The Holy Land

I began the summer visiting the Christian, Jewish, and Muslim holy sites in Jordan including Moses’s final resting place and the exact(ish) spot on the River Jordan where Jesus was baptized. There I witnessed one of the most profound moments from all my travels when a female pastor baptized her trans son with his new and true identity.

It is only fitting that I end the summer in my personal Holy Land – Northern New England. My trip began, as all trips to the Holy Land should, at Mecca.

My father’s cousin Brenda has been a fan of James Taylor since before I was double digits in years, so my nearly 20 years of working with him have benefitted her almost more than me. Not so much her long-suffering, but always cheerful, husband Frank .

There was real skepticism about my plan to finish off the work day in Cleveland, fly into Boston and meet Brenda and Frank at JT’s Fenway concert. But, I arrived at the the concert hall at Fenway, checked my bag, visited the loo, and got myself a beer, before joining them in our front and center seats with enough time to greet the Team Taylor guests seated around us before the concert began. “You’re unbelievable, Kathy*” Frank said, though why he doubted me is a mystery – I am very skilled at multitasking and I always deliver when I say I will.

At intermission, i felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to see Suzy. Name your favorite movie about music (any genre) from anytime over the past 40 years and Suzy was involved in it. No one is better at translating music to film than she. “This is Lisa,” she said, introducing me to her companion. “Lisa asked who you were and I said ‘the person who should be running press at the Boston Symphony!” Sing it Suzy! I am always amazed when someone remembers me, but I’m especially awestruck when they not only remember me, they advocate for me.

After what I reckon to be my 50-something-eth JT concert, we crossed the border to the New Hampshire seaside – the vacation community of my father’s childhood, and where his ashes began their journey into the Atlantic.

In the morning, as I crossed over the Piscataqua River Bridge and into Maine, I was flooded with memories. Particularly the one day, when my mom drove us over the bridge while fought as only mothers and daughters can (I wish it were about something like who to vote for and how to do the most good in the world, but it was more likely about my decision to wear an orange sweater over a pink one). While I was gearing up to scream the inevitable “You’re ruining my life”, we passed the Welcome to Maine sign at the the mid-point of the bridge. “Where are we going?” I asked my mom. She looked at me concerned that I’d suffered a sudden stroke. “To North Conway.” North Conway is in New Hampshire and is a left at the State Line Liquor store (where, it should be noted, we had stopped). This bridge and Maine were to the right. I’m sure my mother was about to make her final wardrobe thoughts known when we came to that particular fork, and sense memory took her to the right. “We’re in Maine,” I said. She looked around, laughed heartily, and said “screw it, let’s get lobster!” We took the exit to Ogunquit Beach, filled ourselves with lobster rolls and cold beer and forgot whatever it was that had been so important just moments earlier. The memory made me smile as I headed on my sad errand.

At the deceptively cheery nursing home, I found my cousin Steven sitting next to his mother’s, my mother’s beloved sister’s, bedside. She was shrunken and twisted, and would periodically emit a deep moan, but nothing more. “Mum,” he yelled, though she was non-responsive, “Kathy’s* here.”

I stayed for several hours as various members of three generations of her family came in to wish her goodbye. We sang songs, told jokes, and caught up on our lives in the years since the pandemic had kept us apart. “Where do you live now?” Was a question I answered more than I should have given all of our presence on social media. And we hugged a lot.

Many years ago, my aunt and I had a joke about dementia. The joke doesn’t matter, but the punch line was “spaghetti sauce.” As I prepared to go, I leaned close to my aunt and stroked her hair, and told her about my sister and nieces. “I love you so much, Aunt Nancy. Tell mom we’re ok.” I told her before whispering in her ear “spaghetti sauce.” I’m certain she smiled slightly at that and I will never allow anyone to convince me otherwise.

A finished my brief trip to Portland with dinner at the home of close friends. The holiday weekend had made restaurant reservations hard to get since I was unsure of my schedule. “We could meet at Hooter’s” Mike offered, before his wife invited me over to theirs. We grilled steaks and told stories and laughed a lot. “That was the most Kathleen story I’ve ever heard” Mike said after I told what I thought was a pretty average story of some hilarious humiliation I’d suffered. “Just the other day, I was telling the story of how you found out there was a warrant out for your arrest, convinced a cop to help you dodge it, and still made it home in time for cocktails.” Jill added. It was a perfect antidote to the afternoon’s pain and perfectly additive to the afternoon’s love.

As I drove back to NH later, I called my friend Esme to recount the day. “Why aren’t you staying,” She asked. “If I told you, you’d be so annoyed with me.” “How could I possibly?” She responded before I explained my desire to get back in order to hit up the sunrise beach yoga the next morning. “Oh. Yup. There it is.” she teased.

Yoga accomplished. I spent the day on a nostalgia tour of the coastline.

The New Hampshire coastline is quite short and much of it is comprised of working class Hampton Beach with its hoards of sun worshippers and the far tonier Rye Beach. Of my dad’s mother’s many siblings, only Brenda’s parents had the forethought to invest a shocking-for-the-time $15k in a Rye beach house. Their neighbors now include DaVinci code author Dan Brown, two former governors, the genius behind AirBnB, and a former football coach of everyone from the Oregon Ducks to the Philadelphia Eagles (I forget his name). “That’s where Ogden Nash invited us kids to tea,” Brenda said pointing at a modest cottage near Dead Man’s Curve, the hairpin turn abutting a steep rocky drop into the ocean. That is the spot my step-mom chose to descend before giving up and tossing my dad out as far as she could. He mostly landed on guard rail and high rocks, but I’m certain a good rain and high tide took him out to sea. Every single time we take that curve now, someone will say “hi Tom.”

Beach time, black raspberry ice cream and lobsters by the water with yet more cousins rounded out our day.

On Monday, I had one more long walk on the beach, willing each of my senses to remember the experience. The feel of the hot soft sand, the wet hard sand, the sharp rocks, and the ocean spray; the smell of the clean air mixed with the occasional waft of swamp gas, Coppertone, and grilling meat; the sound of the crashing waves, cicadas, and laughter; the vast horizon, vibrant sunrises, and hearty surfers; and of course, all the tastes of late summer – sweet corn, robust tomatoes, rich ice cream, and, indulgent lobster. More cousins and more hugs and I was off to the airport.

I’ve been accused of having more cousins than anyone on earth, but as Boston Irish families go, we’re actually quite small. It’s that I count them all – first, second, third, one-removed, whatever – they’re all cousins. And we all like each other – that’s what really sets us apart. We truly enjoy each other even when we don’t always understand each other. Also – they happen to concentrate in that part of New England.

I think cousins are perfect relatives. You have a shared history, but none of the button pushing ability of siblings. We fill in each others blanks as we try to learn about ourselves. Steven told me about a rift between our moms and how they transcended it. Brenda shared the (often booze fueled) exploits of my dad and his contemporaries.

From 36,000 feet bound for Cleveland, I’m thinking back on the love bomb of a weekend. We all need those people in our lives who truly know us, and I’m so grateful for mine. I feel fortified. That is what a trip to the Holy Land does for you.

*Don’t get any ideas. Unless you are a senior member of my family, someone with whom I went to high school or summer camp, or one of only a handful with grandfathered privileges, you should call me Kathleen.