The Adventurers (Part 1)

How I came to Dingley Dell - a short story made long with lots of detours. Part 1

A friend asked recently how the Fearless Leader of Kreskestan wound up spending weeks in a not-quite-dilapidated summer camp in remote Vermont. 

The short version is: it's my husband's family place.

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...)

The Saga of the Orange Truck

Written 2007, revised 2015

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.

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.  

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.

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. 

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.

Can you see where this is going?

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.

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.

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.

In the second call he told me a mechanic took a look, added 6 quarts of oil, now it seems to be running fine.  

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.

Next call - May actually be as much as 9 miles a gallon! I resist pointing out the Pilot gets 22.

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.

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.

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.

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 and 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.  

Next, we acquire a trailer . . .  Oh, joy.

Anchor

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Doubts

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 dudas — 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.

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.

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.

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. 

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
. 
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.

Grocery store

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Metrics

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.

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.

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 not 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.

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.

Reclamation

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

Soundscape

There's a constant breeze from the south. The house is surrounded by maples. From my bedroom window I look across the road to see the grand old cottonwood and its companion willow. We recently planted two oak trees whose tops are just rising above the sill. The rustling leaves of each tree sounds different, like instruments in an orchestra, blending into a gentle papery symphony.

A cardinal declares his prowess from a high snag, dropping trills and notes to me like royalty dispensing coins. Robins ignore his conceit, sharing their short melody then swooping between trees to offer it again. Other songs are unfamiliar. I listen with my eyes, trying to spot the artists, as if seeing could improve the glory of calls and responses, songs and conversations.

The dogs gallop past, chasing some elusive, possibly imagined, target. Their passage brings to mind the thunder of the racetrack as the horses pass.

Wherever I am the sound of "MOM!" rises like smoke signals, begging an equally loud response. Our family communicates by echolocation. Some days I choose not to respond. The noise moves trainlike around the property, changing tone as the caller approaches or paces in the wrong direction. When not exasperated I find this secretly amusing.

Cyclists and pedestrians chatter past as they tour the scenic byway that runs before the house, gravel crunching, unaware that I watch them from my window. Stanley-dog's voice has shifted to a slightly lower register. He's a talker, responding to queries with grunts and growls. He delights in raising the alarm, bark rising to a yelp that echoes like a gunshot from the trees, or rolling thunder. The passersby startle, then laugh, at his bravado.

An aluminum ladder clanks. A hammer pounds. My husband's expletives pepper down as he works on yet another repair. He clatters down and sighs with satisfaction to cross another fix off the list.

The compressor on one of the refrigerators is failing. In the morning it squeaks and squeals and breathes frosty mist whenever the door is opened. Afternoons it settles to a gentle mechanical snore. I find it somehow endearing, and put off the craigslist search for a replacement.

I close the windows against the chill, and light a fire. It's quiet enough that I can hear the fluttering of flames in the fireplace, like flags on a windy day. The dogs whimper and trot in their sleep. The children lean on me, and I read to them quietly as the sound of their yawns draws me, too, toward sleep.

Bare Cupboards

The cabinets are slowly emptying. The refrigerator contains little more than pickles and condiments. I am washing walls and baseboards in preparation: we leave in a few days to spend the summer away.

It's a splendid opportunity. My husband's family has a traditional summer "camp" in another state which we visit every other summer. There's a lake and sailing and a motorboat. We have a tennis court and a wide array of warped wooden tennis rackets which add a hilarious unpredictability to the game. We've strung a hammock. We have a croquet set. Everyone we know is invited to visit for however long they can. Some do, and there's a delightful confluence of strangers-become-friends eating, playing cards, staying up late drinking and discussing every topic imaginable.

There was a period during which maintenance was sporadic. Leaks developed. Shrubbery became overgrown. Foundations sank. With each visit we make it a little better -- cleaning, repairing, updating. I take before- and after-pictures to document the transformation. Still, we leave with project lists for the next visit, then spend days deciphering what our cryptic notes mean when we begin packing anew.

Packing takes weeks of planning. There are lists and spreadsheets. We make piles in the basement, in the living room, in the garage. Fitting everything into a pickup truck is a jigsaw puzzle made more complicated by the need to save space for four people and two dogs. Over time I've taken less and less. Babies require far more equipment than toddlers and my children are now old enough that they require little more than books and clothes.

