By Frank Calderale
Time is a riddle that runs beneath the surface of our lives. We watch our infants grow into toddlers, pass through the long, blissful stretch of childhood, sun-drenched and happy, then endure the endless dramas and quandaries of adolescence. Our offspring are the center of our lives, yet sometimes, they are as unknowable as the dark side of the moon. I often scratch my head and wonder: Where did those years go?
We raised our two Millennial daughters, Brittany and Savannah, on the east end of Long Island–a place of empty beaches, whispering coastal grasses, and woodlands. Stands of oak, beech, hickory, maple, and pine enclose our house, providing a sense of refuge.
Nature was the score to our dance, and these tender movements showed us where we stood in the music of time. Situated between parkland and a nature preserve, our property is a waystation for all manner of woodland creatures.
“The momma turtle dug her nest today. Must’ve laid her eggs.”
“Kitty hunted a baby rabbit.”
“Did she catch it?”
“Not this time. I chased her and the rabbit ran away.”
“Why did the mama leave her two fauns in the pachysandra?”
“Must’ve felt they’d be safe here.”
“Dad, mom says the first robins arrived yesterday.”
“Can we hike the Mashomack trail before it gets too warm and the ticks start biting?”
My wife, Jeannie, and I recall the tea parties with the tiny china cups and sauces, the ice cream outings, long days at the beach, golden summers of swims in the Sound and the Bay, trips to the ocean and an infinity of sandcastles. Halloween rituals replete with hayrides and homemade costumes, a spooky graveyard, a miniature train ride, a pizza outing, a bonfire in the yard. The excitement of each new school year, of so many birthdays and magical Christmases. Watching our daughters change with every season.
We remember the bright yellow slickers, the miniature flowered bathing suits, the fall leggings and corduroy dresses, soft winter fleeces zipped up to their necks, their Jan Brett hats. Colorful mittens carrying logs from our pile of freshly split wood; scuffed boots chugging along over an October lawn, kicking acorns. The smell of burning leaves, our fire pit piled high with branches, the smell of hot chocolate.
As we grow older, the wheel of life spins faster, propelling us toward some unknown future. Yet one thing remains constant: Home.
Since the girls have grown, Jeannie and I have had time to get re-acquainted. As empty nesters we have mulled over pet peeves, rearranged priorities, and discovered new interests. Jeannie cooks, while I have discovered the joy of writing.
We miss the brightness of the children, their perpetual motion. Yet, we also marvel at the women they have become. Brittany, a whirlwind of energy, works in mergers and acquisitions. A born leader, she is thoughtful and decisive, and loves the bustle of Manhattan. Savannah is a nurturer, a healer, a botanist and herbalist, a yoga instructor, a baker, and an avid reader. Time in nature—and in the sanctuary of our home—has shaped them both.
Now that I’ve turned seventy-five, the world looks different. I’m slowing down and so is Jeannie, yet we’ve also found that aging has its benefits. No longer are we driving to ballet, horse ranches, school sports, drama club, music lessons, arts and crafts, to and from playdates. Our lives are not dictated by the schedules of our children or the demands of our work week. Time is a puzzle to be solved, and each morning begins with a creative question: How will I spend the day? For me, that involves long walks or cycling, for Jeannie, working on the garden or her sister’s farm.
And, truth be told, our nest is rarely empty. We have monthly dinner parties and until late fall, we meet friends and neighbors for a potluck on the beach. These gatherings feel like the parable of loaves and fishes, with their casual abundance. As the sun sets over the Long Island Sound, we sip our wine and watch the tides, grateful for our good fortune, for our families, and for the earth’s own rhythms–ever-changing yet immutable.
We also measure time by the changes in our yard. When the leaves of the rhododendrons shrivel, winter will soon be upon us. When they flower, summer is drawing near. Once, the pruning and the maintenance of our lawns were just another weekend task. Now we have “a country lawn” where moss, weeds, and the wild grasses all combine. The grounds are far less manicured. Autumn leaves are no longer raked and tossed into the bonfire. They decompose in a pile of cuttings and branches we have set aside for birds and other woodland creatures. And these days, I purchase my wood already split and stacked.
As the demands of the present lessen, the past becomes more vivid.
Often I find myself thinking of my childhood home, the place where my identity was formed. I was raised in Lake Sapphire, a small community in the Mid-Hudson region, situated on top of a mountain overlooking thousands of acres at Harriman State Park. In the 1950s and 60’s it was composed mainly of summer residents. As a boy, I explored the mysteries of Sapphire’s enchanted woods. In the evenings, I played softball on a field overlooking the lake.
My grandparents, Pasquale and Angelina Marino, owned one of the original bungalows on the mountain. My parents moved to Sapphire from Queens in the 1950s and built their own place off the old wood trail. My aunt and her husband soon followed along with one of my uncles. Over time, they built a family compound. I lived in a cul-de-sac near my Aunt Fanny and Uncle John, along the ridge. One day, I followed the remnants of an old trail through the wavering ferns down to the wetlands, a favorite hunting spot of the Marino clan. My grandad’s beagles flushed the game, partridge, pheasant, and rabbit. I was the only child who knew about the hidden trail, and one day I discovered that it led to a place called Arrow Park.
Following the trail to an old field, I found dilapidated structures with caved-in roofs, decaying beams, and wooden doors falling off their hinges. There were the homes of the White Russians and the Ukrainians who fled from the Bolshevik Revolution. How did they survive the long winters? I wondered. What crops did they raise?
Sometimes I flash back to my childhood days: As a boy, I imagined lofting balls into the stands at Yankee Stadium. When I stood at the pitcher’s mound on our back lawn, Samantha, our German Shepherd, chased the ball, sometimes catching it mid-flight. I was lost in play. Reverie, a sweet nectar, fed my soul.
For me, home is like a baseball mound — it’s center earth. As the pitcher sizes up the batter and then turns to check his defense, I walk the perimeter of the land, knowing this is the most important thing I can pass on to my daughters.
It’s important for our children to know where we came from, what made us who we are. I was a woodland boy who learned to listen to the voices of the forest. Some time ago, I organized a pilgrimage to that mountaintop in the Hudson River Valley. I showed my daughters where I had cut my first Christmas tree. When we reached the summit, we sat upon the Big Rock, a stone marker, eight feet by six feet, where I used to go to be alone and think.
When leaves of the beech and hickory whisper, I can decode their conversation. My children have that same kind of intimacy with the breezes that anoint the fields surrounding our home on the North Fork of Long Island. If we are lucky, this is what we pass on to the next generation: an abiding trust in land, and in the circle of time. Home is the wellspring of life. It provides us with an inner compass, a way of finding our true north. It’s where we learn to be good caretakers—of the land, of the next generation—and of our wildest dreams.
After four decades of coaching and teaching middle school, Frank Calderale spends his time biking and swimming on Long Island’s North Fork. He is also writing a coming-of-age novel.
