Author Archives: Jon
Read by Jon Preston, June 19th, Gibbet Hill Restaurant, Groton MA, .
Hi Everybody. If you’ll permit me, I’d like to say a few words while you continue to eat, drink and reminisce.
First, thank you for coming tonight. I know some of you traveled quite a way to be here and it is really good to see you. I know Mom would be so incredibly happy to see your faces. This dinner was exactly what she wanted. I know, because she told me! Although if she’d planned it herself, there may have been 5 foot ice sculptures, gift bags, and party favors. Mom loved a good theme party.
Speaking of this dinner, Dexter and I would also like to thank my beautiful wife Sarah for all the work that went into making tonight possible. For some of you, the invitation to this evening may have been your first introduction to Sarah. She’s worked for months to bring you all together and we could never adequately express our appreciation for her effort, her compassion and her support over this difficult period. Thank you sweetheart. You are my rock and I love you very much.
So, hopefully you’ve all had a chance to share a few stories and memories about your friend, neighbor, co-conspirator, or cousin Val. And I bet one or two of your stories would dovetail with one or two of mine. But if you’ll permit me, I’d like to share a couple favorite anecodotes that help ME remember my mom, and the way she shaped me into the man, husband and father I am today.
I’ll start with a car. Specifically a 1966 Mustang Convertible, British racing green, dented front fender, straight six with automatic transmission. To me, it was this thing I rode in once or twice but mostly filled the garage and served as backstop for errant basketball shots in my youth. For others it was a symbol of my mom in her youth (and of a dotting father, also known as Big Dexter). It was just last year that my mom sold the car to be restored, on the condition she could ride in it again once it was back on the road. I have a feeling wherever mom is now, she’s got a Mustang parked nearby.
Earlier I joked about theme parties. That reminds me of all the handmade Halloween costumes I sported growing up on Snow Drive. The shark. The lion. Robin Hood. They were always original, lovingly made, and sufficiently warm enough for cold October nights. I’d come back with bags full of candy to find friends and neighbors sitting by the fire drinking, laughing, and generally enjoying the holiday as much as the candy stuffed kids at the door.
Then there was the word processer in the early late 80’s. Cutting edge at the time, this thing had a tiny lcd screen where you could see maybe 50 characters. She’d spend hours with me inputting my handwritten chicken scratch line by line, eventually resulting in a properly formatted (and properly spelled) essay on…. American history or the chemical properties of table salt. Mom always wanted me to put my best foot forward. Mom put in the time to help me succeed.
For my 6th grade graduation, my last day before big, scary jr. sr. high, she surprised me and a few friends with a stretch limo. This light gray Lincoln pulls up to the front door of the school just as everyone is heading out to the busses. It’s stocked with potato chips and cans of coke, and it took us to Kimball’s ice cream for a celebratory sundae. She rode in the car behind us and as we pulled away from the idling busses I felt like I was the coolest kid in school. (Footnote here, I was NOT the coolest kid in school).
When I was growing really fast I needed more than 3 squares a day, so she taught me how to boil water and make my own hot dogs and pasta. That empowerment was absolutely the foundation of my love for cooking, and it stays with me today. Mom was a great cook…always a protein, veggie and starch on the dinner plate. And we sat around the table each night eating whatever she’d put together. Her one rule, passed on to her by my grammie and observed by me in my house today…if you cook, you get to put your back to the kitchen when you sit to eat. “Hot in the kitchen!” she would yell as Dexter and I tore around the house. Thanksgiving? 6 of us? That’ll be a 26lb Turkey and at least 3 jars of creamed onions. No one really ate the creamed onions, but we had LOTs of left overs.
When skiing became my favorite way to spend her money, she hooked me up with a bunch of her friends from Garden club during summer. When we weren’t at the lake, I was mowing lawns and tidying yards for $10 an hour. It destroyed her 1990 Honda Accord with sunroof and leather seats. And my dad had to help me out a few times, but it taught me the value of manual labor and how hard it was to earn the money I so casually requested.
