Theme Park

I'm at the amusement park on the 4th of July. We came late, The Boy and I, because we are staying for the fireworks. He can handle any ride; I am more selective. My time waiting on benches affords me an unusual opportunity for people watching.

The Boy sits alone in a car on a spinny ride. I once delighted in them as well, but my inner ear has aged to the point of extreme nausea. I see him chattering to himself before the ride begins. A giant grin builds across his face, soaring and whirling above me. This. This is why we came here. He sprints toward me afterward, shouting his joy before racing off to the roller coaster. I overcome my fear and ride with him, eating my stomach as it rises to my throat, breathing deeply afterward. We ride two, then three, and finally I point him to another spinner so I can sit and calm myself. My eyes--and my ears--turn again to the people around me.

The air swirls with the scents of chlorine from the water park, beer, and sunscreen. I hear surges of screams from the thrill rides, mostly drowned by top-forty hits on the piped music. The wave pool surprised me with twenty minutes of lively classical tunes. I may have been the only person to appreciate it; the cheerful gasps and splutters of swimmers were more noticeable.

I remember that it's the 4th of July. Once, when I worked in a grocery store, a woman asked me "I know it's Independence Day, but independence from what?" I like to think I answered kindly, explaining simply the roots of the celebration, but I was young and cruel then. I don't remember what I said. Now I see that same cruelness ripple across the internet, slicing and mocking those who think differently and I strive to set a better example. I often fail.

Right now, though, my heart swells with a universal love of my country and my compatriots. My fellow Americans. The phrase has more meaning here in a small typical theme park. Mixed with the scents of popcorn and corn dogs is the sound of Spanish and African languages I don't recognize. I catch the cadence of Arabic, Korean, Chinese. I watch and see an idealized cross-section of the United States. Women in burkas shepherd their children past white teeny boppers in minute bikinis. Latinos chat with the black families waiting next to them in line. A mulleted white man in a sleeveless tank top, a flag and cross tattooed on his bicep, ushers a lesbian couple and their children into a line ahead of him. It's a tiny courtesy, but the sweetness of it causes a hitch in my breathing.

We are here, all of us, together. There's a harmony of purpose and pleasure. We share the exasperation of parents with over tired children. Adults smile knowingly at the charged flirting of teenagers, who glance sidelong at each other from the safety of their packs. We cross our usual boundaries to comment on the weather, the day, querying each other on where best to see the show. Here, today, we are all the same. We are enjoying a holiday with our families and friends. We all holler with delight at the fireworks shattering the sky above. Whatever our differences, right now, here, we all are Americans.

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.

The Things You Miss

All I wanted was a spoonful of peanut butter. 

I wasn't the only one desperate for a taste of home. There were twelve of us living in Hungary that semester and each had something, one thing, that we missed more than anything. I remember one fellow waxing poetic about Cool Ranch Doritos. For me it was creamy peanut butter.

It's subtle, how certain foods, certain flavors, characterize a culture. Never before -- or since -- my time in Eastern Europe have I eaten such a variety of pickled vegetables. Between bouts of gastric distress we joked that there was only one thing a Hungarian would not pickle: bacon. And that was eaten raw. My memories of suppers that year are visions of braised meat in a savory sauce, balanced by pickled carrots or beets or cucumbers or cabbage and with a side of raw onion. Breakfast was crusty buttered rolls with cold cuts and a fruit tea I've been unable to find since. Sometimes we had a hard boiled egg. For dessert my host mother made a slightly dry, mildy sweet poppyseed cake dotted with cherries which she served us almost weekly. I never decided if I liked it. Lunch was more of the same, unless we went to a restaurant. There we delighted in thin, slightly rubbery pancakes that could have easily been confused with crepes. The Hungarians insisted they weren't French at all but a traditional Hungarian dish called palacsinta. Regardless, the restaurant had more than 40 options for filling, including an amazing savory spinach and mushroom concoction.

Saturdays the girls would meet at the baths and soak and get a massage for just $1, then relocate to a pastry shop to chat. We made up for our missing salads by eating pastries and desserts. Linzer tortes and flaky croissants, cakes with a thousand delicate layers. I have never felt so luxuriously indolent. But still we missed the tastes of home.

