Senioritis

It's on thick here on Spinnaker Trail. Frank is a senior this year. I'm freaking out, and so is he. I'm not sure if Doug is or not, probably not, since he is far more practical than Frank and I are.

I read the "Grown and Gone" posts on Facebook, and cry. This morning I read the Real Simple article written by the woman who claims that now she and her husband are free to watch TV while eating dinner and walk around the house naked because both their kids are away at college. And I cried.

I worry about how he's going to afford college, I worry that he'll make the right decision about where to go. I worry about how much I'm going to miss (the hell) out of him when he's however many thousands of miles away. And I cry.

I don't cry in front of him, but I'm sure he knows I do, because as I've written before, he has mom-tears radar. Despite the tears, I'm excited for him. So excited for him. 

We still have his senior year to get through . . . all of us. Senior photos are due in October. I'm sure there are countless "senior things" that we'll soon have to pony up $$ for. Given all of this, I know we're putting the cart before the horse. We're so focused on what he'll be doing next year, we're fast-forwarding too fast.

A few weeks ago Frank told me about talking to his counselor. "What are you worried about?" the counselor asked. 

"About moving away and going to college," he answered.

"When will that happen?"

"A year and a half from now." 

Counselor eye-roll.

I'm not sure what Frank's answer was exactly, but sometime in the not-so-near future, leading the counselor to let him know silently but loud-and-clear, that he was worrying needlessly. Or much too soon.

I suppose the same is true of me. I'm so afraid to face the sadness that I'm worrying about it, which makes me sad. Ridiculous. However, it is sometimes impossible for the head to overrule the heart. The heart feels what it feels, no matter how ridiculous the head knows it is. 

PS - really? http://grownandflown.com/last-call-list-for-senior-year/

Why I Blog

I just read back through my last few blog posts. And this is why I blog. It is for me. Because even after just a few days, I'd forgotten so many details about our trip to Boston and Nashville. I'd forgotten how I felt that last morning before it was time to catch our flight home. I'd forgotten that I sat and wrote that second night in Boston because I never want to forget how I was feeling. This is why I write. This is why I blog. As much as I appreciate each and every person who reads it, even if no one else did, I would. 

Quiet Morning . . . Boston and Nashville Reflection

I'm sitting in the living room of the second Airbnb we reserved in Nashville, quietly reflecting on the last eight days. The fact that this is the second apartment we reserved here is significant.

Our first night in Nashville is the stuff nightmares are made of. Suffice to say it began with our delayed flight out of Newark, the rental car counter at the Nashville airport closing about five minutes before I got to it, being locked out of the apartment I had reserved and paid for, and got worse from there. By dawn Frank and I wanted out of this city enough to consider going back to the airport and catching the next flight. And then we decided to give the city another chance.

But let's go back a little further.

Our arrival in Boston went far more smoothly. We caught a cab, made it to the apartment, and made our reservation at Bistro du Midi on time. Our day of travel ended with a fabulous meal coupled with a glass of Kistler Chardonnay, a long talk about life with my sweet son, and a very long night's sleep.

The next day Frank and I went on a trolley tour of Boston. A good move. It allowed him to get his bearings and feel less intimidated by the city. We got off the trolley in Cambridge, and walked around Harvard and the surrounding area. We ate amazing seafood at a historic tavern, and got back on the trolley in time for him to check in at Berklee.

I could feel the tension seeping from his body as I left him at the dorm. It was one of those hard-to-let-go moments, however, knowing I had to. Shortly thereafter I met dear, dear friend Meredith for dinner on the North End. As I sit reflecting this morning, I am drinking coffee I bought at a pastry shop near where we had dinner. I wish I could make this pound of coffee last forever as the memories it evokes are sweet.

The next day I slept in (two days in a row, and yes, that is significant for me), and then started my own wandering adventure. I had planned differently, but ended up on the T on my way out to the JFK Library. Something beckoned I suppose as once again serendipity led me on a path I didn't intend to take, but ended up being the right one.