Did you know that McDonalds hamburgers have a pickle slice in them? I didn’t! At least, not until I was old enough to drive myself. See, when mom would order the burgers for me, she’d get first bite. Somehow, the first bite ALWAYS included the pickle.
Then there was the time during high school I came home late to a quiet house. I may have been after curfew, I don’t remember. But I DO remember heading straight for the fridge for a quick gulp of something before heading up to bed. There was a carafe of water in the fridge, never seen it before. I grabbed it, pulled out the glass stopper and took 3 giant swigs…only to discover it was vodka. Classic mom. Crystal carafes full of chilled vodka.
Sarah and I have big plastic tubs full of holiday decorations in our basement, because in the Preston house, every holiday came with thematic pillows, flags, wreaths, figurines and other mantle toppers.
The end of my junior year of college, I was living in London and found out I’d not been accepted for a head resident job in one of Skidmore’s dorms. Typical ME, I didn’t have a plan B. Suddenly I needed a place to live. In the span of 2 weeks my mom found and brokered a lease on, what is to this day, the coolest apartment I’ve ever seen.
My mom did all these things because….that’s what Val did! Sure, she was a mom. And a wife. And a friend. But she certainly added her own bit of flair to each role she played. She looked out of her boys. She was always sent a card. She threw great parties. She made a great martini. And she cherished all of you so dearly.
I’ll wrap up with one last story. This one is from my mom’s childhood friend Linda Wye, who was mom’s maid of honor. Linda couldn’t come tonight, but she told me how she and my mom would get into “harmless mischief” and share secrets while cruising in the mustang. And she shared this little memory.
“One night your mom invited 6 of us to quite the proper dinner with your grandparents. Trying to do everything exactly right, Dick Thomas stuck his fork into a potato and while cutting it, he sent it sailing across the exquisitely set dining room table. His first thought was to slide under the table….certainly he had failed to impress “Dexter and Jeanette!” Your mother doubled over laughing hysterically and your grandparents followed suit. Thank goodness, they had a sense of humor. We were horrified and Dick was so embarrassed!”. I have so many more stories to tell. I hope you, Dexter and all the others enjoy hearing them and celebrating your wonderful mother’s life. I loved her so.
So with that, I would raise a glass to my mom, and I’ll echo what all of you have expressed to me these last few months. Mom, you were loved and you will be sorely missed. To Val!
Little E has a little sister, C! E is 2+ and C just hit the 8 month mark. S and I are managing better than expected. C is a champion sleeper, and an all around “happy baby”. She rarely fusses, her smile is gigantic (and infectious) and despite what must be some painful teeth just under the surface, continues to squeal, chirp and babble like everything is AWESOME!
We’re getting ready to move house, and work is busier than ever. In fact, S just got a promotion, and she’s excited, if a little apprehensive about the new responsibilities. And for me, I could fill every waking hour (and some non-waking) with meetings, slides, spreadsheets and Twitter streams. And vendors. Lots and lots of vendors. Still trying to find that perfect work/life balance. It seems to shift every day! Perhaps I should call it a work/life pendulum?
All in all, things are great. We just need to find time to rest, be together as a family, and enjoy this stretch of good fortune. I can’t say blogging is high on my list of priorities. We’ll see if I re-evaluate after we settle at a new address.
UPDATE: We sold the house! Or at least…we have an accepted offer. 7 days from listing to offer. Not bad! Today is the inspection. There are strangers poking around the dark places of my castle at this very moment. (If you just snickered, I can forgive you.) Hopefully all goes well. And if not…well, it’s a great house in the summer. Too bad half my horseshoe pit was usurped for a sandbox!
I have no idea where the last 3 months have gone. It’s like trying to remember the details of your prom (nearly 20 years later). it’s all kinda fuzzy. But the emotions are there, clear as a bell.
There was drama. And there were people. Family, friends, a partner who was going through all the same motions. Nervous energy, ‘time of your life’ energy, ‘better get it right, no do-overs’ energy….typical for something like a prom (or the birth of your son). You don’t have to remember that kind of stuff. You just know it happened. And you are certain it was awesome.
“If you can’t really remember it, how can you say it was awesome?”