Traveling so far away, for so long, requires a paring. A cutting back of wants and needs. At home I have a knife block with ten different viciously sharp knives. There I use two. Five hundred CDs are replaced by a single radio station. Three or four highly recommended novels go into my bag; I leave behind stacks of unread books on my bedside table and dresser. Three pair of shoes cover the entire summer: sneakers, flip flops, and a pair of flats, just in case. Upon my return I will be appalled at the excesses of space and goods in my home, even though I claim to live simply.

I speak enthusiastically about our trip, but there's a hesitation in my heart this year. I believe it's a factor of time and distance. We are not moving, or relocating. That would imply a permanence and sense of purpose. This is a dislocation. Our summer routines will be just the same -- eating, cooking, cleaning, learning, reading, writing, playing, exploring -- but elsewhere. Sometimes I wake from a dream disoriented, unable to find the lines between realities. The same happens with our summers away. Upon our return the weeks seem dreamlike and our regular lives resume immediately, as if nothing happened.

We leave in four days. We will drive unceasing to Ohio, then collapse for a night before pushing on. I hope to arrive in the daylight. We have, in the past, arrived late and with no electricity. By the light of headlamps we did just enough unwrapping so that we each had a mattress, then collapsed into sleeping bags. Morning light squeezed between gaps in the shutters and we woke to the possibilities our our temporary home. Despite my trepidation this year, whatever time we arrive I will wake to a marvelous dream.

Camp News

Time stretches and warps here. There's a sameness to the days so that it seems we've been here forever in some sort of stasis. I lose track of days and dates and time. None of us has a schedule anymore; "lunch time" is heralded by suddenly grumbly kids rather than a timepiece. Bedtime is marking by dark and the end of whatever card game we've been playing. I'm anchored only by the countdown to the arrival of our guests, most of whom are still guesstimating their schedules. I'm floating outside of time. I spent much of last week preparing to send the kids to camp today, until I received an email reminder that they don't start for another week.


We're moving more slowly than in years past. It took nearly a week to finish unwrapping and opening and cleaning. Projects, which in years past we urgent (leaking roofs), are more cosmetic this year, and therefore can be interspersed with reading and card games. The lake is still astonishingly high (we arrived barely after record-breaking flooding eased) and still quite cold, so we've only been down there a few times. Strangest -- best -- of all, Will is more relaxed. He's listening when I suggest we knock off for the day, or take a lunch break. Yesterday he actually spent some time reading and sleeping in the hammock.


We are still working, though. Tradition requires that we rake up all the dead leaves and grass everywhere we mow, which amounts to something like two acres. The rationale makes sense: it reduces mosquito population because they don't have wet places to lay eggs, and it encourages a vaguely lawn-like growth of grass. It's physically exhausting labor. This year I talked Will into renting a dethatching rake that can be pulled by the lawn tractor. It didn't work. I'm now campaigning to experimentally hire a lawn crew to come in and mow and rake and cut hedges during our off year in hopes that it will reduce the amount of thatch. Will is dubious about the effectiveness, and feeling "frugal", but I think it is ridiculous to spend the first nine days of our vacation fixing the mower and raking. Then again it does mean we get to burn things.


We've amassed huge piles of grass and straw and leaves. Traditionally these get piled in the field next to the guest house and ignited in an alarming bonfire that takes all night to burn down. This year we decided to start early -- and paid the price. Despite all efforts it was only a smolder pile, sending up huge clouds of smoke and steam all night, blanketing the southern part of the island in gray. We'd blessed the fact that the usual wind was gone; after a few hours we wished it back, less to breathe life into our fire and more to shift the evidence of our foolishness somewhere else.


One neighbor, shortly after we lit the fuel, drove over and demanded that we "Not do that." He told us his house was filling with smoke, and stood there as if expecting us to immediately dump water over our haystack and apologize profusely. Nevermind that we had a permit; that other neighbors had just the day before been (more successfully, I admit) burning their yard waste; that Will's family has been burning leaves on this island longer than he has been alive. I was surprised by how hostile I felt toward him, and silently supported Will's careful apology-without-a-promise-to-stop. Usually I step in and try to make nice, make happy. It took me a while to figure out, but I realized that I was affronted by the interloper's bad manners! Like many new age parents I have taught my children some basics of conflict management. Will and I have been learning new skills in counseling, too. And when this fellow showed up and just demanded that we stop, I had no motivation to help. If only he had introduced himself, said where he lived, and THEN explained that his house was filling up with smoke! I surely would have done my best to help him. Funny how little courtesies make such a difference.


