White ghost trees undressed by winds and heavy rain can be seen bordering Delaware Drive. Soon, they will hide between the tall, lush foliage yet to bloom along the river. Spring's sun glistens on the rushing water, which is muddy and high today, betraying a prior downpour. It's become my favorite route to drive back and forth to New Jersey, which began with our interstate move and now to visit our daughter. Over the hills and around each bend, the vista opens up to a complete David Hockney landscape. Seasonal colors incarnate in fields of viridian grass, golden corn, artistic patterned horses, goats, and grazing cows. Turn a corner, and the packed parking lot of a local diner pops up, followed by a lovely shop called All Aspects at the Barn that delivers what the name suggests. On our way, we often stop in to pick up homemade jams, coffee, an antique ceramic, or unique brick-brack.
It is much quieter here in Pennsylvania, but the deer are dumb. They are not citified as Bergen County herds. Maybe they don't need to be. In River Vale, they would never cross the road willy-nilly. They stop at the curb, look in both directions, and then pass once the coast is clear of cars. Here, they stand in the middle of the street, looking about as if on stage, expecting people to run out and greet them with a bouquet of carrots.
Survey, learn, then adapt. Isn't this the premise of survival? Being one of the younger residents in our active adult community, I am learning to acclimate to a new state, a new circle, and a new self.
At this month's cooking club gathering, one of the residents expressed concern that more of our neighbors were not joining in the festivities. She was worried that the word wasn't getting out, that newbies were unaware of the vast opportunities to partake in the fun. With emails we receive addressed to over seventy subscribers, I found that hard to believe.
"Where are all the new people? Surely there are more than us," she asked.
I offered, "Maybe they're not interested."
"Why wouldn't they be?" The former realtor seemed genuinely baffled.
"Group activities might not be their thing. You can't force someone to join. Maybe they're more introverted, like me."
Her eyes widened. "But you're here."
Yes, because I am surveying, learning, and deciding how to adapt, I thought.
It's a familiar protocol, no different while learning to navigate the elementary school when my daughter was five. I was a class mom numerous times while commuting and working in Manhattan. Skilled at juggling fashion design and frosting cupcakes for class functions was how I adapted over twenty years ago. Rubbing shoulders with other moms when invited to occasional dinner and drinks or planning the kids' end-of-the-year parties, I often smiled, buried in busyness, bustling from one task to another. I cannot say I made close friends during that time, but I thoroughly enjoyed getting to know my daughter's teachers and being an integral part of her growing up. I had my priorities.
Later, when my freelance gig ended, I dutifully became a full-time caregiver to my parent's personal and professional needs and started a jewelry design company. Driving into Manhattan was replaced with splitting daily visits to my former childhood home, my dad's bar, and returning to pick up my daughter from school, followed by late nights stringing beads, each a rosary prayer. No longer in a clear state of mind for working after a tour in the ICU for ecoli poisoning, Dad decided I was responsible for picking up where he left off.
No matter what age, a parent's approval incurs an exceedingly steep learning curve, at least it did for me. It is especially tough to master when riddled with resentment.
After Dad passed four years into the routine, Mom's health severely declined, and my stamina was tested well beyond the previous lesson. Suddenly, I was gal Friday, a property and business manager and nurse now racing intrastate daily, longing to escape my skin. During those years, I had feverish dreams about skipping out, leaving, not telling anyone, not even my husband. Inflating details about how much cash and clothes I would need and how far I could go was ultimately smothered by extreme guilt and shame of being a failure in my daughter's eyes.
Today, I am free. I am free to decide if I feel like mingling minds with the Let's Do Lunch group, who meet the first Thursday of each month at a local eatery. Or enjoy breakfast broadcasts at the clubhouse on Saturdays with my husband. Or open the sunroof for a solo drive along the Delaware River, hugging the bends in the road ahead.