My little fantasies

My husband is extremely social. When we married, we made a deal that if he brought people to the big table, I would feed them. He was good at finding people who needed a place, or who needed a family. I was good at holding down the fort, and making it a home where he would want to bring others. I should not have been surprised that our children also felt free to invite people home.

In those days when the kids were teenagers, I had two fantasies. The first was more of a hopeful wish: I wanted to make a difference in the lives of everyone who crossed the threshold of our home. I wanted them to feel loved and fed, but most of all I wanted to serve up the atmosphere that is conducive to producing life-long memories. I wanted to be famous for my brownies, my Risotto Milanese, and for being able to bring forth a seemingly effortless meal. But the second fantasy was that I lived alone in a small room, and didn't have to talk to or cook for anyone.

After college I had taken a trip to Europe, the Middle East, and the Soviet Union. For the most part our group had camped in tents, but occasionally we stayed in youth hostels. One hostel was in the depth of an ancient building in the oldest part of Jerusalem. It was along the Via Dolorosa, the historical route that Jesus had walked carrying his cross. Although it was made of stone, the sparse building seemed to be held up by history alone. My little chamber had a bed, a nightstand, and a light, and I lay awake each night wondering who had been there before me. I always carried with me the sparseness of the furnishings in that tiny room, because it had all that I needed at that moment. That is the room that lingered in my mind 30 years later when someone turned up the television in order to drown out the Beagle who was barking at the accordion that was trying to override the sound of the electric guitar, nullifying any ringing doorbell or obnoxious cellular ring tone. Yes, that's where I went in my mind when I felt the need to retreat from Finn Hill in Bothell, Washington, USA.

My life is more serene now, for the most part. We still have occasional bursts of company and great commotion, but Lenny and I can occasionally enjoy quiet nights to ourselves. However, the latest fantasy is one that I think Lenny and I share, although we don't say it out loud.

Our younger son Joe has lived on his own for some time now, and is steadily making his way in the world. But our son John (along with Sugar, his Boa Constrictor) has once again taken up residence here in the Finn Hill Homestead. He spends a lot of time "on the road," playing guitar with Dan Purser, a singer who is popular with the college set. As parents of a musician, we wish he had a REAL JOB, with HEALTH INSURANCE, but we cling to the hope that someday he will grant an interview for a famous magazine, and will be quoted saying, "I have to thank my Mom and Dad because they were behind me all the way," and then he will listen to what he just said, and will write us a fat check to keep us afloat in our old age.

I can dream, can't I?