One of our students -- a New Yorker, naturally -- found the only bagel shop in Hungary. He was alternately overjoyed by and disappointed in the bagels. As a westerner not schooled in proper New York cuisine, I couldn't taste why. And the Hungarians? They were (again) baffled. "It's just boiled, baked dough" they would say. I think perhaps we were drawn as much to the rattle of English words and American slang as we were the food.

We tried, my roommate and I. We visited almost every grocery in the city, some twice. I've forgotten most of my Hungarian, but I will always remember approaching store clerks and inquiring after amerikai földimogyorókrém -- American underearth nut cream. They were universally baffled. Their solution was, not surprisingly, to point us to the Nutella. And while that chocolate hazelnut spread is delicious and amazing, it is almost exactly nothing like peanut butter.

It became a mission. The two of us lived with a host family in Buda just below the Fishermen's Bastion. It was a beautiful location. Sundays I would walk up the hill and get a couple of pastries for us to share for breakfast. We would savor them on the patio as the bells of the entire city rang in unison. Afterward we would go shopping, and wherever we went we inquired with no success.

I had to go to Denmark finally to find a jar of peanut butter. 

For Spring Break I took the train to Copenhagen where my boyfriend was studying business. He, too, had felt the isolation of being an American abroad. Scandanavia, though, was somehow more familiar than Eastern Europe. Perhaps it was the cars. The streets of Budapest were hazardous with Ladas and Skodas. In Copenhagen Saabs and Volvos were common sights.

My love's parents were immigrants to the US, Italian to the core. We had teased his mother about her first experience with American lingo -- she was apalled at the idea of eating canine when offered a hot dog -- but the edges of derision were worn away by our common experience of being foreign. In the shared kitchen of his dorm we made basic  spaghetti with his grandmother's pasta sauce and garlic bread, and I was comforted. 

One morning he took me to have danishes in Denmark. I laughed. They were little different than those from shops at home. Later he escorted me around a grocery store, pointing out dozens of preparations of fish, all strangely flavored. I squealed, I think, when I found the peanut butter, shocking both the Danes and my sweetheart. In the distraction of companionship and travel I'd forgotten my quest. I bought two jars and within minutes of purchase I had opened one and scooped a lump out with my finger. It wasn't Jif, but still salved my homesickness in a way that even his arms had not. I saved the second jar to share with my roommate back in Hungary.

I returned, sharing adventure stories with my compatriot students. One fellow brought back stacks of devalued currency with the dream of papering his walls back in the States. It was a pleasant reunion, and we remarked to each other how nice it was to come home. Our centers had silently shifted from Washington to Budapest. We had become ffriendly  with our adopted city, confident in our ability to stutter through the language, easy with the underground and nightclubs.

We travelled to Moscow and faced an entirely new level of foreigness. Our hosts -- a sister school -- treated us as honored guests but the country was desperately poor and we could feel it. Everything was shabby and the people were gaunt. We donned the mantle of tourist, exploring the city from dawn 'til dusk, but soon the poverty wore at us as well. For breakfast we were given the best they had: a small glass of Tang-like drink, two undercooked eggs, a piece of toast with jam, and a cup of black tea. Every day we walked through lunch hour returning late in the evening to a small portion of meat and a small bowl of borscht. Everyone lost weight, becoming painfully familiar with constant gnawing hunger. One of my classmates was a football player. We took turns sharing our food with him as his clothes became looser. Upon our return we learned he'd lost nearly 30 pounds in two weeks.

At our professor's instruction we had brought as host gifts long batons of Pick salami and other food stuffs from Hungary. We eyed the treats with desperation, imagining the fat melting savory on our tongues. Our courtesy was saved only by the knowledge of our pending escape. Someone acquired a loaf of bread and another found a jar of jam. I had brought the peanut butter. Each morning before breakfast we would huddle in a dormitory room secretly sharing out morsels of Americana before putting on our brave traveler faces and going out for the day.

We returned to Hungary, relieved. There was the museum we knew. This was the classroom in which we spent so much time. Jokes about our adopted home resurfaced, binding us with laughter. We gorged on palacsinta, savored the gulyas, scarfed down our cold cut breakfasts like natives. Then the semester ended, and we flew like dandelion seeds hither and thither. I travelled to Spain, met my beloved in France and journeyed with him to relations in northern Italy. With each country we visited the food became less exotic, less of an adventure. I returned one last time to Hungary and caught a plane home to the United States.