Another great difference this year is the mosquitoes. Grandpa Dan called and told us to expect the worst -- the flooding and dampness was probably going to lead to the biggest outbreak of skeeters in modern memory. I dread the whiny insects. As of last year we have mosquito netting for the kids' room, but in years past we have gone on "mosquito patrol" before bed, killing dozens in our room and theirs. We've been forced to slather on repellent before bed and with breakfast each day. This year, though, I discovered Raid for Flying Insects. I generally don't approve of pesticides, but in my desperation I learned that this noxious stuff can be sprayed on window screens (even ones with big holes in them) and it kills flying insects on contact. Now, it could be our fabulous raking job, but we've not had many kills on patrol at night. It's wonderful to go to bed knowing I'll only have a few bites instead of the dozens I was getting last year. We'll see if the pattern holds through the warmer months.


It's getting late, and I must feed my children before dark. They're sleeping in a tent in the back yard again tonight, as Will finally repairs drywall damaged years ago by incessant, now repaired, roof leaks. Amazing how work begets more work. Fortunately this is a happy chore because it's a sign that Will's work over the past few visits really is making a difference.


Good night from Dingley Dell!

Biding time

Today I'm filling time. The truck is packed, I have a small amount of paperwork to finish, and tomorrow morning we leave for Vermont. I took a nap, and in fact Will is still asleep in a square of light that is slowly crossing the bed, causing a restless contortion to avoid the hot spots. Denver is suddenly warm enough that the A/C is kicking on, despite my nightly cooling rituals of fans and windows.


Will and I travel well together. We are curious in the same way, and prowl the parts of touristy destinations that usually get little attention. While others are at the top of castle towers, we seek out kitchens and midden heaps. We'd rather find a locally-recommended restaurant than the one the guidebook suggests. We're almost always up for one more museum. The kids have upset the balance a little, shortening my attention span, but in general we enjoy travelling.


However, preparing for trips used to be awful. I'd make arrangements and Will wouldn't want to have any input until the last minute, at which point I'd feel criticized and managed. Until we actually hit the road, we growled and sniped at each other. I was baffled when Will didn't want to know flight schedules, and he was annoyed when I double-checked that he had his ID for the airline. Finally one day I realized: I am in charge of Macro arrangements, and Will is in charge of Micro arrangements. So, I choose destinations and make flight arrangements. I determine what sights we should see, and make lists of what the kids and I need to take. I cancel the milk order and stop the newspaper. And then, shortly before we go, Will gets involved. Not long before we leave he begins planning daily schedules and driving routes, double-checking that I have important documents, going over my lists.


It still seems odd to me, but I've relaxed into the unspoken arrangement. It works for us. Which is why I've been preparing for weeks -- renewing passports, getting phone service in Vermont, finding a house sitter, cleaning house. And it's why I have time today. Now it's Will's turn.


He was frustrated and impatient this morning, asking me repeatedly to get all our stuff piled up, until he finally truly heard me say that I was done. We're taking a lot less stuff this year. The kids are older and more self-sufficient. Vi has taught me where the tools I need are squirrelled away, so I don't need to bring as much. We use less clothing there, maybe because it's summer, maybe because we don't (Violet doesn't) change clothes six times a day. For whatever reasons, packing is simpler this year.


And tomorrow, right after breakfast, the Clampetts, er, Bakers, are headed far away for 10 weeks. I'll be updating Facebook along the way, and hopefully blogging a little more regularly from there. Happy trails!

VT Invite

An Invitation to a "Good Time" (But Not in a Naughty Way)

We are thrilled to announce that we're going Camping again for the summer. That is, we're heading back to the Baker family summer camp "Dingley Dell" in rural Vermont for another season of fun, food, rest, relaxation, water sports, tractor rides (Sam's favorite) and any other enjoyable thing we can think of. As always, we'd like all our friends to join us for the whole time; unfortunately we know that's not possible. We do, however, hope you'll find a way to join us for a few days (or more).