Again, it’s just the feeling. Like the exhaustion you get after a long day of grinning and laughing and hugging and frenzy and caffeine and ‘life will never be the same’. You remember that. Also, there are the photos. So many photos! Who needs to remember it all? It’s right there in glossy 4×6 for all eternity. You could put them back to back, flipbook style, and watch the whole thing unfold!
Looking back on the first three months of being a dad I feel nothing but joy and bewilderment. How did we manage to function on so little rest? And how did we emerge without a broken bone, criminal record or markings from a straight jacket?
The only answer I can conjure is…Emmitt. He expects better. We need to ‘set an example’ and all that jazz. We can’t let him down. He’s brand new! We have to make it at least to his teens before he realizes we’re making this all up as we go.
Meanwhile, I’m going to spend more of my energy looking forward. And squeezing those giant cheeks. Folks say these days fly by. At least, I think that’s what they say. I can’t remember, it all happened too fast.
…everything changed. His name? Emmitt Joseph Preston. And unlike his father, who’s five minutes late to everything, Emmitt arrived six days early, and he was booking! Five hours of labor from start to finish. S was amazing. A rock star. I couldn’t be prouder of her.
“And how did it all go?”
First, let me just say…neither S nor I know if the ‘doc’ who delivered the baby was an OB…he just showed up half way through pushing (all 15 minutes of it), did some crazy stuff I’ll spend months trying to forget, and BOOM! “Congratualtions, it’s a boy.” 15 minutes later he’s gone, never to be seen again. Yes, Emmitt came out fine. Yes, S is healing really well. But was he an OB? Who knows! Maybe he just slept in a Holiday Inn Express last night. Did it phase S? Nope. How about when she passed out a half hour later? Did she spook then? Nope. And Emmitt…how’s he dealing with this whole “being born” thing? Very well in fact! Two weeks in and he’s back to his birth weight, times his pees for maximum devastation, amazes his parents and delights friends and family alike. All’s well and as it should be.
“Are you getting any sleep?”
“How are you adjusting?”
Weirdest part? A week after my life changed forever, I was back at my desk like it was any other Tuesday. Very surreal. But my co-workers, partners, vendors, and enemies have been amazing. Humans, every one of them. Now if only I could avoid the caffeine withdrawal shakes, all would be well with the world.
A tiny, translucent, razor thin, half-dollar-sized sliver of clean. A bar of soap. Or rather, what’s left of one. Barely bridging a ½” gap in our Linen’s N Things shower rack, it looks more like a soggy, misplaced fragment of a potato chip than the object by which you’ll scrub away your stink/shame/sleepiness.
This isn’t a shared shower. It’s not the gym. It’s not a dorm. It is the only full bath in a single-family home shared by me and my wife. Did she leave me this pathetic excuse for a soap bar, preferring a smelly, disoriented and incrementally cranky ‘morning Jon’? Did I do this to myself? Did I shower in my sleep? Slipping out of bed in the wee hours to dissolve and subvert more conscious efforts to start my day on the right foot?
I’ve been down this road before. In my grogginess, I will invariably reach for ‘the sliver’, knock it from its perch, and watch it fall between the wires and head for the drain. I’ll scoop it up, rest it in the palm of my hand…and then spend 4 minutes trying to work up anything resembling a soap-like lather. On the bright side, my hands will end up clean. But my attempt to transition this hand-cleaning lather into a body cleaning coverage? Look again. The sliver’s gone.
Our family is low maintenance. I won’t find a $20, gold-laced luxury bar from Lush waiting as a back-up. Body wash? No. Shower gel? Fugitaboutit. Loofah’s? I’d rather stink. I suppose I could use shampoo. But on principal, I refuse to use Head and Shoulders below the shoulders. This leaves me out of options. I have to leave the shower to find some soap.
