Two Truths
E&G | Issue 291
There’s an active debate over who made the coffee on the last full day of our stay in Mattapoisett. I have a distinct memory of making it the night before, setting it close to the power strip so that it could be plugged in with ease. Mom claimed to have also made it that morning, pointing to the wet coffee grounds she had dumped into the trash. Barb was out for a walk at the time so we couldn’t ask her. What ensued was ridiculousness, plain and simple, over who made the “goddamn” coffee. Maire could only say “God bro” after hearing the scuffle. Seriously. Sometimes, the kids are 100% dead on.
Other than the coffee kerfuffle, we had a beautiful week renting a charming bayside cottage filled with antique knickknacks and interesting wall-hangings, one of which said “Don’t regret growing old, it is a privilege denied to many” which sparked a debate on whether or not “regret” was the correct word choice (we landed on lament..). Mom had a minor miracle of a fall on the first full evening, no injuries were reported. J.D. sliced his toe on a shell. Ouch. The weather, save for one day, was beautiful. Our over 40-year history of going to this little seaside town was revived and it felt….right. It just did. “You look the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you.” Thomas said at the beach one day.
Several members of Mom’s side of the family were brought together, a host of younger third cousins filled the air with a youthful zeal for the perfection and magic of the place; the full sturgeon moon rose on our first night and gathering there at cousin Jen’s A-frame home on Peases Point. Everyone stopped and stared, I think I heard Neil Young playing Harvest Moon in the background. Again, magic. There are only a few nights that you can call “perfect” in your life (and they rarely really are) but this one was close and I thank Jen, from the depths of my soul, for making that special night happen.
Later in the day, in the aftermath of the coffee calamity, I began to reflect as I often do on what, exactly, happened. “Two things can be simultaneously true and that’s OK!” I had yelled, admittedly with a dash of juvenile temper. Dad always said I needed a little manure along the way as he tended to my growth like that of a rose. I didn’t need to get upset, but I did. Why? Because I did, in fact, make that coffee. As did Mom. The case is closed if you’re wondering, don’t worry. “Two truths” I said to myself again and again. Two truths. “I imagine that today is tinged with a bit of sadness” Thomas mentioned as we walked along and processed all the events of the morning. Again, he’s good like that—always pointing out the many layers of emotions and how they mess with our minds, tempers, and reactions. “That doesn’t mean you can’t expect better behavior, however.” were the final words that resonated with me. It is true, on all sides. Better behavior can and will need to prevail in many arenas these days.
As I reflected more on what influenced our coffee craze that morning, I thought about all the grief that has descended on us over the past 10 years (heck since forever, right?). We are not alone in that, I know no family who is shielded from its icy, pervasive grip. Grief is real and it will show up if never fully processed. This is something I now know as an older adult. We lost Dad, Mom (though still a tank) is slowing down, Barb has Alzheimer’s, my little family survived divorce, Thomas has had his fair share, and we all miraculously lived through a pandemic. Can we please not forget our Covid bravery and give ourselves a collective pat on the back for simply still being here? We are, as Dad would say, “mighty oaks” for having done all that. Dad died two years ago on August 17th, that anniversary shows up like Thanksgiving, Christmas, and all the birthdays. It's unavoidable and arrives with memories, feelings, and unresolved stuff. I labeled our spat as “grief” masquerading as a Golden Girls-esque exchange between Dorothy and Sophia. Good grief, literally.
