tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63470496937267093842024-03-13T15:31:00.224-06:00Yanamamailyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.comBlogger276125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-57683899302296233842021-06-13T11:48:00.000-06:002021-06-13T11:48:00.184-06:00The Adventurers (Part 9)<p> Louis was a cabin boy aboard the Aladdin that first summer. By the time the camp closed he was proud to have earned the position of first mate. Raised on the clean air and hearty food of Apple Island, he grew tall - six foot four - and lanky. He'd also become an accomplished scholar, winning awards first at Horace Mann school and later at Columbia. When the war came, the Skipper was recruited to work on the Manhattan Project, Lou continued his studies and also worked as a TA, and in their "spare" time they worked on a project to make airplane jet engines faster and more efficient. There was little time for the camp. I can only imagine their joy when the war ended and they could get back to normal. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n0cOdF_xxx4/YLu5J_ExrSI/AAAAAAABYrE/vsIEfFP_wJc_T_j4Bwru1af9UOPuLFKYwCPcBGAsYHg/s4032/20190709_200639.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="298" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n0cOdF_xxx4/YLu5J_ExrSI/AAAAAAABYrE/vsIEfFP_wJc_T_j4Bwru1af9UOPuLFKYwCPcBGAsYHg/w611-h298/20190709_200639.jpg" width="611" /></a></div><br />Those dreams were dashed when, in 1947, the Skipper died suddenly of a heart attack.<p></p>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-12484778643594561652021-06-12T11:31:00.000-06:002021-06-12T11:31:00.208-06:00The Adventurers (Part 8)<p>The Skipper and Sam filled every room with their energy, but the camp would not have been possible without Old George or Nell Edwards. Little remains of him but a worn portrait. Nell, on the other hand, left behind a house full of personality. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IIERkpJerLg/YLu4boaGY0I/AAAAAAABYq4/nJ2HbHySwZwciu5LGTH1cHGV4nGdWLxXACPcBGAsYHg/s4032/20190724_135059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="267" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IIERkpJerLg/YLu4boaGY0I/AAAAAAABYq4/nJ2HbHySwZwciu5LGTH1cHGV4nGdWLxXACPcBGAsYHg/w548-h267/20190724_135059.jpg" width="548" /></a></div><p><br /></p>Ellen Edwards had served in the Red Cross with Sam and that acquaintance had inspired the initial invitation to the Aloha camps. During the school year Miss Edwards worked as a nurse at St George School in Rhode Island, but once the Bakers founded The Adventurers Camp at Dingley Dell she was game to join them. She bought a little house across West Shore Road and offered accomodations - and undoubtedly perfect British service - to the families who brought their boys up to the island in person. Nell adored the British royal family and on quiet nights would read about them while listening in her living room to records on the Victrola. She was a traveler, too, collecting a set of silver spoons from the Columbia World's Fair and candlesticks from Norway. We have no likeness of her; perhaps she was the chronicler who took our many pictures of The Skipper, Sam, Lou, and the boys on their travels.<p></p><p>The camp closed in 1938. There may have been talk about reopening, someday, after things had quieted in Europe. The Aladdin sat patiently on shore, still a landmark for passersby, sheets and lines stowed at camp for when they would be needed again. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WEfk_2V9u3U/YLu4ppzQ79I/AAAAAAABYq8/-cuh2kZfoCExPr0m3KTJmIUC2dG1LwSbgCPcBGAsYHg/s4032/20190709_194606.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="233" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WEfk_2V9u3U/YLu4ppzQ79I/AAAAAAABYq8/-cuh2kZfoCExPr0m3KTJmIUC2dG1LwSbgCPcBGAsYHg/w478-h233/20190709_194606.jpg" width="478" /></a></div><p>In the meantime, The Skipper lent his genius to the war effort; Sam guided Louis through his schooling. When they could they escaped New York for Vermont, no matter how short their visit. Nell, too, spent as much time as she could in that idyllic place. </p><p>But their dreams of a future at Dingley Dell were not to be.</p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-87187563182112881372021-06-11T11:29:00.003-06:002021-06-11T11:29:00.189-06:00The Adventurers (Part 7)<p> The boys already knew The Skipper and Sam from previous years at the Aloha camps, so it was no surprise that as soon as they arrived they were put to work mowing and painting and building. Evenings there were dances in the assembly hall with music (and girls) from the local community. They put on great plays, and recited poetry, Shakespeare, or passages from Dickens from the living room stage. There were feasts thanks to Old George, who had been a cook in the civil war and a vaudevillian sometime after. The boys laid a tennis court, and Sam judged matches from a concrete bench from which she could just see the lake. </p><p>But the heart of the Adventurers Camp (as it had been advertised) was lakeside. Under the enthusiastic (and undoubtedly authoritarian) eye of The Skipper, in just a few weeks the boys built The Aladdin, a lateen-rigged, 5 masted schooner-of-sorts which, like the Bakers themselves, defied categorization. Then those adventurers, those beautiful pirate boys, hoisted the rainbow sails and explored Lake Champlain - sometimes for weeks at a stretch - from Canadian waters down to Fort Ticonderoga. The ship was the talk of the papers both local and as far away as New York City. At one point a fellow named Walt Disney even stopped by for a cruise. And so, for eleven glorious summers, the Bakers made their dream come true. But war loomed once again...</p><p>The exploits of the camp are told far better (and with pictures) in the book "The Pirates of Dingley Dell" by Brett Corbin, so I will let his work speak for us both (if interested I can pass you his contact information).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5d-n5bnKPuk/YLu1w4YeaiI/AAAAAAABYo8/OfHwZPtzx_A1U0QaVne4i0TB_S9Cm64ZQCPcBGAsYHg/s2976/20150713_113600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2976" data-original-width="2976" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5d-n5bnKPuk/YLu1w4YeaiI/AAAAAAABYo8/OfHwZPtzx_A1U0QaVne4i0TB_S9Cm64ZQCPcBGAsYHg/s320/20150713_113600.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-33417962630335302072021-06-10T11:25:00.003-06:002021-06-10T11:25:00.198-06:00The Adventurers (Part 6)<p> Thus far we have known our heroes as Frances and Marion. By the time they became camp directors, however, they had more apt names. Come winter, when he returned to his desk job as a mechanical engineer, Mr. Baker may have been Godfrey. But at camp he was called The Skipper. And Marion, who had already tried on the identities of traveler, nurse, war hero, and mother, had long before chosen from Dickens (her favorite author) the nickname Sam - after Sam Weller, the beloved and amusing sidekick from the Pickwick Papers. </p><p>No wonder, then, that their new summer home was given the fanciful title Dingley Dell - after the peaceful, cozy, and joy-filled retreat where the Pickwick Club secluded themselves. For that, my friends, is what the camp became for the Bakers - and the crew of boys who signed on to become the Pirates of Dingley Dell</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4Lt2990jrHc/YLu3I7JZeEI/AAAAAAABYqY/md9YXTjizdQcTsA0GID49BPgLVITo1qVgCPcBGAsYHg/s4032/20190711_111436.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4Lt2990jrHc/YLu3I7JZeEI/AAAAAAABYqY/md9YXTjizdQcTsA0GID49BPgLVITo1qVgCPcBGAsYHg/s320/20190711_111436.