The Particulars

Originally a summer camp for boy sailors, Dingley Dell has been somewhat modernized (we have hot & cold running water and indoor toilets) but is still a classic New England camp experience. We stay in the main house, and our guests enjoy the privacy of another house across the road, with a bedroom on the main floor and a dormitory of sorts (four twin beds) upstairs. Over our past two visits we have (meaning Willl has) worked to perform necessary maintenance and some cosmetic improvements. It's still a camp, but now that we fixed the vacuum (and the roof, and the floor, and the ceiling, and the screens, and painted the walls, and . . .), it's pretty nice. That's not to say we won't have more projects for which we might recruit some help!

Generally, meals are served in the main house, except when we go down to the waterfront and enjoy picnics on the stone beach of Lake Champlain, looking west to the mountains of upstate New York. Our place is situated about ¼ mile up from a semi-private bay, with clear water that's only about 4 feet deep for several hundred yards. We plan to get at least one sailboat in the water this year, and have acquired a motor boat for faster-paced water fun. Area activities include biking, hiking, swimming (duh!), studying history (Revolutionary War forts, anyone?), eating (you KNOW I like to feed people), visiting the Ben & Jerry's factory, and pretty much whatever else you might like.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, or, Where We're Located And How To Get There

225 West Shore Rd, South Hero, VT. (You can Google it.) Basically we're an hour north and across a causeway from Burlington, the largest city in VT; an hour by ferry from Plattsburgh, NY; and an hour south of Montreal, Canada. Car, plane, boat, even train - you can reach us. Airport options include Burlington (BTV), Plattsburgh, NY (PBG), and Montreal (YMQ). Trains come into both Essex Junction (15 minutes away) and Plattsburgh. And, of course, you're welcome to drive yourself.

When To Come

We're heading there almost as soon as school gets out, and we'll get back not long before school starts again. Factoring in drive time and opening/closing the place, we figure we can host from around June 16th until about August 5th.

We Want To Come. What Do We Do?

Let us know when, and we'll be ready for you! We'll have a phone (and access to the internet), but don't know the number yet. Your best bet is to call me on my cell phone or email me. 

Return of the King (and queen and prince and princess)

We're home. We've even mostly unpacked. I've done loads and loads of laundry, and the house looks remarkably like it did before we left - which means stuff everywhere and no rhyme or reason to anything. The sameness is disorienting -- it's like summer didn't happen. But tomorrow I turn in all of Sam's school registration paperwork, and he starts second grade on Wednesday.

I have many thoughts from this summer, but my impressions are all inchoate. I am hoping that a week at home and some quiet time alone will help me distill my experiences. It's odd to feel so wordless. I keep stopping Will and asking for a hug; he is a touchstone that grounds me when I find myself turning and turning in the kitchen, unable to find a starting point to address the piles that surround me. Tonight he is watching the children while I work on the school directory. Perhaps I will feel more in control after I get that particular project running. We shall see.

Stinkin' bloodsuckers!

And by that I mean ticks. We've got 'em, and they got both Teddy (the dog) and Will. Teddy was scarier -- she had some issues with her foreleg one day, was fine the next (after some aspirin) and the third day she woke up and pretty much couldn't walk. Will had to carry her down the stairs and we rushed to the vet. Fortunately they have a 10-minute test to check for the disease, and immediately prescribed us an antibiotic. I love modern medicine -- she was running again the very next morning. A few days later I noticed a target-shaped rash on Will's back, and after a couple visits to the doctor (they didn't see the rash the first time and I hounded him until he went back) he, too, is on antibiotics. The good news is, a three (for Will) and four (for Teddy) week course of drugs should completely cure both of them. Whew. Stupid ticks.

Blame Canada

It's July. That should mean I'm so hot I'm thinking about snow to cool down, watching the kids run through sprinklers and have water fights, hanging laundry on the line and having it crispy dry in minutes. Instead I'm sitting in front of a fire with hot tea, dodging cold gusts and sending rude thoughts north. I blame Canada for the weather. Apparently there's some sort of anomaly in the jet stream that is sending cooler-than-average weather and lots of rain to us in Vermont. I know I shouldn't feel sorry for myself, but when the bedroom is so cold at 8 a.m. in the middle of July that I don't want to get up to pee, something's messed up. Plus I'm paying bills this afternoon which isn't helping my mood. When I'm finished, though, I'm going to take my sleeping bag out to the hammock (mosquitoes be damned!) and read for an hour. Fortunately the kids seem okay with the weather and they are happily coloring the tennis court with the chalk I picked up at an art supply store yesterday.