How far will I have to go for a spare? Will it be under the vanity, just a half step across the bathroom? Will it be in the linen closet, three steps outside my infinitely warmer morning fortress of solitude? And forget about the basement pantry—dingy, frigid and an impossibly distant two flights down. And then there’s the issue of being sopping, sopping wet. First, consider the season. Say it’s summer. Do I make a break for it, attempting to limit the water damage by bolting out of the shower and breaking for the vanity and closet? (pray I don’t slip on the hardwood) Winter? In my un-insulated house? Hypothermia will set in before the first drip hits the floor. I’ll have to dry off. This will turn my clean, light, warm, dry towel into a heavy, damp, cool and far less cheery rag.
Don’t underestimate the role my towel plays in my morning routine. My towel, well used, often laundered, fluffy and highly absorbent, nurses me through the transition from the warm/soap smelling/semi-sleep shower experience to the bright eyed, deodorized, dressed, buckled and buffed cube-meat that leaves the house each morning. If I have to dry off to conduct my search, I run the risk of ruining an already compromised routine.
Where does this leave me? Between a rock and hard place.
One way or another, I’m leaving the shower in search of soap. And for most of the New England year, I’ll need to dry off to survive the experience.
It’s time to get creative.
What if I use my wife’s towel? It’s only fair, right? She was last to shower, and ‘you kill it, you fill it’ should apply to soap just as it does to TP, the Brita filter and most items in the liquor cabinet. (Oddities like Pisco and treasures like single-malt excluded. You leave something like that in the cabinet, your fault.) She’ll never know. And besides, her towel will be dry by the time she goes to use it again tomorrow. Yes! Problem solved! I can dry off, find more soap, and finish my shower knowing a dry fluffy towel is waiting for me. Bonus! I can start my day feeling like I’ve already accomplished something.
Ok, let’s do this! Wait…why is the water getting cold? And how long have I been standing here?
If I don’t have to wear socks, I don’t have to impress anyone. I don’t have to worry if my belt matches my shoes. Or if my freshly pressed shirt was frumpified during my commute. Or if the crappy sink in the bathroom betrayed me to look like an incontinent moron.
If I don’t have to wear socks, I don’t have to wash and pair socks.
Really, going sock-less is wonderful thing. Sock-less = carefree.
For the first several decades of my life I celebrated our country’s independence from the shores (or off shores) of Lake Winnipesaukee, NH. A generation(+) of bottle rockets and roman candles. “Beaver-go-boom“. And across-the-lake or down-the-shore “wow-that-must-have-cost-a-fortune” performances by similar lake side vacationers.
Last year my wife and I spent the Fourth of July to Baraboo, Wisconsin, celebrating the nuptials of a sister-in-laws sister. We had a blast. The setting was beautiful, the people were friendly, and the wedding was personal, genuine and very, very fun. That said, it was my first Fourth away from my beloved Lake Winni.
Yes, we enjoyed Baraboo’s fireworks (from the high school bleechers.)
Yes, there was apple pie.
And yes, I even had a chance to take a dip in one of Wisconsin’s gazillion lakes. (Specifically, Devil’s Lake Park)
But despite all the fun and memories—it wasn’t tradition.
“It’s OK”, I said to myself. “Next year we’ll be back on ‘the lake’ and the tradition will live on. One year in an eon won’t really matter…right?”
Now I have to ask…What about TWO years? In a row?
Went to see the new Woody Allen flick last night, Midnight in Paris. Admittedly, my expectations were low. Woody Allen? Romantic comedy? Owen Wilson and Rachel McAdams? Was this just going to be a much less funny version of Wedding Crashers? But it was my wife’s suggestion, and I’d recently ‘dragged’ her to see , so figured fair was fair.
Maybe it was because I had my expectations so low, or because I really didn’t care if the movie was good or sucktastic. (I was more interested in my wife”s satisfaction with our date). But around 20 or so minutes into the film…I was smiling. The movie did NOT go where I expected it. And when it was all over, I was surprised how it seemed to have gone by so quickly. Owen Wilson did a great job of being…Owen Wilson. Kathy Bates, perfect. Adrian Brody, funny cameo. And Corey Stoll (an unknown to me) did a great Hemingway.
No, there were no explosions. No aliens, blood, gore. Heck, I don’t think I even saw a gun.
But I did leave with that rare feeling of unexpected movie-going satisfaction.
…Woody Allen! Who knew?