Never a graceful person and having quit dance at the age of three, my awkwardness at this life thing precedes me. In fact, I told cousin John that I am just relaxing in my awkwardness these days and just seeing it as a “way of life”. It feels good to do that, by the way. To finally decide that you will forever be your awkward self and you can do absolutely nothing to stop it is freeing. So, instead of wallowing in my feelings of grief and annoyance over the source of our morning caffeination, I decided instead to go with Thomas to the Mattapoisett Museum and Historical Society’s open mic night. After all, maybe I might see Mattapoisett’s most famous resident—the one, and only, Sam Waterston (inside joke, my family knows exactly how to say that name and that’s a whole other side story for a later date). Why? I thought I’d read the preface to Dad’s book, A Place of Rest, to honor a shred of his legacy. I wrote to the director of the museum after to explain why I had come, sharing that Dad’s book is “a novel of historical fiction about Mattapoisett (which translates to A Place of Rest in Wampanoag), whaling, shipbuilding, Herman Melville, the Wampanoags, faith, and love among many other things.” I told him that this book was one of Dad’s last great projects, one of which being the woodsy custom Zipline in our backyard connecting a hemlock and a pine (now defunct). I explained that Dad had Alzheimer’s and never understood that his book was “published” on Kindle by yours truly (available here as an eBook). At the open mic, Thomas Sang “I Shall Be Released” as light literally came shining in from the west to the east in that beautiful, old meeting hall. I read parts of his preface, mentioning the historical society’s role, and honored Dad the best way I knew how. I ended by saying that the reading was not just dedicated to Him but also to Mom, aka Mary, without whom we’d not be here nor have such a tenacious love of one another, tradition, and family:
“To my wife Mary, the finest person I have ever known, I owe my undying gratitude for her patience and understanding while I pecked and clicked away late into the night, depriving myself of sleep and her of my company. To my supportive children, their spouses, my dear grandchildren, and those who yet may share my lineage, this is my legacy, at least in its written form.”
Don Paul
I watched Maire wipe a few tears away, she’s more of a softee than I realized. Also, she and her brothers lived with and loved their Grampy for many years. They love their Nana too. Her spunk, his wit, and their combined goodness have been the roots from which we have nourished ourselves over the years. Two “mighty oaks” indeed.
“I wish I had known what you were doing!” Mom said after Thomas, Maire, and I had returned. Explaining that it was very spur of the moment, we told of how it all went down. Several of the Mattapoisett crew joined us as we feasted on Turk’s takeout the final night, somewhat of a tradition now I believe. Wine was flowing, everyone seemed happy yet wistful that “the party’s over”, Mom most of all. As tears began to fall just prior to bed, she expressed that she felt like everything was ending and, well, it was. The end of the vacation is always bittersweet….and therein that word lies the rub. Two things—even emotions—can be simultaneously true. That theme I touched upon a little earlier when the two of us dug in our heels over WHO. MADE. THE. COFFEE??? You can feel happy for someone yet envious, excited yet nervous, brave yet scared, and sad yet happy. “Two feelings can be held at the same time” I told her, just before we helped her to bed. “That’s ok. You can feel sad but appreciative and grateful to have had these moments.” With that, Mom went to bed loosely reciting the “Now I lay me down to sleep…” prayer which had all four of us—Mom, Jan, Barb, and I—laughing like the good ol days when sidesplitting laughs were a daily norm.
We woke on our final day with a jumpstart, I slugged down my first cup of coffee (which I made) within two minutes, and we all went about cleaning the rental that now holds our newest Mattapoisett memories. Sweaty and tired from barking orders all morning, I took one final glimpse of the house to take it all in and enjoy one last view. My bathing suit itching at my body under my clothes, I thought I might jump in one last time just for the heck of it. “I’m saving that for next year instead” I told myself. As we drove deeper and deeper into cranberry country, I felt a wave of sadness wash over as I listened to Hawaiian slide guitar music. So much grief, so much love, so much happiness. Turns out many truths can be possible at once, not just two. Perhaps, there’s a lesson there. Or, maybe I’ve just gotten a little older and a dash wiser. I looked at a little poem on the wall of the house before we left and decided to process it now, when writing. I’ll leave you with the words in the hopes that we both can process exactly what they mean. Until we all meet again, Mattapoisett—you are not just a place of rest but a place of life that I am honored to have been able to bear witness too. Another mighty oak on this earth; may its roots continue to flourish and its branches forever bear fruit.