In my mother's kitchen I unpacked a parting gift from my host mother. It was an aluminum pan, much like a frying pan, but with large holes through the bottom and hooks on the rounded edge. As I recounted my adventures for my mother I prepared the cirke and set it to braise. While it cooked I mixed a loose egg batter and pushed it through the holes into boiling water. The nokedli sank and rose, and when they were done I served everything all together. We sat and ate the national dish of Hungary -- chicken paprikash with dumplings -- and I was home.

Urban City Snapshot

I have locked myself out of the car. I borrowed my husband’s ignition key for the weekend — since I left my keys at work Friday afternoon — but was ignorant of the need for a separate door key. While I wait for my knight in shining armor to come, I watch the world go by.

I face what once was Denver’s main street. As in most cities the main drag was long since bypassed by the interstate and the need to rush around the city. Further east there are blocks of dilapidated Motor Hotels with quaint western themes; they are a glimpse into a bygone era when a road trip was a family adventure rather than a trial of togetherness. This far west I’m in the Capitol Hill neighborhood, an eclectic mix of grand old homes, dive bars, and newly fashionable restaurants, all with a fantastic view of snow clad mountains rising above downtown.

Last week’s snow has cleansed the city, leaving an empty sky and emerald grass. Trees are reluctant to leaf out just yet so the finches, sparrows, robins, and magpies stand out as they weave fences of song. Squirrels hang upside down on those same trees like diurnal bats. I have little use for them, although I concede their fuzzy cuteness. Gray squirrels were introduced to my city a hundred years ago by a homesick Chicagoan. I loathe them for driving out our native fauna and fear the bubonic plague they carry. Still I chuckle at their antics as a pair chase round the base of a barren elm tree most likely planted before their kind came.

Traffic is leisurely. Roaring engines and impatient acceleration will come later in the day, when the drivers have woken to the urgency of getting somewhere. For now they’re all still sleepy or perhaps enjoying a cup of coffee with the window down and spring blowing in.

Cyclists shrink-wrapped in logo-spattered spandex roll slowly to a red light. Their muscles are drawn long and lean. Green light. Standing above their saddles they thrust forward, a melding of man and machine, ungainly in the first strides but picking up speed across the street. They soon are out of sight.

A fire engine bustles past, impatiently shouting its way through traffic to aid an otherwise forgotten man who has collapsed. I wonder who called for help, cynically imagining the restaurant owner phoning in, desperate to rid himself of the homeless nuisance diverting customers. The sun warms my shoulders and then my heart and I hope instead that passersby offered assistance to a fellow just a little down on his luck.

Before me rises a modernist apartment cube. The building is clad in large rectangles of matte blue gray aluminum, lending it an air of space-tech. There are balconies for each residence. I watch as two men, most likely strangers despite their proximity, mirror exactly each other’s movements. Mr. Seventh Floor South is a stocky, bearded black man in a vest and do rag who is obviously enjoying his coffee. Tenth Floor East is lean and muscular and white and confident enough that he stands in just bicycle shorts. They simultaneously lean on the black iron railing, looking out like satisfied kings surveying their tiny kingdoms. They stretch and sip and turn and lean again in an unscripted ballet that — more than any work of art — speaks of our common humanity.

The grumble of my husband’s truck draws my attention down to the parking lot. I trade him a kiss and a doughnut from the bank for the key and we each drive away.

Border Crossing

24 hours after I left my passport at the bank I was in police custody at the border. All because I couldn't figure out how to open a door. 

Actually, the entire semester I lived in Budapest, Hungary I couldn't figure out how to open a door. Living in a country where you don't know the language is challenging. It's not the big stuff that's hard. There are guidebooks to get you from point A to point B. There are phrasebooks for medical emergencies. But in all the tourist literature, there's nothing that tells you which bathroom to use. (For the record, női is women's, férfi is men's. You're welcome.) In my case, I spent five months unable to read the push/pull signs on the door. So regardless if I was entering or exiting, I did it wrong. Standing on the street I would pull and pull until I finally realized it opened inward. And when I left? I'd automatically push, and wind up walking right into the door. BAM!

I have an excuse. In the States, by law, all business doors open outward. This way in an emergency folks can easily stampede through the exit rather than piling up like cattle and dying of smoke inhalation. It happened. We fixed it. Eastern Europe, however, was either fine with a little population control or figured they'd behave better in a panic situation. Either way, throughout Budapest the doors opened inward, and I couldn't get used to it. 