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-48821595573433319252021-06-09T11:24:00.005-06:002021-06-09T11:24:00.187-06:00The Adventurers (Part 5)<p> Francis and Marion were the kind of people who chafed at being told what to do. It was natural, then, for them to decide that they wanted their own summer camp. A sailing camp - which meant they needed to be on a lake. It had to be reachable from New York. And they needed enough space to do big projects. We don't know much about how they found South Hero. We do know that the land had a log cabin dating to early settlement, and a two- story farmhouse with an attached woodshed. It was a start.</p><p>They converted the woodshed to a kitchen. They took out the woodstove in the middle of the house and Marion built a whimsical fireplace, meant to look like an elephant with it's chimney trunk raised. They cut through one wall of the house and attached the "assembly hall" - a large open space with a balcony at the far end. There was room enough for dances and dinners. They hung a maroon velvet curtain in the opening and the living room became a stage. Two dozen wooden camp chairs were delivered from Macy's at 25¢ apiece - seating for parents and campers. They added a smaller dining room next to the kitchen. Marion created an advertising flyer. Then they waited...</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5OuULef2zX8/YLu4EbpHedI/AAAAAAABYqw/Rq1iLPCcko4ME2JbfLq6L9okgUzr2um_ACPcBGAsYHg/s4032/20190627_105702.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="232" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5OuULef2zX8/YLu4EbpHedI/AAAAAAABYqw/Rq1iLPCcko4ME2JbfLq6L9okgUzr2um_ACPcBGAsYHg/w476-h232/20190627_105702.jpg" width="476" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-21123298411835521842021-06-08T11:22:00.002-06:002021-06-08T11:22:00.181-06:00The Adventurers (Part 4)<p> Marion stayed with her soldiers long after the war ended, but finally returned to New York - and Godfrey. They were married Christmas day, 1919. He worked as a mechanical engineer. She started the Home Nursing Service working with the poor of NYC. It was a good life, made better when their son Louis was born. </p><p>They had a robust social life, hosting dinners for international student at Columbia, getting involved with folk dancing groups. But the city drained them. Godfrey knew they needed to restore their minds and their bodies. So when Marion's wartime nursing friend, Ellen "Nell" Edwards suggested they join her for a summer as staff at the Aloha camp in Vermont where she served as a nurse they jumped. Their tenure was magical - Godfrey taught sailing, and when on land led campers in building an epic Spanish galleon themed boathouse/dock with a drawbridge. Marion produced and directed dramatic performances that included every camper. </p><p>The little threesome - Godfrey, Marion, and Lou - returned for several summers. But even that adventure wasn't enough...</p><p><br /></p>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-28264692335739838562021-06-07T11:20:00.001-06:002021-06-07T11:20:00.200-06:00The Adventurers (Part 3)<p> Marion had crossed the Atlantic alone at age 16. From one brother's home in New York she had crossed the United States to visit another in Nevada. She had survived the 1906 San Francisco earthquake, and in her travels she had even walked partway across the Isthmus of Panama. But the Great War just about destroyed her. </p><p>A born leader, Marion rose through the nursing ranks to the dubious honor of head nurse of an American hospital serving Verdun. When a ship loaded with relief nurses was sunk, she and her colleagues still met the relentless waves of shredded young men with endless courage and kindness. We have a stack of silver plate photos showing before and after portraits of some of the boys who passed through Marion's hospital, barely repaired before being thrown back into the fray. </p><p>After the battle, the story goes, Marion was ordered to HQ for a medal; she went AWOL instead, unable to face the pomp and circumstance.</p><p>Through it all, Godfrey waited for his girl.</p>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-44534215495878168892021-06-06T11:18:00.001-06:002021-06-06T11:18:00.211-06:00The Adventurers (Part 2)<p> Francis Godfrey Baker - Godfrey to those in the know - was a local boy, graduate of Queen's College and a real outdoorsman. He'd spent many summers as a surveyor for the provincial government, canoeing through the northern provinces inhabited at the time only by indigenous people. It is said that he learned to build birchbark canoes from the folks that invented such things, and once horrified the director of an elite whitefolk summer camp by dismantling the prized camp specimen - only to rebuild it better than before using sap and a pair of crossed twigs for a blow torch. Godfrey was a helluva guy, a mechanical engineer by trade. And he was smitten by Marion. But it was wartime in the old country, and she had a duty to serve...</p><p><br /></p>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-62217387008069007852021-06-05T10:56:00.004-06:002021-06-05T11:42:41.534-06:00The Adventurers (Part 1)<p><span style="color: #202124;">How I came to Dingley Dell - a short story made long with lots of detours. Part 1</span></p><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #202124;">A friend asked recently how the Fearless Leader of Kreskestan wound up spending weeks in a not-quite-dilapidated summer camp in remote Vermont. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #202124;">The short version is: it's my husband's family place.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #202124;">The long version is far more interesting. It starts in 1914, when 28 year old Marion Weller, originally from Liverpool, England, and recently graduated from the New York Hospital Nursing School, was invited to spend a week canoeing with her classmates around the Thousand Islands region of Ontario, Canada. There she met a tall, dark, and handsome fellow named Francis. (to be continued...)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qi1z3sMEZF4/YLu3hzMB-NI/AAAAAAABYqk/89DHVdT35v4CjrlxiQGF--SIhVi4kZeXACPcBGAsYHg/s4032/20190711_134028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="232" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qi1z3sMEZF4/YLu3hzMB-NI/AAAAAAABYqk/89DHVdT35v4CjrlxiQGF--SIhVi4kZeXACPcBGAsYHg/w476-h232/20190711_134028.jpg" width="476" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124;"><br /></span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: none; letter-spacing: 0.1px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-10994922384680253002021-03-07T11:26:00.003-07:002021-03-07T11:30:26.831-07:00The Fragility of Family<p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was growing dark when the phone finally rang. I had done my chores by then, and my homework, and taken advantage of unexpected alone time to sneak episodes of both </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Electric Company</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">3-2-1 Contact</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. But as the clock ticked past six thirty, my sense of freedom dissolved into unease.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yanna? It’s Charlie.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">I expected my mother. Maybe my aunt Candy. Not the shop pressman. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yo</span><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">ur mom has been in an accident. I’m on my way.