Remembering the magic of being a mother at Halloween
By Sally Friedman
It was one of those flawless late autumn days, a reminder that despite hurricanes and the nastier caprices of Mother Nature, she can still be a benevolent lady. As if to prove it, she had offered us this jewel of a day.
Our 11-year-old granddaughter, Carly, with us for a weekend visit, had been restless since dawn. All morning she had been tempting me to forget Saturday chores, to be done with the piles of weekend laundry, the endless round of what Carly calls “stuff,” that was keeping me inside on this wonderful morning.
I put her off once. Twice.
But her third plea was so earnest, so full of passion, that I left behind a trail of debris as I followed my leader outdoors to celebrate a sunny Saturday. She led. I humbly followed.
First, we simply basked in the yard. It was glorious — but a bit too passive for this granddaughter, who already had switched from jeans to shorts. “It’s spring today!“ she insisted, as if anointed mistress of the calendar.
We let the benevolent fall sun remind us of August days we’d shared on golden beaches. We let ourselves drift into this idyll of idleness, and the indulgence blissfully left not a trace of guilt.
After we just basked in the silence in our yard — after we drenched ourselves in late fall sunlight — Carly suggested a walk.
Automatically, I thought of a medley of reasons not to go:
There were still groceries to buy.
I was expecting a phone call.
There were library books to return.
But in the end, it was not even close. Taking a walk won hands-down.
“Take a sweater!” I urged in grandmotherly reflexive fashion, grabbing mine. Carly sensibly refused.
As we ambled along enjoying, in some primitive way, the delirium of choices. Did we turn on Chestnut, and head toward Main?
Would the trees be even lovelier on Park Drive?
There was such a feeling of rich improvisation as we let our instincts guide us through this feast of falling leaves and Technicolor terrain.
In a sudden burst of confidence, Carly told me more about her new best friend, a little girl who is evidently not just smart, not just funny, but also loyal. And even at 11, Emily understands that loyalty is a premium quality.
The intimacy was wonderful and welcome with a granddaughter who doesn’t live in the same area code or zip code. And a two-hour distance can make a huge difference in ease of Saturday morning walks…
Suddenly, Carly darted off ahead of me, responding to some urgent cue deep in her pre-teen soul that told her that days like this were meant for running zig-zag, as fast as sneaker-shod feet would carry her.
I watched her as she forgot being “mature,“ now one of her favorite words and concepts. But on this weekend morning, she forgot trying hard to be grown up before her time. All the peer pressures and burdens of being 11 slipped away.
I realized with heart-stopping clarity how much I loved and cherished the part of Carly that is still innocent child, and how much I need to see her still so full of joy and wonder.
I wanted, most of all, to freeze this golden day when puffs of cloud floated overhead, and a breeze tossed my granddaughter’s hair.
How much — how very much — we will both need times like this when Carly is awash in early adolescent pain, or struggling through a first crush.
And how sad that we somehow don’t manage these delicious stolen afternoons often enough. Logistics get in the way.
Finally, as morning gave way to a brisker afternoon which in turn, would yield to gathering dusk, we turned back.
Each of us was reluctant to yield to the clock, to the ordinary routine that would crowd out this extraordinary morning.
This unspoiled time had been our glorious gift to each other.
As we walked, we passed an elderly woman. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of unknown woes, of weariness, of the sheer accumulation of years.
We exchanged smiles. We passed one another.
But in that split-second exchange, I caught the look of envy — unadulterated envy — that had crossed her lined face.
I understood it perfectly.
I wanted to turn and tell her that this is not an everyday thing, that it is all rushing by too fast for me too.
I want to shout out my joy at walking with my granddaughter.
Instead, I took Carly’s’ s hand in mind as we walked toward home — and silently gave thanks for a simple autumn walk with a granddaughter.