Anyway. The day before we went on a weekend field trip to the Czech Republic I exchanged some American dollars for Czech koruny. Now, I'd walked smack into the big glass door every single time I left that bank. Glass doors are the worst, not just because passersby laughed as my whole body smushed up against the glass, but because that kind of door makes a particular ringing sound that draws the attention of everyone in the room. I'm pretty sure -- after seven or eight incidents -- that the bank tellers were taking bets on if I'd make it out okay this time or knock myself completely silly.

Thus I was concentrating so hard on which way to open the door -- and hoping that for once I'd get it right -- that I forgot to pick up my passport.

I still got it wrong.

That evening as I was packing my bag I realized what I'd done. I called the embassy to report my missing passport. The nice Marine there told me they'd been expecting my call, and I could pick the passport up from the bank on Monday when it opened again. Distressed, I phoned my professor and explained the situation. Pepi was a happy-go-lucky guy, and he wasn't really concerned. "You have a photocopy of your passport, right?" he asked. I confirmed. "Just bring that. It'll be fine."

I didn't believe him. But what was I supposed to do? I couldn't NOT go after he told me to.  So the next day at 5 a.m. I met my classmates and Pepi at the train station and we boarded the express to Prague.

Eastern European border guards were not friendly in the 1990s. I can understand. They'd been through a lot. Soviet occupation, the cold war, insane amounts of pickled vegetables. Foolish American college girls who attempt to cross the border with a photocopy of their passport? Apparently that's even worse. They waved large rifles in my face and yelled loudly in Hungarian. My Hungarian at that point was limited to nouns including "dentist" and "hippopotamus" and "figure skater". (We took Hungarian language lessons every day, but the teachers had been hired from an elementary school. Can you tell?) I cowered. They pulled me off the train.

Fortunately I had a guardian angel. My classmate Maria spoke near-fluent Hungarian (she was living with relatives that semester) and she volunteered to stay with me. Not that her services were really needed. The police didn't speak to us again for six hours. The train chuffed off and we were walked at gun-point into a small dim cinderblock police station. They pointed toward some chairs and we sat. 

Nothing further happened.

I lie. I actually underwent excruciating torture at the genial hands of a nice elderly Australian couple who also had been pulled off the train. I'll get to that.

As far as Maria could tell, we were going to be returned to Budapest on the next train headed that way. We just had to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

We chatted a little. It turns out the Australians also were on their way to the Czech Republic, but they hadn't gotten a transit visa through Slovakia. Oops. After a while conversation dwindled, and we waited some more.

We grew hungry. Neither of us had any food, and we had no idea when the train would come. Our stomachs growled. We fidgeted. The guards stared stoically at us. Time didn't pass.

Mrs. Australia sensed our discomfort. She was a kind woman, and she suggested that we share her meager meal. We gratefully accepted her offer.

There have been millions of debates about which country has the strongest, toughest citizens. Russian Cossacks are said to be fearsome. The Zulu held off the British using only cowhide shields.

None of them compare to the Australians.

Mrs. Australia handed each of us a piece of bread smeared with Vegemite. She cheerfully ate hers, and started prepping another. I ate mine.

My tongue died.

Friends, Vegemite is a salted yeast paste with other savory additives like onions and celery. Eating it is akin to rubbing your tongue vigorously with a beef bullion cube until it bleeds, then holding the whole mess in your mouth. Forever. Except worse.

My mother raised me well. I choked down my "treat", smiled and said "Thank you." But I had to avert my eyes as that sweet old lady made another, and ate it. My respect for her ratcheted up with each additional bite. If Australians can handle that, they can take over the world. I no longer worry about nuclear annihalation. I have nightmares about being forced to eat Vegemite.

My tongue began to revive. That's when the real torture began. Remember how I said salted yeast paste? I had nothing to drink. There was no bathroom in which I could rinse my mouth. The savory bloody yeasty taste lingered and grew. It transformed repeatedly, sometimes highlighting a metallic aftertone, other times bringing out the onion. And through it all, salt. Dry, dessicating salt. My mouth was parched like the Sahara. I felt like I'd eated the Gobi desert. My eyes began to sink into my head. My fingertips shrivelled. I hallucinated fountains and bathroom taps.

Still we sat, waiting. I could not longer speak -- my tongue wouldn't function properly. I covertly eyed Mrs. Australia looking for horns or other signs that she was the devil. Vegemite still coated my teeth.

