In Neglect

"They leave us now to the way we took ..."

The words quoted above are from a poem called "In Neglect" written by America's premier craftsman of poetry, Robert Frost. They reflect his attitude about his choice to take his own path in life, most especially in the choice of a life's partner. Against the strong objections of family and friends, Frost chose to follow his heart, a choice he never regretted.

And, so with me. I had been looking for my perfect fit, my 100 pounds of clay. Fortunately I found her but not without some difficulty, about which more later. But for the moment let us begin at the end.

It was a beautiful, sunny day that found me wandering aimlessly. The legal system had set my sails and cast my fate to the winds. I wasn't navigating all that well and aimlessness had become de rigeur, so to speak. Suddenly from nowhere a lightning bolt struck me squarely in the ass. As the smoke cleared I found myself rubbing the affected spot vigorously. My mind had not entirely cleared when I heard a rumbling sound and then a powerful voice addressed me: "Yo, knucklehead, when are you going to stop by my shop and pick up that hundred pounds of clay I sculpted for you. Or do I have to find another way to get your attention?"

I looked around, thinking that someone was playing an unusually good trick on me. Then, as my mind cleared completely, I knew that this was no earthly gambit; I knew with a certainty that what I was dealing with was supernatural. Even so somehow I realized that the spirit moving within me was not evil. It had to be heavenly and that being the case my Jesuit training kicked in immediately—best obey the Lord's command for your arms are far too short to box with God-- had been drummed into my psyche by Fr. Dan Corbett in religion class at Brooklyn Prep. And so I trotted off to see what the Lord had made for me.

When I entered the workshop my heart caught in my throat. Magnificence surrounded me surely but the most heart stopping was this beautiful woman. Her smile was warm enough to melt even the most jaded and hard hearted of men; her voice was sweet, her eyes a deep, haunting brown; her skin was translucent and her figure—well, it's best to let the rest of the world go by, so to speak. I was astounded but managed to squeak out, "WOW!" Looking back I don't think she was measurably impressed by my command of the English language. In any event she walked over to me, held out her hand and led me out the door and so began our life's journey.

As we began life together I discovered that she loved many of the same things I did. I had always loved the beach—the combination of sun, sand and surf somehow for me made heaven seem real. I was filled with a joyous wonder to find out that my hundred pounds of clay was actually my little surfer girl. Her love of the beach exceeded even mine. For the first several years of our life together we spent nearly every summer weekend at one beach or another. We would get up early, prepare a sumptuous picnic lunch and scram for the beach. Our New England coastline offered a pirate's treasure chest of choices. The cool Maine waters would find us, mouths agape, just staring at the craggy cliffs being kissed by the Atlantic Ocean; in New Hampshire we would wander along sandy beaches bracketed by the small communities dappled along the beach road. Massachusetts gave us Cape Cod where we would stroll thru scenic towns after spending a day in the warm waters. Every time we went to a beach my heart would jump at the sight of my little surfer girl in her bathing suit just lighting up the whole scene.

We discovered the special beauty of Rhode Island. From Federal Hill in Providence to the mansion walk in Newport, Rhode Island became a destination point for us. I did not think my little surfer girl could have made any day more special than any other until we discovered Moonstone Beach. Named for its shape and the many large stones and dunes which gave it its special ambiance, Moonstone Beach also had one other attraction—it was a clothes optional beach. Now this may be somewhat off center to many but the reality was much different. The folks who spent time at Moonstone were a very diverse group—families to singles, artists to lovers of volleyball---this beach offered a sense of peace and tranquility to the more than 5,000 who spent weekends there.

And so one day we went to Moonstone. My little surfer girl sat on the sand, her body bronzing in the sun. I would look at her and not see her per se but rather the beauty of the Great Author's hand. I felt no sense of discomfort or any sense of shame—just joy in the moment and gratitude to God for giving me this, one of His greatest blessings.

And when the sun became uncomfortable my littler surfer girl would get up, take my hand and together we would race into the water. Her joyful laughter would mix with the sound of surf crashing on the shore. The combination was a symphony Beethoven would have written had he been alive to experience the moment.

We floated in the water and slowly we reached out and held one another. As we came closer together her arms wrapped around my neck and her legs gently encircled me. All around us our fellow swimmers bleached out of our conscious sense; the sounds of laughter from the folks on the beach faded gradually and the sailboats seemed to drift away. There was only the two of us. The waves slowly rocked us and then the heavens exploded in a burst of happiness and contentment. Time was suspended for both of us. As things came back into focus I saw God's knowing smile. And I knew how great indeed He is. I promised myself I would never forget just how precious a gift I had been given.

Our life together continued to unfold. The beach gave way to the inexorable tug of routine: work, children's activities, community involvement, tag sales, and general family matters. Through all of the busy turmoil my hundred pounds of clay handled things flawlessly. Indeed she morphed once again—from my little surfer girl into Alice Kramden to my Ralph. Many were the times that I managed to tie Gordian knots which required her skill to undo. It wasn't intentional—I just seemed to subscribe to the ready, fire, aim theory of solving problems—a theory which never worked out well for me. But she was always there to undo whatever the damage might have been, and with a smile—although as the years and incidents passed her smile did begin to tighten.

At home I would sit in my easy chair and she would wait on my every need. I didn't ask or even expect her to be so accommodating—it was natural on her part. And because it was so natural on her part I slowly drifted into the self-indulgent mode and became unfairly demanding. In fact I even found a small silver bell which I decided to ring whenever I needed her attention.

Women are odd in some ways, as I found out. The bell was not such a good idea—one...