I found the JFK Library to be beautiful and interesting, but it was another exhibit that spoke to my heart. I wrote this Facebook post while waiting for the shuttle that would take me back to the T and into Boston about the Hemingway exhibit:

While I found the JFK Library interesting, my main reason for coming out here was this. The most comprehensive collection of his archives in the world. Self doubt, indecisivity [and creative license], fear of rejection, longing for approval, a need to write so overpowering it becomes as essential as breathing . . . part of every writer's DNA, whether Hemingway or Fitzgerald or Parker or Rowling or Roberts or . . . the lowly newbies. Divine reassurance seeing the struggle written in his own hand.

Frank had called while on I was on the trip out to the library asking if we could meet for lunch. Sadly I told him I could not, but happy that I was back in the city in time to meet him for dinner. He didn't have a lot of time between his last class before dinner break and the studio recording session he was headed to, but we made the most of it with a fabulous dinner at the Summer Shack and a report about his day that filled my heart with joy. There is nothing quite like hearing excitement in your son's voice and seeing it on his face when he is doing something he is passionate about.

The next day was much of the same. I shopped on Newbury, Frank and I met for lunch and then again for dinner. I visited the Boston Library, and made a couple other "exciting" stops. Otherwise, I had a low key enjoyable day.

Sunday was a whirlwind of getting Frank checked out of Berklee, meeting Meredith and another dear friend, Elena, at our apartment, and then going out to Meredith's place in Weston. Four hours later, with still so much left to talk about, Frank and I were driven back into the city by Elena's son Kent. Prior to our departure though I was able to say a quick hello to her husband, who along with Elena, I hadn't seen since their wedding twenty-three years ago. I was also able to meet another of their sons Grant.

Meeting the children of dear friends, particularly when those children are close in age to your own brings a feeling of kindred spirit-ness. I suppose for the kids, it is much the same. If these people are important to my parents, they are important to me too, is the best way I can describe it. Frank knew that meeting my friends was significant. He knew that their interest in his life was authentic. When he answered their questions, he did it sincerely, speaking from his heart. It isn't often that we speak from our heart upon meeting people for the first time.

Kent graciously took us back into Boston, and then offered to Frank that he keep in touch if he ends up at Berklee. Warm heart for mom.

And then . . . Frank and I made our way to Fenway Park where we saw Paul McCartney in concert. We serendipitously (there's that word again) got great seats, and enjoyed the concert far more than either of us imagined we could. I cried maybe five or six times, which if you know me, is not a surprise. 

We had most of the next day left to explore. Frank wanted to go back to Newbury to do his own shopping, and then we were off to the airport. I began this blog post with our first night in Nashville, so I'll skip that and write about day two. 

It didn't go well. It went okay, but by the time we finished our tour of Belmont, our whole reason for being here, we weren't impressed. In a conversation before dinner, Frank and I agreed that Belmont probably wouldn't make the short list. The university was nice, but . . . we didn't like the location, so far we hadn't seen anything in Nashville that impressed us, and neither of us had the warm and fuzzys. Good thing we had another day here. 

We went to dinner on night two at a BBQ place near Opryland. And then we went to the Grand Ole Opry. We were scheduled for a backstage tour, which we enjoyed so very much. We were onstage for the opening song, and afterwards a docent escorted us to our seats which displayed "Reserved for Heather Buchman," and Frank had one too, making us feel very important on a relative scale. I cried during the tour too, but not so much that anyone noticed, other than Frank because he has mom-tears radar, and little bit during the show, and in my world that means I enjoyed it very much.

Day three we slept in and then went out in search of breakfast. Serendipity stepped in and led us on a very long walk. We didn't intend to go for a very long walk, and according the online map, we weren't. But as we walked, the distance on the map never decreased. A mile-plus later (originally it was .3 miles), we found ourselves at Biscuit Love in the Gulch neighborhood of Nashville. There was a half hour wait. We wondered if it was worth it, but after the long walk, decided we were meant to stay. It was worth it. Every tenth of a mile, so worth it.

After breakfast we went out in search of the trolley tour stop. We'd bought tickets the day before, but wound up not having time to do it. The Gulch stop was outside a place called Two Hippies. When we walked in, not knowing if it was a restaurant or what, we instead stepped inside one of the coolest stores I've ever been in. 