The First Step

is admitting you have a problem.

This is a picture of the various jars of jelly I have found around this house in the past couple of days. I knew about some, and found new caches yesterday. Now, I understand WHY my mother-in-law has so much jelly around: used to be she had two teenaged sons and a very particular husband to please, plus they had only a couple of weeks to accomplish what filled our whole summer, so shopping had to be very efficient. And she is a great bargain hunter. But still, I don't think we'll ever get through all this jelly, no matter how many summers we visit. Not to mention I'm still a little unsure about opening up a jar of 20 year old jam. I'm just sayin'.

Homesick

I'm homesick. Not a lot, but I'm aching for the familiarity and ease of our home in Colorado. Perhaps it's the weather - we've had only a few whole days without rain, and I don't think any of those happened while we've had guests. We have had lovely visits with a varied bunch of people, and I have very much enjoyed cooking for them (don't I always?!) but I miss the ease of having every spice I need, neatly laid out and alphabetized (it's not OCD, just good planning, really!). I miss having a clothes dryer, even if it's just a short line in the back yard on which things dry to a crisp in hours instead of days. More than anything I miss how easy life at home is. Yes, my house gets dirty, but it's not from spiders who rebuild in fifteen minutes webs that I just swept away. Going to the grocery store is not a major undertaking that takes me away from home for 3+ hours, including nearly an hour of driving. And there are so many things to do that even a week of rain would be a welcome change of pace. Right now I'm feeling a little waterlogged.

I feel so lame for whining - I mean, who gets to go away for a summer anymore? And it is a great opportunity for our family. but we don't get out a lot (Will's focus is, as always, work) and rather than the chance for us to go out and do all sorts of neat things, this is a lot like relocating our regular life to the other side of the country, but more rustic, and with a lot more bugs.

Speaking of which, can anyone recommend a good book for identifying spiders?

Reprieve

We were expecting our next guests - a family of seven - yesterday, but they won't be coming until Monday. I am surprised by how relieved I am. I love having people here, but we've had two days of hanging out with no projects planned (since we anticipated company) and it's been nice to just sit. Today I did get all the wash done, beds remade, and guest spaces swept, but at a leisurely pace and with a few breaks to cuddle with Will.

Below are a couple pictures from the last few days with our friends the McGourtys (from Denver) and my Aunt Peg and some friends she brought. We all had a great visit - and here's proof!

Progress report

We've been here three weeks today. I can hardly believe how much time has passed. We've been in constant motion - cleaning, repairing, preparing for guests. In the evening I fall into bed and sleep so deeply I am surprised by the morning. The kids have settled in, and despite a couple comments by Sam about how he wished we didn't work so much, they have for the most part figured out how to entertain themselves even without TV or computer time.

I've come to realize how little I helped on our last two visits (understandable, given the kid-situation) but we've accomplished so much more this time around that I'm hoping there will be even less work next visit. The house was in pretty good shape when we arrived -- no leaks, which meant we didn't have to clean up the aftermath (a constant for some twenty or more years before Will fixed the roof in 2007) and the critters hadn't gotten into anything we use regularly. After the initial basic cleaning we extended our reach all the way to the end of the assembly hall, making the loft at the end accessible and the kids have spent hours up there, staircase raised (via pulley and rope) playing pirates. We've also focused on making the guest quarters nicer - a task Will initially dismissed as less important, but he now seems to understand its importance. So, to give you an idea of why I've been absent, I have some before-and-after photos of projects completed in the past three weeks.

1. Nell's room.

This is our primary guest room. It has a low ceiling and only a double bed, but it's cozy.