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Charlie hung up. The shop was 40 minutes away. Charlie lived in town, 20 minutes in the other direction. I didn’t know which he was coming from. I watched as shadows moved down the walls. The wicker lampshade over the dining table threw monstrous shadows into the corners, like grasping trees in a dark fairy tale. Our usually cozy condo was silent. My legs dangled uncomfortably from the wooden chair, so I tucked them under me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Charlie’s arrival prompted a flurry of activity. He blurted out what little he knew -- the accident had happened early that morning, mom was at the Philpott’s, Candy was with her -- while his wife collected my toothbrush and a clean pair of undies and helped me into my parka. He shut the door behind us as I clambered up into their giant red pickup. New. Mom and Candy had speculated about how he could afford a new pickup on his salary. I didn’t trust Charlie, with his thick mustache. His wife was nice, though, and from my spot in the middle of the bench seat I leaned my head against her arm as we drove the dark two-lane highway toward Aspen. Charlie chattered. I imagined our little red Volkswagen Beetle, Brutus, crushed. I didn’t dare imagine what had happened to my mother. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Suzanne Philpott, family friend and my bonus grandmother, opened the door to us. The hall light behind her was warm and yellow and her familiar smoky rasp was a comfort. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yanna, your mom is okay. She’s pretty drugged up right now, but they took good care of her at the hospital. She and Candy are in the living room.” Suzanne reached down for my hand, and walked me down the hall.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">There were adults scattered through the wide open space. All the lights were on, and the living room glowed with the same warm yellow, which reflected from windows now black with night. My aunt Candy and her friend Suzie were on one couch. Jim Philpott was perched on another. Someone exclaimed too loudly that I was there. My mother wobbled to her feet and looked vaguely around. Jim unfolded himself and took her elbow to steady her.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">No Halloween mask has ever matched her face that night. A T-shaped plaster cast gleamed across her eyebrows and down her nose. Both eyes were black, and bloody gauze dangled from both nostrils. She glanced at me and asked, “Yanna?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was only a moment. She had been pumped full of narcotics after surgery, and her disorientation was understandable to any adult. But I was only eight and my mama, my one and only, didn’t recognize me. My world slipped sideways as I shuffled toward the monster before me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hi, Beanie!” she exclaimed when I got nearer. Her words slurred, and she wavered, but she reached for me and my world righted. She was too damaged to embrace, but I sat on a blue cross stitched footstool next to her knees and ate supper at the coffee table while Suzie told the story of seeing my mother, face split open and bleeding, in the hallway at the hospital waiting for a surgeon. My mom groggily described taking off the shoulder strap to adjust the car radio, and rear-ending a pickup truck. Of her face bursting apart “like a tomato” from impact with the steering wheel. She didn’t remember much else.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not long afterward Suzanne escorted us both to the guest room. My mother succumbed quickly to the exhaustion of trauma and drugs. I lay awake. Light from the hallway shone on the print of Picasso’s </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bouquet of Peace</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> above my bed. I listened desperately to each of my mother’s ragged breaths, for the first time completely aware of the fragility of our little family.</span></p>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-37342736076883978002016-08-19T10:22:00.002-06:002016-08-19T10:22:41.726-06:00Why I Want to Teach Middle School<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">I wrote this essay for a scholarship application which asked what makes middle school special.</span></i><br />
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I don’t know anyone who enjoyed middle school. Adults tell stories of bullying and confusion and a desperate need to both fit in and stand out. That’s why strangers gasp when I state my intention to teach middle school. “You’re a saint!” they cry. “I could never do that.” They can’t imagine submersing themselves again in the miserable stew of the early teen years. But their memories are incomplete. They leave out the true magic of middle school: it is a fantastic time of transformation and exploration. Middle school is when adolescents begin the process of forging unique identities, determining their values, finding their passions, and establishing agency over their own lives.<br />
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The most obvious and difficult aspect of the middle school years is how children try on personalities like coats – changing with the weather and the fashion. In their search for a tribe they can demean, ridicule, bully, and hurt those who seem different. This is the memory so often is carried into adulthood. William Golding’s Lord of the Flies (a story of unsupervised adolescent boys lost on an uninhabited island who quickly devolve into savage, murderous clans) resonates more than 70 years after it was written because even today the schoolyard sometimes feels like that island.<br />
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Yet, even in the midst of this social turmoil, middle school students are optimistic and enthusiastic. With just a little acknowledgement and encouragement they can be sparked to become life-long learners and compassionate members of their community. All it takes is one good teacher to help them channel their energy toward a path of curiosity and passion. I’m not saying the teacher’s job is easy. In middle school the personal relationships a teacher makes are as important as the academic curriculum of the classroom, because only after building trust can the student’s interest be hooked and held fast. That is when a student’s passion to learn is ignited. It’s a delicate balancing act – pushing a student to think deeply, solve problems, and create their own understanding of a topic while supporting them academically and emotionally so they can do their very best.<br />
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The same adults who, when asked for stories of their middle school years, tell horror stories that invariably end with, “but there was one teacher . . .” That teacher may have created a safe lunch space for students who considered the blacktop a battleground. Perhaps the teacher pulled a struggling child aside and told her that she had great talent and potential. In my case Mrs. Roupp facilitated my participation in the Great Decisions program, which expanded my horizon from the borders of Colorado to the nation’s capital, where I earned a degree in history – and raised my voice in support of my political beliefs. All it takes is one good teacher to help a child transform into a courageous, curious, intelligent citizen.<br />
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ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-76690232747692806062015-12-12T09:09:00.003-07:002015-12-12T09:09:28.211-07:00Relief<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">A friend calls it separation anxiety, this restless casting about for
obligations in the sudden absence of pressure. I have things to do,
wrapping presents and paying bills and cleaning a house neglected for
months, but they are on my time. <br /><br />What a luxury, to set one's own
schedule! What a delight to know the alarm is off! Nevermind that I
have woken at dawn as usual with lists scrolling through my mind. I
don't resume classes until mid-January. For a month my time is my own. <br /><br />This
was the hardest part of leaving my job -- adapting to a different time
scale. I had two markers for each day: the beginning and end of school.
