NAVEL GAZING: excessive absorption in self-analysis or focus on a single issue

Colliding Worlds

I remember the words spoken by my oldest son Josh after he had met Nina for the first time. It was during a school break, and he had just returned home from a week-long vacation spent with a neighborhood friend's family. He knew that his mother was away on a business trip, brothers gone too, staying with family, and was surprised after he had entered the house to find his father in the company of an unknown woman.

That weekend had started with a planned visit from a close friend. Josh's nickname for Ethan was "Shack," a reference to Shaquille O'Neal, the infamous Lakers' former all-star center, and a label given to Ethan years earlier after he had easily overpowered Josh while the three of us played basketball in the front yard. It was a nickname that anyone knowing Ethan, who is a 6' tall white Jewish man, would have found comical.

Ethan and I belonged to the same group of friends during high school, from which a few of us regrouped years later to be college roommates. He and his wife Raya lived in Dover, and he stayed overnight at my house during the weekend visit. I love the comfort of having decades-long friendships that span the years back to when teenagers. No matter our current ages, when together, it's as if no time has passed.

That weekend was no different. During the afternoon, we took the road that led from the house and down to the Neponset River, where we rode along the miles of bike trail. That evening we dined at Jake n JOES  Sports Grille. We found it hard to hear over the noise made by the rowdy crowd that had gathered. They loudly cheered on their drunken friends as one after another each was thrown from the back of a mechanical bull. I assumed it was a gimmick that my friend Jake, the owner, was counting on to make a comeback like the trend that occurred after the release of the 1980s film "The Urban Cowboy," and featured back then much younger actors John Travolta and Debra Winger. 

We returned to the house and indulged in a favorite pastime from our youth, getting stoned. It was before State law had passed that made the personal use of marijuana legal. Ethan obtained it legally though, thanks to his recently acquired prescription, albeit for the treatment of a questionable ailment, and we smoked it from a bong that he had kept since college. We watched old reruns of the Dave Chappelle Show and enjoyed bouts of unhindered laughter that occurs when high and among friends. In the morning, we both suffered from hangovers, and Ethan nursed a pulled muscle that resulted from our chemically induced laughter the night before.

We showered and then left for the restaurant. Earlier that week, I had arranged accommodations for Sunday brunch. A fellow classmate of Nina's and mine worked at a local pub, where a standing invitation existed. Nina overheard the making of plans and expressed her interest. I invited her to join us, and she agreed to meet us there.

The awkwardness of the moment, as the three of us ate our meals, never completely subsided. We engaged in polite conversation, and Ethan exhausted his list of questions regarding the court reporting field. Nina answered the questions with a clarity that had likely been missing in earlier discussions between him and me. If Ethan had suspicions over the nature of Nina and my relationship, it remained unspoken during the twenty-minute drive back to the house. I invited Nina to follow us from the restaurant and nervously glanced from the rearview mirror to the traffic ahead. I was proud of our house and have to admit that I wanted to impress her.

We purchased the home in 1998, while Samantha was still pregnant with our second son. I fell in love with the hillside lot and beautiful view. The house sat perched atop a sloped property and from the back had a panoramic view of the wooded rolling hills of Westwood. Spread out along the property were a variety of majestic Blue and Live Oak trees and multiple levels of dark-red stained wooden decks. The cement patio that spanned the rear of the house was outlined by a narrow swath of lush-green grass and adorned with well-maintained beds of perennials. Blossom-filled vines of white Honeysuckle and purple Wisteria draped along the canopy overhead.

I remember perfect summer nights that were shared with my sons. We gently swayed as we sat on top of a large-sized hammock, the fabric stretched tense from our combined weight. In between games of "I spy with my little eye," and with our flashlights in hand, we patiently scanned the trees and underbrush in the yard below beyond the perimeter. Occasionally, to everyone's delight, we were rewarded with the lit-up eyes of raccoons, opossum, and deer that stood motionless as stared into the bright lights brandished in their direction. The nighttime air was accompanied by a chorus of chirping frogs and humming grasshoppers that would alarmingly quiet with any sudden noise made by us or the wildlife that passed through. The tennis court lights in the valley beneath cast a soft glow to the green belt that lay between and bordered our property.

Over the years, we transformed the house from its dark cabin-like structure to the Mediterranean-style home it became. New and lighter-colored paint brightened the dark-stained wood siding and brought new life to the sun-worn stucco walls. Spanish-style Terra Cotta shingles replaced the old and warped shake roof. Anderson Renewal windows and glass sliding doors were installed throughout. We upgraded the entrance by installing a glass-paneled double front door that brought light into the previously gloomy entryway. The entrance had a green brass door knocker that was in the shape of a tree frog and represented a favorite natural inhabitant of the property. We rented our prior home until the market turned in our favor, and after selling, used the proceeds toward the improvements.

I demolished the old stained decks and had contractors replace the top two tiers with cement landings of exposed aggregate with knuckle-patterned black rod-iron railing. The pads were connected by large half-moon-shaped stairs of the same material. I demolished the rotted wood retaining walls and painstakingly replaced them with keystone blocks. We hand-carried and meticulously placed each 60 lb. brick and supported the retaining system with French drains and a gridwork of rebar beneath the newly poured landings.

Two lower-level decks connected by stairs and railing were contracted. My older brother Don and his engineer friend Marc, both unemployed at the time, designed and performed the construction. They stayed with us during the 2-week project. They were happy to have the work, as they waited out the stagnant Connecticut economy, where each resided. Later, I hand-stained the new redwood structures and installed low voltage lights along the underside of handrails and steps. We pulled wire through conduit placed before pouring cement that provided electricity to the yard below. In addition to powering the deck lights and multiple watering stations, it also supplied power to the green-oxidized brass light fixtures and floodlights that accented the different levels of flower beds and Oak trees. I loved the house from my childhood where my Mom still lives today, and was proud to provide for my own family a home that they too could love.

Not long after the three of us returned from our Sunday brunch, Ethan collected his belongings, and we gathered at the front door to say goodbye. As we turned away after a final wave to Ethan, Nina paused to study the shadow-box pictures that hung from our entryway wall. The pictures were taken years earlier during a birthday celebration and memorialized the three oldest boys in sweet childhood poses.

Nina and I later reminisced over events from that day and found we had different interpretations of what had occurred. She had no recollection of romantic undertones or an indication of unhappiness in my marriage. She reminded me that our conversation centered on Samantha and the kids. I remembered the conversation that revolved around my family and the pictures shared of them, but I also recalled long pauses that hung in the air between sentences, where Nina held my gaze as I stared into her eyes. It was hard for me to accept that she felt nothing happening as I've described in those moments. Perhaps it was a case of seeing what I wanted, or her not wanting to admit a more collaborative role that led to our evolved relationship.

[Perception or reality, those moments left a strong impression.]

Ethan hadn't been gone for more than thirty minutes when Josh returned, and sometime after the clumsy introduction and Nina's soon-after departure, Josh accusingly asked, "Why'd she have to be so pretty, Dad!"