2. The room above the shop

We have a lot of guests coming this year, in groups of four and five. Because of that we needed a second place to put a family. Many years ago, Will's grandmother's older brother Lou (it's complicated) built a sturdy two-story cinder-block building which he stayed in during the summer. Over time the downstairs, which may or may not have originally been a tool shop, filled with stuff - hardware and tools, life preservers, car parts, boat bits, lanterns, lots and lots of rope, bits of wood too small to use and too big to throw away. It was a mess until '07 when Will organized it and cleared out at least two trucks full of garbage we took to the dump. At the same time the upstairs also had filled with leftover stuff - falling apart dressers, unused mattresses and pillows, an old fold-out couch, sheets of plywood, and, of course, varmints. At one point the chimney fell off due to snow and rot and was eventually put back up, but not before snow and rain had blown in and covered everything and rotted out part of the floor. Needless to say, it was a mess. But it is a good solid room that can hold four beds and had the potential to be a guest room. Here's what we did:

I did the cleaning, Will did the wiring and heavy lifting and making new platforms for the beds. It actually turned out pretty nice, after we took all the mildew-and-mouse covered mattresses to the dump. I still want to get replacement twin beds for the 30" camp beds that are there, but I figure we'll save some money by gradually accumulating bed frames/box springs/mattresses from craig's list.

Will also fixed the foundation of Nell's porch, and we've done lots of landscaping (cutting hedges, trimming trees, mowing/dethatching lawns) replaced rotting ceiling panels in Nell's kitchen, replaced the hot water heater at Nell's, and we went bowling one night. See, it's not ALL work.

And now it's time to go get brekfast ready for 13 people. That part I love. More soon.

The Trip Out

I am pleased to say that the trip across country went well. Quite well, actually. I dreaded the idea of it -- four people plus dog in the cab of a pickup truck (pulling a trailer with another vehicle on in) for three days and nights, pushing through the night and resting only briefly one night with my step-grandma. Fortunately my fears were unfounded, for many reasons. Will is good at long-distance driving, and prefers being behind the wheel, so my anxiety about driving with the trailer was unnecessary. In fact I did little driving and the rig handled quite well, so even when I did drive it was without problems. The dog settled in happily, alternately sitting on the floor and on the seat, occasionally resting her head on a child's leg and in turn serving as a pillow for a tired kid. Will was pleased with my selection of audiobooks and we happily listened together while the kids, overjoyed at the very unusual prospect of unlimited movie watching, put their headsets on and fell mesmerized by the DVD player.

That's not to say we didn't have a few minor issues. Before we even got out of Colorado the door on the Land Rover we were hauling popped open and we had to pull over. Will fixed that and we all had potty breaks, the dog cheerfully obeying my request that she stay away from the highway, and I enjoyed a sense of familial purpose and unity that our daily lives rarely afford. I even took a picture of a cactus flower growing beside the highway.

Somewhere in Nebraska we ran out of gas -- the warning light didn't come on and we were about a mile short of an exit. Fortunately we had both a bicycle and a gas can readily available, so Will rode to the nearest gas station and returned not much later. We drove through the night to Chicago (a move I think we're both getting too old for) and were fortunate to have breakfast

with our friends Trish and Scott, then on toward Cleveland, only to run out of gas, again! This time it was too far to bike, so we called the auto club (Better World Club - even better than AAA) and they brought us five gallons of gas. Finally, to Granny Phyllis' house where we were met with hugs, birthday presents for the kids, hot stew, baths, and beds. We all collapsed, tired from two days of car-sleep. When we awoke, Phyllis had made us a breakfast feast, and both children were delighted to play with their gifts. Soon we were on our way to NY, where we were to drop off the Land Rover.

Thank goodness for my "smart" phone, because I was able to update Facebook and, more

importantly, get maps to the Land Rover destination. After unloading and seeing the delighted owner drive his new toy around, we stumbled back into the car, relieved to be almost done with the journey. We arrived at Dingley Dell in the dark, unloaded some bags by flashlight (we'd forgotten to get the electricity turned on), and headed off to a nearby motel to get some rest. Unfortunately, both places on the island have been shuttered, and at midnight I told Will to turn around; we slept in our sleeping bags on the beds we had cleared.

Monday morning we hung blankets to air out and once again hopped in the truck, this time to visit some long-lost Canadian cousins of the Bakers, who had invited us up for a mini-reunion three weeks after a grand affair which we missed. It was great fun to meet everyone and they were lovely hosts, even down to finding us dog-friendly lodging with a friend. After another wonderful shower and sleep in a real bed, we returned to the States to begin the task of opening up The Camp.