the computer, scanning the latest incendiary headlines, clicking through the categories at The Huffington Post, and generally, riling myself up about things that shouldn't really matter in my own personal, grand scheme of things.
Then, one spring day, I decided to take my breakfast out to our back porch. Instead of staring at a computer screen, I found myself gazing at this:
You can probably guess how things have turned out.
I find it so much more restorative to begin the day with a view of the back yard, simply listening to birds chirping and seeing chipmunks running around like little maniacs, looking for their own breakfasts. Just as when I was growing up (see the post entitled "Beyond the Back Yard: The Roots of a Green Life), we have a view of a forest now, and I'm tremendously grateful for that.
After breakfast, I poke around our greenhouse for a bit, to see what needs watering and what could use a little trim. I take a tour of the yard and see what's in bloom. I try to really focus on things, because it's quite amazing how much I can miss if I'm not really looking. For example, I might see the blur of a pink flower, but if I look closer, I see this:
Just like in the Dr. Seuss book, Horton Hears a Who!, I've come to realize that there are all of these little microsystems at work that I never noticed before, and all of these little details to see, if I only open my eyes and look for them.
For three seasons out of the year, I try to spend as many mealtimes as possible out on the porch, and if the weather isn't good, then I eat indoors with a view of the back yard. I've found that my children somehow argue less when they're outdoors. Once they're done eating, they find things to play with on the porch, or they go out into the back yard for a little exploring, or they want to play in the driveway with some chalk or their bikes.
Richard Louv, in his insightful book entitledLast Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children From Nature-Deficit Disorder, includes some key studies about how important it is to have a view of nature, to really engage with our environment, and how essential it is to be able to disconnect from technology on a regular basis--and that doesn't just pertain to children.
I wouldn't be honest if I said that I never check The Huffington Post anymore, or that I'm immune to reading tidbits about the TomKat divorce (because...just wow!), but I try to allot the time to it that it deserves. Minimal. There's a whole wide world out there, and I want to be more mindful about what I'm focusing on.
Remember how in the movie American Beauty, the teenager at the end is seeing the wonder and artfulness in a plastic bag dancing around in the wind? Well, from a green standpoint, I wouldn't say that I'd be particularly thrilled to see a plastic bag blowing around loose, but I could see the point: looking for the beauty in the everyday. If you walk around with a camera, you start to change your perspective about what makes a good picture. You notice more. You appreciate more. Even the littlest things can hold your interest. And that can change your Big Picture about what's important to you and what you should be focusing on. That's different for each person, but I'm betting--for most people, anyway--it will have nothing at all to do with Q-Tips.
In my "previous life" in public relations, I was attending a trade show and came upon a booth with an elderly woman displaying some handmade photo albums and scrapbooks for sale. Another booth visitor was chatting with her and it came up in the course of their conversation that it was the 5th birthday of the craftswoman's grandson.
"Oh, how nice! What are you getting him?" asked the other booth visitor.
"I don't give gifts. I give experiences," answered the craftswoman. She went on to explain that as she was getting on in years, the thing she really wanted to give her grandchildren was her time.
"They might really enjoy a new video game for a couple of months, or a new teddy bear to go with their already enormous collection of stuffed animals, but I want to give them memories of our fun times together that they can always hold on to." She talked about taking her grandchildren for day trips into New York City, where they would go to a special restaurant for lunch and then see a Broadway play together. Or she might take them to a national park for a picnic. Or the circus. Or invite them for a weekend sleepover at her house on the lake, complete with their favorite home-cooked meals and late-night movies. I left the booth thinking, "What lucky grandchildren!"
My friend, Cheryl, has inspired me in many ways, but one of the most important ways was her idea of birthday party gifts. Her son, Jonah, is 8 years old (the same age as my son, Zachary--they're the best of friends), and ever since Jonah was five, he and his parents have gotten together before his birthday to choose a charity for donations, in lieu of gifts from the party guests. One year, they collected money for the Ronald McDonald House in Philadelphia, which helps families with seriously ill children to stay together in a warm, loving place (as opposed to a hotel) while the sick child undergoes treatment at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia or other local medical facilities. For two years, they collected money for The Fresh Air Fund, which helps inner-city kids enjoy camp in the countryside that they otherwise would not be able to afford. Everybody wins with this idea: the party host and guests can learn about the charity; the parents don't have to shop for a gift; the birthday boy or girl can feel a real sense of accomplishment and leadership in raising funds for a charity; and of course, the charity itself benefits.
My own children are very...hmmm, how shall we say it?..."gift-oriented." So, two years ago, as we were leaving for Jonah's birthday party, Zachary said, "Wait--aren't we forgetting Jonah's present?"
"Nope," I said. "Jonah is collecting money for a charity instead." I filled him in on all the details. Zachary was quiet for a few moments, turning over this strange, new concept in his head. Then he said, "I want to do that, too!" We made an agreement that he could still get a special gift from his mom and dad, but the party guests could bring donations. Well, Jonah's birthday is in summer, and Zachary's birthday is in winter, so I have to admit that I fully expected him to change his tune once his birthday rolled around.