Frank got a mini-guitar, I got a really cool blouse, and we both bought a couple mementos. We walked around, chatted with the women working in the store, and soaked in all the positive vibes surrounding us . . . and they were. We just felt good, really good. That feeling stayed with us the rest of the day and night.

We took the tour around a time and a half, and saw the Nashville I wish we would've seen on day one. We discovered that Belmont University sits at the very top, perpendicular to Music Row. We didn't know that when we toured it. One of the tour guides was from Lockport. I couldn't find my ticket when we were getting on the trolley, but Frank had his. The guide said, "she looks honest. Is your mom honest?" I saw Lockport on his badge, and told him I was from East Aurora. He jumped up and said, "well give me a big hug then." It was sweet . . . and see . . . those good vibes stuck with us. 

We ended our trolley tour at the Country Music Hall of Fame. No words really. Just more of that good stuff getting in front of us. I asked a woman working there where she would eat if she was only having dinner one night in Nashville. She suggested a place called the Farm House.

On our way back to the apartment to change for dinner, we stopped on Broadway and listened to live music. More good stuff. It was hard to pick a place to stop because on that part of Broadway, there is live music everywhere. Dinner proved worthy of the one dinner in Nashville question. And on our way back from dinner, we stopped again to listen to live music. We didn't have a lot of time to do so, not as much as we originally planned, because Frank is underage and had to be out of the venue, or any venue, by 9:00pm. 

That brings me to this morning. I've been writing for more than an hour and now have to get myself ready to leave for the airport and our trip home.

Doug asked me last night when I called after our "better" day, if I had fallen in love with Nashville. A little, I told him. But more importantly, Frank got to see it from a different perspective, and is now considering it as a possible college destination.

It is hard to beat Berklee. To be immersed as he was in the very thing he wants to spend his life doing, is impossible to compete with. As rocky as our start in Nashville was, our entire time in Boston was magical. Every minute. He loves the city, and the people (who I have to admit were as gracious as they come), the school, the river, the restaurants, the nightlife . . . everything. 

We'll see over the course of the next few months how this plays out. A small percentage of those who apply get into Berklee. He hopes beyond hope that he is one who makes it. If not, he has some other options . . . now Nashville and Belmont is one of them.

Airbnbing

Staying in an apartment in Boston is my first experience with Airbnb. My guess is that as far as initiations go, this is a good one. The apartment is small, not unexpected in Boston. The photographs made it look much bigger, not unexpected in marketing. It is comfortable, more so than a hotel room would've been, and about a third of the price. 

The kitchen is a separate room, there are two closets(!) and a bathroom you can turn around in. It is well-stocked with everything I could possibly need . . . or so I thought when I went to find the promised coffee kept in the freezer. Obviously it wasn't there. However, last night after a fabulous dinner on the North End, I got a tres cher pound of ground coffee which I can now attest was worth every penny.

The owner of the apartment has little notes everywhere explaining how to use or where to find things. She has an ample supply of maps, books, public transportation schedules, and most importantly in the summer . . . an air conditioner. 

Frank was less than impressed when we arrived, but given he may go to school here, it is good for him to get an idea of the average size of a back bay apartment. He determined that his bedroom is bigger than the entire square footage of this place, but by light of day, I think he may be wrong . . . just not by much.

I'm exercising my right as sole inhabitant not to make the bed or even put my dishes away. We'll see how long it takes for OCD to overpower my rebellion.

There are restaurants across the street and as I posted yesterday, there are several Berklee buildings everywhere you look. Once my coffee kicks in I plan to visit the library, the MFA and the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.

I opted for an airbnb that was private for here and for Nashville. I'm not sure I'd feel comfortable spending an entire week in a stranger's home while they were there. I certainly wouldn't feel comfortable leaving my bed unmade (eye roll).