Everything else was arbitrarily set by me. True, my two year old
required some structure, but the management of our household could be
wrapped around visits to the museum or hours on the swing in our front
yard. My world collapsed inward. I created tasks for myself to
compensate for a missing sense of purpose. I signed Miss Awesome up for
classes and I volunteered in The Fine Lad's school and I went to the
empty grocery store at mid-day but still there was time in pools around
me.<br /><br />I have adjusted to the delicious timetable of a stay-at-home
mom. The children require far less management now, and cleanliness
standards in our home have been worn down by dogs and children and muddy
boots. Instead -- an hour for coffee? What day? I'm free. I am
profligate with my time, chatting with friends online and watching
television every night with my husband. I stay in bed until 8 on
weekends. <br /><br />Then, when my classes start and I must shuttle back
and forth to my school, the kids' schools, the kitchen counter where we
do homework together between stages of suppermaking and afterward I must
excuse myself from the dinner table to go study, then I panic,
wondering how I'll ever adapt to the rigid schedule of the real world. I
stare down the prospect of teaching long hours and grading grading
grading into the night and finding myself at the occasional school dance
as chaperone. I am so fortunate now! Why would I give up these quiet
hours at my desk, these mid-day dog walks? <br /><br />The answer comes on
weekends when Miss Awesome goes on sleepovers. There is an absence. For
now it is a relief, but all too soon it will become a wound. My home
time will no longer be marked by morning goings and evening returns. The
pools of time will spread and drown me. The bright world of clocks and
routines will be my salvation, even if it does mean I have to get
dressed every morning.</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-56690761425582308662015-11-13T09:34:00.000-07:002015-11-13T10:34:33.626-07:00The King of Sciences<span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif;">Physics is the most magical of the sciences. If chemistry is the science of creation, and biology that of transformation, then physics is the wondrous confounding science of interaction. Physics describes how everything relates to everything else, starting at the subatomic level. From there comes chemistry. From chemistry, biology. Physics is the root of it all.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;">This strange music of the spheres is not simple. The concepts seem obvious: drop a ball and it falls. Push a box and it slides across the floor. These are measurably predictable actions. The magic of physics comes with identifying that which is not intuitive and taming it with numbers and symbols. An entire mathematical language, calculus, had to be discovered in order to explore the seemingly basic concepts of action and reaction, push and pull. What we know when we first stand – the pull of the earth on our bones – is only half the story. Physics uses numbers to tell how <i>we</i> pull on the Earth, how the ball gives energy to the ground, how the box pushes back.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;">Physics is the science of the parted curtain, of seeing into the darkness beyond and understanding what strangeness lies in the unknown. To be a physicist takes creativity. It takes, I believe, a little bit of madness to walk the fine line between this world and some other that exactly overlays our own. I imagine the physicist’s world to be filled with lights and arrows, but that is a writer’s conceit. I am not a seer. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;">Still, I try. Being a student is a humbling experience. Each class spreads a map of the vastness of ignorance, and lays a tiny guideline to the next waypoint. Mine is generally a joyful journey of discovery; I am delighted by just how much there is to learn. This semester has been more difficult. Numbers and formulae have floated before me like balloons. I have desperately attempted to tie them to the concepts which we are discussing, but they are slippery and transform. Most agonizing is the sense that I _almost_ get it. I know how something is going to work, but am unable to connect the language, the trigonometry, to the action.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;">Last week a combination of particularly difficult homework and a baffling lecture brought me to my knees. Between classes I hid in a bathroom stall and wiped away tears. Afterward I slumped to the lab, completely dispirited and wondering how I could ever teach this material to students when I can’t do it myself. My benchmate, who is in the same lecture section, griped with me as we did the performing-monkey part of setting up the experiment. We settled down to the routine of measure, test, record, measure, test, record. Then our third partner came in and asked me to explain what we were doing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;">They say teaching is the best way to learn. I outlined the basics of what steps we were taking, then showed her the diagram of the numbers we were collecting. After attempting three different explanations relating events to numbers, we achieved the a-ha! moment. <i>You are a good teacher</i>, she told me. <i>I hope so</i>, I replied.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;">In that moment of grace I was reminded that not everything can be explained by science. There is always hope.</span>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-55512565575822881392015-09-15T11:44:00.003-06:002015-09-15T11:44:57.891-06:00Parole<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I spent yesterday morning in a dingy beige government facility, waiting with a friend, E, for his parole hearing. He has been in a halfway house for a year; we won’t know for a day or two if he will be released. If not, he expects it will be many months before he gets another hearing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">E’s isn’t my story to tell, but some parts of our friendship are. We met through one of DH’s laborers, himself a halfway house resident. By the time we met E, the crew had solidified, becoming as much family as employees. They joined us for supper many nights, grateful to avoid eating institutional slop. We traded stories. Our “white picket fence” existence was a source of amused bafflement to them – mom, dad, two kids, dog, sit-down supper every night. Even our food was different. Friend M was shocked when I told him the vegetable he had just enjoyed was broccoli. “I didn’t know broccoli could taste good!” We were as foreign to their experience as someone from an exotic country. Their histories were peppered with abuse and drug use and family cobbled together from whoever stuck around. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">E joined us for supper a few times. He was quiet in the midst of our laughter, and gentle. My children adored him. He was struggling a bit, we were told. No safe place to stay. Any place affordable enough for a con was full of drugs and hookers. Temptation. We helped a little, buying his tools when he needed cash, letting him crash on our floor for a few days, but he slipped, and was sent back to prison. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We corresponded. E wrote every couple of weeks, signing off each time with gratitude for our continuing friendship. My letters were intermittent, full of cards and drawings by the children. Some were rejected by censors. No stamps, I learned. No colored paper. Rectangular letters only. Books or magazines had to be new and sent directly from approved booksellers. The prison system is a joyless place and privatization has monetized any attempts at kindness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After six years E earned release to the halfway house. He credits me, our family, with some of his success. I am embarrassed. I have offered nothing exceptional. We are friends. He joins us for supper. His gratitude for the simplest of gestures – food, help understanding health insurance documents, a ten-minute ride so he doesn’t have to spend an hour and a half on the bus – humbles me with awareness of my riches. I have grown up in an abundance of comfort and love. I have money, and education, and opportunity. My life is full of blessings – one of which is his friendship. We talk, sometimes, about his childhood, or prison, or the other men in the halfway house. He is wise, and shares insights about poverty and class. He takes the shine off my privileged perspective, laughing and laughing when I am sympathetic. I’m told it boils down to stupidity and bad choices. That there are no excuses – not abuse or bad upbringing or rotten circumstances. I excuse his bad decisions anyway. He’s in a different place now, I remind him. A better one.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Which is why we spent more than three hours waiting in that nondescript building, subject to a bureaucracy careless with our time. I was there to support his plea to the state that they grant him parole. Not freedom. My glancing acquaintance with the criminal justice system has shown me that people who have run through that grinder are never free. Even after the ankle bracelets are removed and the weekly parole meetings are ended and regularly peeing in a cup is no longer a condition of their release, “criminals” carry the weight of public perception. Housing, employment, even relationships are tainted with distrust and disgust. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That was clear in E’s interview with a parole board member. He spoke to E the way I speak to my children. “What were you thinking?” Subtext: be ashamed, be sorrowful, repent. “How can I trust that you will never do it again?” Subtext: you cannot make good choices, you are not trustworthy, the public is not safe. We sat, hands on our laps, as E was subtly chastised. In time I was allowed to speak my support, promising that E has good (read: stable middle class white) friends on his side. We are hoping my good fortune can be leveraged on his behalf. E is grateful. I am, too. It’s nice to have done something actually worth his gratitude.