He didn't. As we were planning out his party, Zachary said, "Remember, Mom, I don't want gifts. I want to raise money for Eleventh Hour Rescue." Eleventh Hour Rescue is a local organization that saves animals from being euthanized at over-crowded shelters, and then adopts them out to loving families. We got our own beautiful dog, Delilah, from Eleventh Hour, so this was a cause particularly close to Zachary's heart.
At the birthday party, Zachary collected the donations in a big envelope with Delilah's photograph on it. We raised over $500 (it was two classes full of kids!), and Zachary beamed with pride on the way home. For me, another real perk of this gift-giving concept was not having to drive home a van full of toys that we really don't need!
Zachary wanted to write his own letter to deliver to Eleventh Hour, but he wanted it to look very "business-y," so we sat at the computer and he dictated to me what he wanted to say:
February 12, 2010
TO: Eleventh Hour Rescue
My name is Zachary. I just turned 7 and for my birthday party, I did not want presents. I wanted money donations so that no animals would be killed and I really hope that you can make a lot of animals have their lives saved. Thank you for saving our dog and for bringing her up to New Jersey. She was named "Olivia" in Georgia, and then named "Vidalia" by the people who brought her up to New Jersey, but I didn't like the onion name, so now we decided her name is "Delilah." We love her so much and I love playing with her. She is a lovable dog and she has a new special place in my heart.
Enclosed: $529.00 plus photo of Delilah
*********************************
We wanted to hand-deliver the donations to Eleventh Hour, and as we were driving up to their building, their van was just arriving with a brand-new load of puppies from Georgia that they had saved from being euthanized. What exquisite timing!
"Look who you've helped save, Zachary!" I said to him as we looked at all of the adorable puppies being carried into the Eleventh Hour facility. They were yipping and barking at each other, tails wagging, tongues hanging out.
As we drove away, Zachary looked back at all of the puppies still being carried inside and said, "I want to collect money for Eleventh Hour for all of my birthdays...until I'm 99 years old!"
I guess when he turns 100, he's entitled to a few new toys.
If you've had a relatively happy childhood, I think that in adulthood, you're always trying to recreate or recapture the happy moments, and revisit the special places of your youth--if you can. For my husband, who grew up sailing with his family just north of New York City, he's still at his happiest when he's out on the water, and if he can't be out on the water, he's reading sailing magazines to relax after a long day at work. My own childhood, although also happy, gave me a very different view of peacefulness and personal bliss. Instead of the water, it was the woods.
I grew up in a small town in Connecticut, on a quiet cul-de-sac called Willow Lane--even though there wasn't a single willow tree in sight. Our neighborhood had no shortage of other trees, though, as all of the houses on the north side of the street had the woods to border their back yards, a sprawling range of trees that ran for miles and miles.
My bedroom window faced the forest. Each night, before climbing into my canopy bed, I would stand on my ladybug stool and peer out into the woods. In summer, my nose pressed up against the screen, I could see the little flashes of fireflies, traveling in drunken, weaving patterns around and about the trees. I'd fall asleep to the sound of peepfrogs and wake up to the first bird songs of morning.
About a hundred feet into the woods, just off the well-worn path, was a boulder the size of a Volkswagen Beetle, with the words MAGIC ROCK painted in white capital letters on its side. No one knew who had painted the words, but everyone knew the wishing procedure: Stand atop the boulder, slowly turn around three times, and make a wish--only one wish per forest visit, and no wishing on the way back out!
My sister, eight years my senior, introduced me to the forest. Each December, she would drive me in a wheelbarrow deep into the snowy woods, where we would select the perfect miniature Christmas tree for her bedroom. Carefully, she would dig around its roots, and we would plop the whole package, soil and all, into the wheelbarrow. Later that night, the little tree would sit in a bucket on her desk, bedecked in our homemade garlands of popcorn and cranberries, with a simple strand of white lights. After the holidays, my sister would transplant the tree to our back yard, at the very border of the woods. By the time she went off to college, there were five fir trees on the border of our yard.
In spring, when my sister returned from college, she took me into the forest again. The ground was soft underfoot, and the trees were in full bloom. Kneeling on the bank of a stream, we scooped out frog eggs, pasty-white jelly masses with black dots for centers. We carried them home in beach pails to study, and in a short time, the eggs separated and sprouted long, wiggly tails. Then it was back to the stream again, to send the tadpoles on their way.
In my sister's absence, my father became my guide to the woods. Although he tended three gardens in our own yard (two for flowers, one for herbs), he took it upon himself to be a caretaker of the forest. I accompanied him on his missions: clearing piles of leaves from the dirt paths, weeding out fallen trees, and with our bare hands, scooping out cold mud and twigs from a blocked brook until the water ran freely again.
On weekends, bright and early, my father and I would head out into the forest, followed at a great distance by our cat, Snoopy, whom I suppose was trying to maintain an air of feline independence. Snoopy never got within fifty feet of us, but then again, he never ventured off on his own path, either. We'd stop every now and then to make sure he was following, and he'd stop and pretend that he wasn't.