Nice

I've been out of touch with world news the last couple days, but when I saw an instagram post this morning about a friend departing France earlier than planned, feeling heartbroken, I started paying closer attention. One week ago, I posted the following on Facebook:

I have struggled to find the words to express how I feel about this week's horrific chain of events. I cannot. Watching the news, not only the reports from last night, but of the two deaths that led to yesterday's protests, I am sickened. The feeling of impending doom is ever present given I see no end to senseless loss of lives from those whose hearts are full of hate. I read something this morning that stated we are broken. How can we heal when every day the terror and bloodshed continues?

With exception of circumstantial specifics, my feelings today are the same. I am sickened. I am at a loss for words. I find myself worried that Frank and I are in a heavily-populated city, and planning air travel in the next few days.

When we were at Red Rocks Tuesday night, I looked up at the surrounding rock formations and saw what looked like flashlights in an unexpected area. I still don't know what happened and why there were people in an area so hard to reach, and above the audience. The mom in me wanted to get Frank out of the amphitheater; practical me said it was nothing to be concerned about. There is a fine line between overreaction and naiveté. 

Once again I ask, how can we heal when every day the terror and bloodshed continues? The threat of terror is becoming an every day fact of life. Heartbreaking. My thoughts and prayers are with the people of France and with all those who lost loved ones. NBC Nightly News just reported 84 dead, including 10 children. Another 202 are injured, 52 of whom are in critical condition. 

How can we heal? How?

Berklee Tears

I just returned to the apartment I'm airbnbing in Boston, about a ten minute walk from where Frank checked in for his weekend at Berklee College of Music. It was a beautiful walk back along Commonwealth Avenue and over to Boylston, which I feel as though I know well after twenty-four hours here.

I tried to smile on the walk back, mainly because I left my sunglasses at the apartment, and if I didn't smile . . . I'd cry. Like I am now. They aren't sad tears. Not at all. They're proud-mom tears.

There are Berklee buildings everywhere you look in this part of Back Bay. On one of our tour buses today, the driver said the college owns most of the buildings in this area, which is easy to believe. Consequently, there are college-age kids everywhere you look, most carrying instruments.

Frank and I had a great time exploring today. By the time we got to Cambridge and Harvard Square, he was chatty. Last night, not so much. When I tried to get him to talk about how he was feeling, he clammed up and said he couldn't have that conversation with me. I understand. He's a seventeen-year-old kid about to spend a weekend at a place he believes he wants to spend four years attending. A place where only about a third of those who apply to get into. He doesn't know what to expect from this workshop, which I also understand. I would feel the same way he does.

But I'm not him. I'm his mom . . . with a full set of mom-emotions wreaking havoc on my already tired state of mind. He's my first born. He's also my buddy. I can count on a couple fingers the number of people who I enjoy spending time with as much as I enjoy his company.

I wish he could see himself, if only for a few minutes, through my eyes. He is bright, and funny, charming, polite, interesting, compassionate, and creative. It's the last one that's giving him the most anxiety presently. It's tough being the child of two very creative parents. I can say it's also tough being the wife of a very creative man . . . if you are also creative. I don't know anyone as creative as Doug. As much as I admire it, it also intimidates me when I, too, am endeavoring my own projects.

But back to Frank. I went with him to the housing building to make sure everything was in order for his check-in. Everything was. He was given directions to his room, told about housing meetings, program check-in, and dining hours. And then it was time for me to leave. There were several other teenage-looking people with their parents, also checking in. I hesitated before I hugged him not knowing if it would embarrass him. It didn't. He hugged me so hard. I told him to have fun. To learn something, but mainly to have fun.

All day I tried to weave in a message about this time of his life being the only time he will have this particular experience. When he graduates and goes to college it will be like no other time. If he takes five years off between high school and college, he won't have this opportunity. I am thankful that he can go through this journey without having to worry about working or student loans or whether he can afford to stay in school. If he follows the path set out for him, he should be all set.

More importantly, if he follows his passion . . . whether it's music or he decides it's something else, he should at the very minimum be on the path to self-discovery. As his mom, I hope he's also on the path to self-fulfillment.

If I don't wrap this post up, I'll be late for dinner with a dear friend who I haven't seen since Doug and I got married. Time to wipe my tears, buck up, and know Frank is okay.