</span>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-18105221650641985002015-09-09T08:50:00.000-06:002015-09-09T08:56:59.006-06:00Fight to the End<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>In a stack of old school work I found this story, written more than 20 years ago. It's not too bad, so I thought I'd share it here, with some editing.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The gunfighter arrived just after the telegram did. Both attracted the attention of the sheriff, who read through the telegram several times before dropping it to the floor and resting his head in his hands.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The gunfighter tied his horse to the hitching post, lingering a moment in its shadow to rest his head against her sturdy neck. Then, breathing deeply and pulling his face into its customary sneer, he sauntered into the saloon. His dusty boots, stitching creased with dirt, creaked with the exhaustion of many miles. His heels thudded on the floorboards. He called for a bottle of whiskey and a room. The barkeep grunted, reaching behind himself and fumbling for a bottle, not wanting to turn his back on the sullen man before him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The sheriff knew, even before the boy burst into his office, that it was time. The town had stilled when gunfighter's horse paced down Main street. In his office, the sheriff scrubbed wearily at his face, saddened by the job ahead, then, adjusting his gunbelt, he strode across the street to the saloon.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Here already?’snarled the gunfighter.’I thought you might take a few minutes to work up your courage.”The barkeep snorted indignantly and then turned to concentrate on wiping the counter when the gunfighter glared at him. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Yeah, well, not much courage needed. It’s only you. Now finish your whiskey and leave my town.”The sheriff earned several admiring looks from the drunks at the bar as he spoke to the gunfighter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"I'm just making myself comfortable. I’ll leave later.’With that the gunfighter turned away, grabbing his bottle and heading for the stairs to his room. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I say you leave now. You have plenty of time to find a rock to crawl under before sundown.’The sheriff followed the gunfighter to his room and slammed the door behind him. The growing crowd in the saloon heard nothing for nearly an hour. Only their confidence in the sheriff kept them from barging into the room and attacking the gunfighter. Finally they heard vague shouting, and the sheriff stormed out, yelling, “I’ll see you at sundown then, you lousy bastard!“</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The town grew increasingly quiet as evening drew on. Wary citizens began finding good vantage points to watch the shoot-out. The sheriff called on the town librarian to say a tentative good- bye.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I, uh, just wanted to say, ma’am, that if something happens, I, mmm, am glad for the pleasure of the few moments I have had with you. They kinda make the rest of the time go easier.” He turned to leave, awkward at having said so much, but stopped when she confessed that she enjoyed spending time with him as well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“You’ll be okay, won’t you?” she asked, after exchanging more awkward pleasantries. “I will see you again?” He stammered out a positive reply, not quite sure what to say, and then hastily retreated, stopping at the end of her walk to wave.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The adversaries faced each other across the corral, waiting for the sun to set. Someone from the crowd began to count backwards, and gently the rest of the town chimed in, ticking off the moments until sundown, until the two men would draw and shoot.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The gunfighter nodded, a half-smile on his face, and loosened his gun in the holster. The sheriff grabbed hastily at his gun, loosening it in turn, caught off guard. He reached for his handkerchief, wiping his eyes, clearing them of dust and tears.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Five, four, three.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suddenly there was movement and noise and the gunfighter lay dying. He didn’t try to move. The sheriff ran forward, crouching over the fallen man, resting his hand gently on the slowly heaving chest. One final rattling breath, and the sheriff called for the undertaker. Slowly standing, he ordered a funeral prepared at his own expense, then went slowly to his office. He sat, elbows on knees, tears falling onto the telegram forgotten on the floorboards.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The sheriff didn’t hear when the librarian came in. She put her hands on his shoulders and began to make gentle consolation noises. He snatched the telegram from the floor and thrust it into her hands, then stood with his back to her. She read it, and laid a gentle hand on his back.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“He used to be a good man, you know.” He sighed. “He had cancer. He was afraid. He asked for my help.” Tears coursed down his face, faster and hotter, digging channels through the dust of the corral. “He wanted to die quickly, with dignity.” He chuckled wryly. </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“T</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">hought he might help me, too. Make me look good, he said.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">”</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> He choked up, unable to say more. She stepped to his side and rested her head on his shoulder, hoping her sympathy would be enough. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Finally he spoke. “He was my brother.”</span><br />
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ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-16889804518143919962015-08-21T10:00:00.001-06:002015-08-21T10:00:12.100-06:00Drive<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A trip to the store was just an excuse. I knew that as soon as I tapped the accelerator and my car jumped forward, as eager as I was to eat the road. We, my Amelia, my Pilot car and I, went straight for the highway, fast fast nimble between the slowpokes left and right. The sky glowed with citylight, we were guided by paired tail lights, and the wind circled me with enticements. Drawing into the parking lot felt like a temporary submission. Thirty minutes and a basketful of school supplies later I caressed her hood and climbed back in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Dear god, make me a bird so I can fly far far away</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We rode the margins of safe and smart. The wind grabbed my hair and flung it about, promising more, promising freedom, if I would just drive drive drive. I saw the first sign for my exit and moved a lane left, avoiding the gravity of family and obligation. A second sign flashed by. A thousand miles of road lay before me, winding between mountain passes and then furrowing straight through a layer cake desert. I could be a state away by morning. The car purred and leapt past a granny hanging out in the left lane.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A third sign, a quarter mile left, and I sped past a slow semi which had trapped a stodgy line of minivans in the slow lane. I looked ahead to where the mountains were shrouded by a smoky sky. I could climb five thousand feet and breathe starlight before the quarter moon stood high.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sighing, I cut right, and right again, waving goodbye to the little sports car that had been testing itself against my madness. Slow, slow, calm at the light, my impatience swallowed and tamped down with thoughts of todo lists and laundry that needed folding. Someday, I promised myself, I will be reborn a hawk, so I can truly fly.</span><br />
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ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-19435911214863607542015-08-15T20:28:00.002-06:002015-08-15T20:28:46.729-06:00The Saga of the Orange Truck<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Written 2007, revised 2015</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My Darling Husband takes great pride in being a logical, reasonable, and efficient person. He's also, well, cheap. He says "practical and frugal", but really, he likes doing things on the cheap. Which is why, when my grandmother died last year and I inherited some furniture, he didn't want to ship it. Initial estimates were $1800 to ship the dining room table (seats 12 with all the leaves in) and chairs, and a child's bedroom set (two twin beds, desk, chair, dresser, bedside table, dressing table, and carpet) plus random other stuff from Grandma. Personally, I thought $1800 was a good deal, considering they'd bring the "pod" to us, we'd pack it, they'd deliver to the door at the other end. But no, it was too much money. Fortunately (?!) Auntie P in Massachusetts had a storage pod in her backyard (don't ask), so we hired a truck, moved the furniture, and there it has sat for nearly a year. Now with us conveniently close this summer, DH figured we can just hop down to Massachusetts to get the stuff, and he'll haul it back when he comes home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Unfortunately, our big blue truck holds only three people, so we can't use it as the family vehicle in Vermont. My beloved Honda Pilot doesn't really have the power to haul a trailer full of furniture back to Colorado. DH's solution? Buy another truck! Okay, we've been talking about buying a replacement truck, one that can be a backup vehicle if the Pilot is in the shop, and one that doesn't require so much maintenance. So DH went out and bought an EVEN OLDER truck (1978) that has been sitting unused in his friend's yard for about three years. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You see, DH figures he is SAVING money this way. The idea is, we buy this truck, fix it up some, he drives it across country and uses it as transportation in VT, then we buy a trailer and pick up the furniture. When we get back to Denver, he sells this truck and the trailer for the initial price, and that way we don't have to pay the $1800 to ship the furniture. MUCH more reasonable, practical, and efficient than taking our Honda Pilot and shipping the stinking furniture, which was my silly plan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Before I go further, please take a moment to picture the "new" truck. It's a 1978 Ford. It is BIG and orange and has a brown plastic-wood interior. There are rust holes through the bed in at least one spot, and one side is more Bondo than metal. True, it has an extended cab, so it does have room for us all. Sort of. The jump seats behind the driver are perpendicular to the road, and are little more than low boards with brown naugahyde on them. Even better, for safety reasons the kids have to be in the front seat (sitting sideways makes for dangerous head bouncing, plus their car seats can't be buckled into the back). But their car seats are kind of permanently installed (again, for safety). Since DH does the driving, this means I get the back seats. Of course, to get there I have to crawl over the front seat. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am NOT the smallest or most graceful of people. Imagine a slim hippo wallowing over a bench seat, trying not to kick the kids in the head, or tangle feet in the seat belt or step on the horn (It happened. I hit my head on the roof. More than once). Plus - 4/40 AC (that's 4 windows, at 40 miles an hour). From my huddled perch I recently discovered that the driver's end of the seat is held up by a stack of washers held roughly in place by a bolt. You know -- flat, round, hole in the center. I counted 15, but we were bouncing so I'm not sure how accurate that was . . . Oh, and the radio is AM only. No tape deck, not even FM.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Can you see where this is going?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">DH put in about 20 hours of his own time and paid someone else a couple hundred dollars to fix up the Orange Truck (fuses, gauges, patches over the rust holes). I got him a wonderful new iPod-ready stereo and loaded his iPod with audio books, and he declared himself ready to go. We cheerfully waved him off.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Four hours later I got the first call from the beside the highway just the other side of the Nebraska border. Possible oil leak, may have seized the engine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yeah, okay. I gave him the Auto Club info (honey, the card is in your wallet -- remember?) and told him to let me know whether I should strap the kids into the faithful (and practically new) Honda Pilot Car and come get him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the second call he told me a mechanic took a look, added 6 quarts of oil, now it seems to be running fine. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Third call - truck's getting 7 miles a gallon, he's filling up the oil almost as much as the gas tank, but it's running fine. Really. And oh, the speakers have gone out, so he has to use the headphones to listen to the iPod. I resist pointing out that the Pilot has a good sound system.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Next call - May actually be as much as 9 miles a gallon! I resist pointing out the Pilot gets 22.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Next call - truck is "running a little hot" so he has to drive with the heat on. Through the Midwest. In summer. I resist pointing out that the Pilot's A/C works really, really well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Next call - gas continues to be more than $3.00. He figures gas and oil will cost him more than $800 heading east, probably more on the way back because he's be hauling a load. I resist pointing out that he's spending an awful lot of money to save $1800.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then I call my mother and say "I told you so I told you so I told you so" because it's never a good idea to say that directly to my spouse.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After three days DH did get to Vermont safely. Now, however, he's not sure the orange truck can get him back to Denver, especially pulling a load. So, he's found ANOTHER "new" truck. It's the youngest truck he's ever owned (a 2001 - only six years), and only has 171,000 miles on it. And at $7500 it's "cheap". This doesn't, of course, account for the fact that the current owner estimates that he'll need a new engine in two years. DH keeps saying "it's only $7,500!" I have expressed my reservations, but the fact that we can buckle the kids into seats in the back <i>and</i> I get a door has pretty much won me over. We're going to try to sell the orange truck for $2000 -- a loss of only $250 in the end. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Next, we acquire a trailer . . . Oh, joy.</span>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-11510379515152986932015-07-27T08:54:00.001-06:002015-07-27T08:54:52.582-06:00Anchor<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It is the last Sunday in July. I know this only from a phone call with my mother last night. It is Mountain Fair weekend in my home town, and the fair is held on the last full weekend in July.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Dates and alarms are anchors in my usual life. At home I am tethered by clocks -- next to my bed, on the microwave, on the computer, facing me each time I look at my phone. My schedule regulates me: rise, eat, listen, manage, shepherd, make, collapse. Again. There is little freedom in routine.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Confession: I need the boundaries of expectation. Without limits I waste time and use time and spend time, and when I am careless with hours and days my productivity "goes down" and in this day and age, this time, when value is measured and displayed in getting things done, I become worth less. Worthless.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am unmoored here. We have clocks, but they are unreliable like the melted time pieces in Dali's paintings, mere constructs of an outside idea not germane to this place. We rise when we wake, sleep when we are tired. Lunch happens at 3 p.m., or 11 a.m. or is a bite of an apple taken in passing between events which expand or collapse based on who is interested in participating. We have Day and Night, but even those are fluid. In these northern climes dawn and dusk are elastic, stretching silver across the lake. I wake with birdsong. The dog barely raises his head in mockery of my wakefulness, so I roll over and go back to sleep. The clock means nothing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I wonder at our fixation with time. We don't like to admit that it is a cultural construction. Travelling, I used to joke about being on local time, expecting people to be late for everything. I felt superior, with my promptness and exactitude. I hope I am wiser now.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Checking the calendar, we have three weeks more here. In a short while (what is short?) I will need to begin setting schedules again to ease us back into our normal lives. To anchor us again to the world outside.</span>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-62017532114154484822015-07-22T17:01:00.001-06:002015-07-27T08:59:00.799-06:00Doubts<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Every once in a while a word flies into my head, fluttering in desperate circles like a moth against a lighted pane. Most recently it was <i>dudas</i> — Spanish for doubts. I was hauling branches at the time. My husband had decided to trim the lowest branches on the maples that ring our “back yard” to let in some light. There are many maples. There were many, many branches. Over and over again I grasped three or four limbs and dragged them from the tennis court past the house across the road to the burn pile. The abundant leaves rasped against the drying mud. At first I fancied myself a peacock trailing fifteen feet of emerald glory, but after many trips it became nothing more than drudgery. Sweat salted my lips. I resented the dull exhausting task, piled as it was on top of all the others that have been ticked off the list since we got here. Dudas flew into my mind.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It is easy to construct an admirable self-image within the bubble of day-to-day existence. In a carefully regulated environment of one’s own choosing, being strong or beautiful or competent or smart is a habit of circumstance. Displacement throws all those carefully established tropes in disarray. I pride myself on being strong and competent, characteristics I claim to have inherited from some remarkable pioneer women. My surety crumbles here. It takes so much effort to open, clean, and maintain the property; before it is ready I usually find myself overwhelmed and in tears. It’s not the individual tasks so much as the endlessness of them. Chore after chore is added to list of work needing to be done. My enthusiasm wanes with each. My husband soldiers on, promising that tomorrow we’ll go to the lake, or for a bike ride, or play tennis. We just need to get a few things done. I am daunted by his drive. More accurately, I am shaken from my sense of self by my own reluctance. My weakness. A few hours of physical labor and all I want to do is sit down and read. A week and I become unbearably grumpy. The shiny links to my ancestors tarnish with shame.