On our journeys through the woods, my father would point out different plants and trees, insects and animals. Over the fallen tree--an impromptu bridge across the first pond on our journey--past birch ("white bark) and mountain laurel ("white blossoms"), we'd make our way past thickets and tangles. Skirting poison ivy ("leaves of three, let them be") and the hawthorn bush ("needles sharp enough for sewing"), we'd at last come to the meadow.
Crouching amidst the tall grass and wildflowers ("Shh...not a sound"), we would almost always be witnesses to something extraordinary: a jackrabbit bounding about, as if on springs; a garter snake basking on a rock ("he won't hurt you"); a pheasant strutting cockily, looking for its lunch; a stately stag--despite its size, so shy and soft; a Native American arrowhead to take home in my pocket; the Big Old Oak, with its trunk so fat, it would take five children to encircle it with their arms.
As I got older (about ten or so), I got bolder, braving the forest on my own. A latchkey kid, I'd make secret trips into the woods when no one was at home. Once, startled by the sound of people a short distance away, I broke into a run and caught my leg on a jagged branch. Blood pulsed from the deep gash, but there was no time to stop. At home, I put on thick bandages and told my mom it was a gym class injury. I still have the scar, a slight, dotted line up my left shin.
On another secret solo visit, undaunted by the leg injury, I brought along my father's binoculars and hiked out to the farthest pond. Panning the scene at the opposite bank, I spied nothing new with my enlarged vision. Then I saw it--my heart jumped. It was my own first name, carved large and deep on a thick tree trunk. Preoccupied with conjuring up neighborhood suspects, I lost my footing on a mossy rock, catching myself just before taking an unexpected dip in the pond. That's when I heard it--a single, horrible "plop." The binoculars had broken free from the shoulder strap and had sunk to the bottom of the pond.
That night after dinner, my mother went to her studio to paint, while my father went to the living room to immerse himself in a book. I tiptoed in, trying not to shiver.
"Dad?" I whispered. He looked up over his eyeglasses. "Remember how you always say that I can tell you anything?"
"Yes?" He shut his book and looked immediately serious. "What's the matter?"
"And remember how you said you'd always love me, no matter what I did?"
"Yes, yes! Joy, please, what is it?"
I confessed the whole sordid tale, then braced myself to hear my punishment. But my dad didn't yell--he sighed in relief! The binoculars weren't that important, he told me; it was my safety that concerned him. He told me firmly not to go into the woods alone again.
Together, the next day, we retraced my journey, and I brought him to the sound of The Plop. With a long tree branch, he poked and prodded around the bottom of the pond. Then he tapped at something. With one long, careful lift, he raised the branch. The renegade binoculars emerged from the water, dripping with mud and covered with leaves.
After the binoculars were professionally cleaned, my father gave them to me to keep, for future forest trips--together.
The winter I turned eleven, I still didn't know how to ice skate. All of my friends were twirling and leaping on the town lake, but I was too embarrassed to learn to skate in public. One early Saturday morning, with my sister's old skates tied together and slung over my shoulder, I followed my dad to the Binocular Pond. He threw a large rock at its center. It thumped and skidded to a stop. "Safe to skate." After we laced up our clunky, impossible skates, he held both of my hands and glided backwards, and I clumsily trudged forwards and sideways on the blades. Around and around we went. He'd free me and I'd falter. Finally, exhausted from all the legwork, I rested on a rock while my father etched smooth, grand figure eights on the ice, not one sound except for his skates, clicking and wooshing across its surface. Snow had carpeted the forest with white velvet and the trees wore a hundred million twinkling diamonds, glittering from every branch. When morning melted into afternoon, we headed home for lunch. I didn't master skating that January, but I will never forget that day's perfection.
Although in our hearts, the forest was "ours," it didn't really belong to us at all. By the time I was in college, the woods in its entirety was sold to developers. The summer after my senior year of college, when I went home to my parents' house, I looked out the window of my childhood bedroom, only to see the single line of trees, a mere screen between our yard and the new yard behind ours. On the very edge of our property, where the woods once began, I could see the little ring of rocks that marked the burial site of Snoopy the cat. The grave was shaded by my sister's five "miniature" Christmas trees, by then so tall, they dwarfed our house.
But the forest is gone now; all of it, gone. Magic Rock, the tadpole stream, the wildflower meadow, Binocular Pond. In their places are new landmarks. Swing-sets and swimming pools, circular driveways, three-car garages, front yards and back yards, houses and more houses. For miles and miles.
It was many years ago that we sold our house. My parents have long since passed away. My sister and I live on opposite ends of the United States. Much time has passed; many things have changed. But when I close my eyes at the end of a long day, it's the old woods at Willow Lane that I'm picturing. I'm at the very edge of it, and I'm starting down the dirt path, following my dad, just as I drift off to sleep.
Dedicated to my father, Charles Johnson (1924-2002), who lived a green life long before it was the popular thing to do, and perfected the art of kindness.
