All of us carry family memories as we travel through life. Some may be laugh-out-loud funny, poignant, or heartwarming. Others, sadly, may be painful and filled with anguish. The reality, of course, is that most of our lives are filled with a mix of memories that put broad smiles on our faces and fill our eyes with tears. Whatever form they take, these memories often shape the way we understand our lives and the people who shaped who we’ve become. And that’s what we hear from teacher and author Rebecca Maizel.
Rebecca Maizel is the author of publications for young adults and also teaches English at the Lincoln School in Providence. She lives on Cape Cod with her husband and family.
I believe in clearing the view.
In August of 1991, my family was vacationing on Cape Cod while the East Coast braced for Hurricane Bob. As the storm made its descent, my mother and sister left to go home. My father, a doctor and scientist, was endlessly curious. He wanted to “stay to see what happened.”
Everywhere my dad went, I went too. I was eleven, so my father was immortal. Hurricane Bob was no match for my dad.
The rental house sat about 300 yards from Pleasant Bay; our favorite place in the world.
During the height of the storm, Dad and I sat at a small dining room table flanked by three crank windows and a sliding glass door. Leaves stuck like starfish against the window pane. Water and sand fogged the glass.
As the wind howled, Dad said, “Boo, go out on the deck and wipe down the windows so we can see what’s happening.”
“Dad, it’s a hurricane.”
“So what?” he said.
“I could die! A tree could fall on me!”
“It’ll take two minutes. Get out there, ya little jerk.” Mischief bloomed in his eyes. In my family, jerk is a term of endearment.
I grabbed paper towels, pressed my eleven-year-old body against the wind, and fought to clear the view.
When I came back inside, my father was laughing so hard that he was crying. He mimicked me pushing against the wind. We laughed and laughed. As the evening went on, we marveled at the white caps out on the normally quiet bay. When the power went out, we ate Oreos and listened to the radio until we fell asleep.
Two years ago, my father passed away. I miss his crazy Einstein hair. I miss how he brought his hand to his mouth when he laughed hysterically.
I miss believing in his immortality.
A few weeks ago, my husband and I went to the beach at Pleasant Bay in front of that same rental house. Construction workers had replaced the siding and taken out every window. Dad’s windows leaned against a dumpster.
The next morning after time at the beach, I walked outside and resting against our garage was one of the crank windows from that house. My husband had rescued one.
I knelt down in front of the window and ran my fingers through the sand caked onto the glass.
I cleared the view.