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This upsets me. Perhaps it shouldn’t. I don’t often get challenged at home, especially not with big, ongoing projects. I’ve made sure of that. I’ll help on a workday at the maternal family cabin, or volunteer for an afternoon at a school-related function. Events are bite-sized and perfectly manageable. I have created a cocoon and happily snuggle in to it. When there is physical labor to be done, my husband usually brings his work crew over and they take care of it in a bustle of manly energy. Here, he is occupied with work only he can do, and the children and I are expected to fill in the gaps to the best of our abilities. Honestly, nothing he asks is truly beyond me; if I refused a job he would reassure me and, if I still felt uncomfortable, he wouldn’t push. His confidence in my abilities is higher than my own. The dudas are mine.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A friend once asked why, if it is so difficult, do I keep coming back. My immediate answers focused on family time and the guests I adore and, mostly, because it means so much to my spouse. There’s more to it, though. Traveling is as much about self-discovery as it is about seeing new sights. Last Christmas our family went to Italy for three weeks. It was a grand adventure for us all, but wasn’t a huge challenge for me. I’ve traveled extensively, and Europe has all the amenities a middle-class American could want or need. I picked up enough Italian to get by (with the gracious assistance of locals, of course). The food was deliciously familiar, as were the museums and transportation systems. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the weeks before we left both my children fretted about how long the flights were, and not being able to communicate, and staying in hotels, and what they would eat, and would pickpockets leave us destitute on the side of a Roman boulevard. By the end of our journey, however, they were easily navigating the metro, and choosing which sites we’d visit, and chatting in broken Italian with service personnel. They had discovered that capacity in themselves, and carry in their hearts the knowledge that they are capable of traveling abroad. I am sure that confidence will serve them well</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I come here because I do want to see my East Coast friends, and because it does make my husband happy, and because our time here binds our family more tightly. I also come here because it challenges me tremendously to step outside my little world. I fail, and I cry, and I am weaker than I like. But we eventually cross everything off the list, and I can look through our photos at the end of the summer and say “I helped with that.” And whatever doubts may spring up, I learn again exactly what I can do. And sometimes, it’s more than I ever imagined.</span>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-61637590332644237992015-07-22T16:58:00.004-06:002015-07-27T09:00:27.840-06:00Grocery store<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The wind is sighing through the trees, through my heart. I am alone in the dining room as everyone sleeps. The sun glows through promising clouds, but I cannot read the promise.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am planning a trip to town for groceries and sundries. This is not simple - I must think of everything before I leave. 7 miles to the mainland, 25 miles to the store. My lists are detailed and compartmentalized by store name. Hardware, grocery, home goods, thrift.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">These trips are joyful in their aloneness, and fraught with homesickness. I miss the checkout ladies - Donna and Mary especially - who have been helping me with groceries for longer than my children have been alive. I ache for the ease of a store just 10 minutes away. I long for stranger-smiles, which are not customary here. Instead my fellow shoppers glare at me with suspicion, and walk away from my assumed intimacy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Out and back, just like at home but somehow totally different. I still am a stranger here, caught in a web of partial familiarity after 5 summers in 10 years. I know the roads and the stores, but I do not know the place.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In these summers I am a traveler, restless and rootless. This is not a bad thing. The experience makes me more flexible and adaptable. I certainly appreciate the luxury of my home, my life, far more when I return. My children are ineffably enlightened as well, and we all become closer. Most importantly, I get the chance to spend time with people I otherwise would never see. Still, these mornings when I go through my list a dozen times, I dream of home.</span>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-88814795875047521752015-07-06T11:11:00.000-06:002015-07-27T08:55:57.730-06:00Metrics<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We play games after breakfast here. Uno. Cribbage. Qwirkle. Waterworks. Dishes can wait. The work list is discussed (there is always work). With each card, each tile, a connection grows. We know each other better. It is subtle, but i learn to predict what they will play. The games get more difficult, more strategic.</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Some days I beg off. I feel compelled to start my day, urged by habit and upbringing to complete chores early, as if a full sink at 10 a.m. says something awful about me. Other days I ache to be alone. The big homes and empty rooms of modern living suit me. I have a deep appreciation for doors, even though mine are usually open. The option of solitude is a grace not often acknowledged.</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It will be sunny today, then the rain returns. Hurry, hurry to do more while we can. The weather is a capricious master, and it drives my husband mad. He cannot <i>not</i> work, therefore the children and I must as well. What fools we modern people are, always making lists for ourselves and condemning our imagined shortfalls and the end if the day. I hearken back two hundred years - even without artificial light there was so much more time. Progress is measured, I think, in strange metrics.</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I will attempt laundry, despite the moisture that hangs heavy in the air. We will paint the house. These are Good Things. Perhaps I will steal time and waste it immersing myself in an enchanting tale of genies and golems and old New York City. An eyebrow will be raised my way if i am caught. I will apologize, but in my heart I know that my fanciful travels, the ones that change me from the inside out, those are the actions that give me meaning. That is my measure of a day well spent.</span>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-3065878624395633142015-07-01T16:31:00.002-06:002015-07-06T10:56:08.912-06:00Reclamation<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The to-do list is growing shorter. The hedges are trimmed, roof leaks sealed, mower repaired. I unwrapped beds and aired linens while my husband rebuilt sections of rotted porch columns. Our children have been conscripted into yard work and cleaning, fetching rakes and brooms and hand tools when we holler for help. This kind of work is meditative. There’s a rhythm to sweeping and scrubbing and mopping that leaves me free to ponder our, my, relationship with this camp. It’s not a vacation. At least, not by my definition of the term. It is, however, a restoration. A reclamation. Together we are working to restore the camp from slow decay, and in doing so we reclaim our family, our friendships, and even my husband’s past.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The camp is called Dingley Dell. When it was established between the wars, the founders called the campers “The Adventurers”. My husband grew up on his father’s Peter Pan-esque stories of the boys who built giant sailing ships and roved pirate-style up and down Lake Champlain. Those glory days are long past. The assembly hall is filled with bird nests and pockets of blown-in leaves. Fractured remains of boats are beached in the woods. Each summer when we first arrive I have a tendency to make inappropriate jokes about arson and tell my husband we could pay the taxes if we rented the camp out as a location for a horror movie. He has different eyes, though. Here and at home he can look at a building and see its potential. Work doesn’t daunt him. He has the skill and the patience and the drive to make this place better. And he’s right. A week of work and it’s comfortable. A second week plus the artful placement of peonies — cut from the ghost of a garden — and the buildings become charming.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It’s not easy. At home, the children spend much of their summer playing electronic devices, sometimes with friends, often alone or next to each other on the couch — each in their own pixelated world. I am no different; I spend most of my days at my computer. I call it work but spend as much time chatting with friends as balancing checkbooks and paying bills. My husband works, hustling off after breakfast and returning just in time for supper. His evenings and weekends year-round are punctured by the need to accommodate customers who aren’t available during the day. While I aspire to be an engaged and inspirational parent, trips to the museum or swimming pool often take more effort than I can muster. