A Sunday in early May

Rocking on the porch. Enjoying the sound of birds, the gentle breeze and the colors of the early morning sun. Light orange with streaks of pink and blue. A sliver of moon and the morning star rising just moments before the sun. I love this time of day. It is so peaceful and full of the presence of a creator.

I woke up at the crack of dawn and slowly coaxed my aching bones out of the bed and into the kitchen. I brewed some coffee and then fell into this wonderful rocking chair on the front porch at 421 Montague Lane.

This was my grandmother’s chair and my grandmother’s porch. Originally this house was located across town. But back in my grandmother’s young years they moved the house to the present location.

She rocked me in this chair when I was a child. I remember trying to rock myself when my feet didn’t even touch the ground. I dreamed at that time of rocking my own children and my own grands right here in this very spot while my arms cuddled my baby doll. The baby doll Aunt Cora made for me one Christmas out of left over muslin from the curtains that hung in the kitchen. The young ones, in my dream, fell asleep to the sounds of my lullabies and the creaking of the floor.

Oh, I don’t rightly know what happened to those dreams. What happened to all the years between those dreams and the reality of today? I imagine a large dream-recycling bin where dreams lie dormant until another child wakes them up and puts them to use in their own spirits.

I sit here on the porch in solitude. Alone in the world in my old age. Not something I imagined as a child almost a century ago. I dreamed then of having seven sons and lots of grands to keep me company in my old age. Children to talk to and cook for and rock in my favorite chair.

I married at a young age. Had my first son at the age of 18 and the second at 20. The makings of a wonderful family. Two beautiful boys full of life and love and spirit. I was a stay-at-home mom. A job I was raised to be. I never thought I would do anything else. Not since 7th grade that is when my English teacher erased any plan I had of becoming a physician. She said it would be too difficult for a girl and that I should reconsider. It took all the life out of my dreams.

You see, the dreams of being a doctor, a missionary doctor had replaced those early dreams of rocking my children on the porch at 421 Montague Lane. Dr. Abel had come to visit the local church with his stories and slides of work in Africa. I begin to live, breath and sleep the adventures of going to Africa to help the children. I asked for a microscope for Christmas and I used it to study frogs, snakes and the other small creatures I could capture in the back woods. I read every issue of a science periodical and wrote Dr. Abel long letters. One time I drew a picture in my third grade class of me giving a presentation at the local church. In the picture, I was an adult, a doctor, returning to tell of my good works. The third grade teacher gave the artwork to the local minister and he, much to my great embarrassment, shared it with the congregation on Sunday morning! All the people clapped and shook my hand afterward. But where was their support later, when my dreams were crushed and I resigned myself to the tradition role of wife and mother?

My mother told me to count my blessings. After all I had two beautiful boys. "Don't dwell in the past," she would say when my marriage fell apart due to alcoholism and I expressed regret in not following those lost dreams. All dreams fell apart and were transported to that recycling bin. Dreams of being doctor, dreams of having seven sons and grands to rock in my old age.

So today, I sit on the porch and dwell in memories and old dreams. I live with my dog, Sophie, a black lab and book selves filled to overflowing with books, some of them with my name on the author page. When my marriage fell apart, I attended college and became a sociology professor and just recently retired from the local community college. Books have become my best friends and keep me company in the long lonely hours of my days and nights. Some days, I wait in total anticipation of the Amazon.com box to be delivered in the mail box. I don't know what I would do without my computer access and the speedy delivery of new best sellers. On Sundays, I review the New York Times and order all the interesting books I find.

My children, on their annual visit to celebrate my birthday, urge me to get rid of the "used" books. But I think of them, the books that is, as old friends and can't seem to part with even one. Just the other day, I sat with May Sarton in her "Journal of a Solitude." Scribbles in the margins, reveal my conversations with her over the years.