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Here, electronics are forbidden until the end of the day for all of us. Instead we work, together. During a post-breakfast board game each day we go over what chores need to be done. We do take breaks for games and (when it’s warm enough) a trip to the lake to wash off the day, but so much needs to be done that we can’t just relax. The children gripe, but I smile to myself as I see them at their father’s side, taking in his lessons on carpentry, repairing slate roofs, how to properly construct a bonfire. They’re also absorbing our lessons on a strong work ethic and taking pride in a job well done. Their objections are slowly diminishing as they become accustomed to helping. They’re taking on more, too. At home I take care of all the housework. Here, each child is responsible for doing the dishes by hand after a meal. I no longer have to order them to help hang the laundry and bring it in when it is dry (or re-hang it indoors when the rain comes). They even have created a project for themselves, turning the loft into an indoor play space and sleeping fort. With some help from us they relocated drifts of abandoned furniture and pulled up layers of peeling linoleum to expose the wood floor that needs to be caulked and painted. They filled two giant bags with trash and detritus, swept the floor, and primed the walls. Together they chose a first paint color — fluorescent orange immediately vetoed by laughing parents — and settled for a gray green that won’t show dirt quite so well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have to admit: I am not good at this level of togetherness. In the usual course of events I spend several days a week by myself. I am adjusting, slowly, to the constancy of my family. Every activity is spent with at least one other person. It is difficult for me, but I can see how beneficial it is for us all. We are forced to express our needs out loud, rather than hiding in a different room until the moment passes. My daughter, queen of getting her own way, is starting to compromise and share. Our son, who excels at disappearing, is reluctantly participating. I am practicing being present rather than off in my own head or with my electronic circle of friends. My husband must take other peoples’ needs and abilities into consideration. We are growing closer. It’s subtle, but our family is gradually being reclaimed from the distractions available in the outside world.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Not that we’re entirely isolated. Our first guests came last weekend. He is a high-school classmate of my husband, nearly forgotten until a reunion five years ago. He and his wife are road-tripping up the East Coast thanks to their daughter’s summer camp plans. Their email, “Can we pop in?” was surprising, but by the end of their visit we’d exchanged email addresses and made tentative plans to visit them in the spring. Upcoming visitors will include college friends and some online pals I’ve never met in person. I count myself incredibly fortunate for this opportunity. Back home everyone is always so busy. Despite the relative flexibility of my schedule I have to schedule weeks in advance to have lunch with a friend. Without social media many of my relationships would completely wither. Even with that touchstone, I can feel how hollow many of those are. I do my best to share openly, honestly, frequently. I’ve been warned by at least one person that I say too much, too publicly. Most people give only glimpses of their lives, assuming that it is enough. How, though, can I call someone my friend if I have no idea what is really happening in their life? Here we have the opportunity to reclaim old acquaintances and forge new ones. So much can be said over — and after — a meal. We create connections without words while staring out at sailboats on the lake, and make friends of strangers over card games and croquet. I find the allure of the internet fading as I plan meals and prepare guest rooms and figure out what activities we will share.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My husband tells stories of roving the woods with friends and family, getting into, and out of, trouble. On our first visits here, when we had to place half a dozen buckets to catch the leaks and the ceilings were falling in and raccoons nested in our beds, I couldn’t understand why he wanted to come back. Now I have thousands of pictures of him working — raising sinking foundations and re-slating an entire roof and fixing, fixing, fixing. I have scrubbed floors and walls and ceilings and painted them as well. My pride-of-place is growing to match his. And with each sailing adventure or tennis match, with each cocktail hour and cheese plate, with every walk around the property and every tale told of the boys who built the place and the man and woman who have worked so hard to restore it, those peter Pan stories come closer to life. It isn’t easy, coming here. It’s not a vacation, but it is worth it.</span>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-30238705585145408382015-06-01T09:20:00.003-06:002015-06-01T11:56:20.267-06:00L'Etranger<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In two weeks a stranger will move into my house. This is the truth. In two weeks a friend I respect and trust will be living in my home. This is the same truth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We met online and have known each other about two years. I believe we’ve become friends. At least, friendly enough that I asked him to house-sit while our family travels. DH is anxious. He doesn’t have two years of near-daily posts to reassure him. I, on the other hand, have seen this man's regrets and hopes. I’ve read stories of his family and his parents and his pets. We have not met in person, but I know him as well or better than many people with whom I spend time in real life. This is the strange thing about online friendships — the intimacy afforded by distance.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Still, I am nervous. Every time we displace ourselves I follow rituals of deep cleaning, but this time feels more urgent. My friend has never been inoculated to the quirks of my family. He’s never been over for supper or stopped by to chat. He’s coming in blind. And that makes me feel strangely naked and vulnerable. I scrub in preparation and wonder what stories my belongings will tell. What conclusions will be drawn from the spines on the his-n-hers bookcases -- my side full of young adult fantasy, gardening, and poetry, my husband’s a catalog of military history. The paintings on the walls and the sculptures in corners are bits of me on display. Who do they say I am?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I’m culling. I’ve gone through the linen closet and the bathroom cabinets. The children and I sorted through their rooms and captured five trash bags full of donations for the thrift store. Five years of old records are cleaned from my files. Ancient canned goods are pulled to the front to be eaten, and the freezer is nearly empty. The drifts of paper magnetted to the refrigerator have been curated to a few important pictures. I joke that I do this every time. I know better. I’m trying to make a good impression. This is silly, because — assuming my friend reads my posts in turn — he knows me as well as anyone. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This is all incidental. The intersection of our lives will be momentary. I will come home, and nothing will have changed. After months away, new books will be added to my shelf. I will see my art with fresh eyes. My friend will leave, hopefully to adventures of his own. We will stay in touch online, or maybe not. I will have met a friend. We will part, still strangers.</span>ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-38245090913545569822015-06-01T09:20:00.000-06:002015-06-01T11:56:55.434-06:00SunflowerWinter darkness is difficult for me. The spanish word for sunflower is girasol -- literally: turn sun. I am a sunflower, turning to the light. Today the sun shone and I woke and smiled. The dogs took me for a walk. I took pictures and said good morning to neighbors as they sat on their porches facing the sun with steaming mugs of coffee. We came home. I have faced the sun. My mug steams. I am filled with light, and life is good.ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6347049693726709384.post-6900725891395902932015-06-01T09:18:00.005-06:002015-06-01T11:59:36.091-06:00Planting<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We went to the plant store yesterday, my daughter and I. She pushed a flatbed cart and we collected random pots. She had been eager for days, pushing pushing pushing for us to go to the store. There was no time for me to plan my purchases. Usually I stare at the ground, considering the gaps, imagining late summer lushness. Gardens are tricky. In the first lust of spring it's easy to be fooled by the spare shoots surrounded by bare earth. There's a post-winter desire for abundance. But too much and the garden chokes itself, the final hurrah fizzling in a pool of green. Gardens are a constant lesson in both hope and humility.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I wasn't prepared. She was hot and tired after field day, and impatient with me. She is often impatient with me. I am more deliberate than she. I read instructions. I plan. I ponder. I consider possibilities and only then do I act. She is a hummingbird, chirping and changing directions so fast she leaves me dizzy. I admire her until I attempt to redirect her toward half-finished projects. Then we argue, and I catch her impatience, throwing away half-used things and growling that she needs to think her plans through.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We lost two roses this year, glorious giant bushes of pink flowers that marked my home as much as the yellow slide in front. My daughter chose stately white replacements, tea roses rather than floribunda. I like the titles. Tea. Floribunda. Grandiflora. Rugosa. They feel like a secret code which I pretend to understand. I chose Spanish Sunset, an nother tea, because I crave intensity in my garden. The contrast beween winter's white and brown, and summer's vivid oranges and purples satisfies some ancient seasonal part of me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I will plant everything today. Agastache and thyme and hyssop. In the heat of the mid-summer sun my garden smells like a fertile candy store. I will miss much of it this year. I am planting hope.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's a solitary ritual for me, digging in compost, knocking the pots, watering everything in. Alone, but not lonely as I think of my mother and helping in her garden. Then I will stand back and admire the thin spires and tiny carpets, islands in the dirt, imagining the glory to which I hope to return in August.</span><br />
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ilyannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04805944750017424794noreply@blogger.com0