Finally the train came. It was a local, stopping at every town. Somehow Maria was able to find us each a soda. I have no idea what I paid. However much, it was worth it. 

I have been in some scary situations. I've done some stupid things. I've given birth twice. Nothing compares to four hours of sitting in a foreign police station with no water and the taste of Vegemite on my tongue.

Oh, and when I got back to the States? I went to the bank and made an ass of myself trying to pull the door open. Apparently I'd finally gotten used to Hungarian doors. Yep. It's the little things that are hard when you travel.

What Can I Do?

The search was particularly tragic. A boy, maybe ten years old, had run down the trail ahead of his family as they descended from a mountain picnic. His tracks ended near a bend in what should have been a stream, but that day -- of all days -- it was a furious creek, powerful with fresh snow melt between its confined banks. We knew he was gone, as did all the other Search And Rescue teams. Still, we had to try. It was the only comfort we could offer his stricken family.

I was seventeen, living in a boarding school. We were required to do some sort of community service; I joined SAR. Our dormitory doors had red crosses taped to them signifying where to knock when a call came at three or four a.m. to mobilize. I kept a gear bag ready by the door; I think we all did. Within fifteen minutes we'd be shuffling, yawning, around a basement classroom lit by humming flourescent lights, waiting for assignments. In teams we'd dole out gear -- tents, stoves, food, first aid kits, rope, maps, walkie-talkies -- then slump down on our packs and each other, waiting for details. Sometimes we just loaded into vans and rode through the dawn to the search site.

NMSAR was a tight-knit, well-organized program. I'm sure it has changed significantly with the advent of GPS and cell phones. Twenty years ago, though, teams arrived at a command center, received instructions, and set out to search. New Mexico is high desert, stark and grand and empty, and when hunters or hikers or cheerful little boys went missing it took hundreds of people to cover the grid, seeking traces. We called out as we hiked, always hoping for a cry back. We marched six feet apart in straight lines, eyes to the ground for tracks or torn clothing, or, worst, a body. Teams from our school never found anyone. We'd gripe about how we youngsters always were sent to the least likely area, but felt a current of disappointed relief upon hearing the announcement that the search had been called.

They found the boy's body a few weeks and twenty miles later, caught in reeds at a slow part of the river.

I don't remember how often we were called out. Every few weeks, maybe. Between times we practiced. We climbed peaks wheeling specialized mountain stretchers up the trail. We learned our knots so we could belay down cliffs to damaged people in deep ravines. We hiked at two a.m. on trails barely lit by headlamps. We crossed deserts in the high sun, moving steadily at four miles an hour with fifty pounds of gear on our backs. We held practice searches and rescued terribly "injured" schoolmates from hidden locations. And we learned how to fix them. Wilderness first aid is special -- injuries are often drastic and resources scarce. Compound fractures with bones protruding. Impalements which puncture lungs. Burns and hypothermia and deyhydration. Our instructors covered everything. Small cuts and scrapes became inconsequential when we learned how to treat someone who had been hit by lightning then carry that person fifteen miles in the dark down a steep trail through rain and snow to a place of relative safety for evacuation.

I was only involved in an actual rescue once. Ironically, it was our wilderness instructor. He  fell while crossing a fence during a winter practice search. I happened to be team lead that day, so I ran first aid while coordinating the evacuation back to school (all of three or four miles). We already had a sled. I bound and braced his twisted knee (eventually they found a torn ACL) and treated him for shock. We packed him in sleeping bags and skied him down to medical care, then returned to complete our expedition. Later he told me I'd done well. That praise still is a medallion I carry near my heart.

I loved Search And Rescue. The surety of purpose. The knowledge that I was strong and capable. The sense that I could help. So often during crises people feel helpless. We stare at the news wondering how we can make things better, to fix what's wrong. I felt that way watching the stories from Boston this week. I've been meditating on that question: what can I do to help? I try to spread love and understand and tolerance. But those are such ephemeral things, unmeasurable in their effect. I give blood, although honestly not as often as I probably could. That effort can be measured, pint by pint. What else, though? What could I do in the case of a disaster? 

Then, I remembered. I have training. Not the wilderness first aid from those years ago. Yes, that's important and the lessons run deep. What I mean, though, is that today I am fully certified by the American Red Cross in First Aid, CPR, and the use of an AED. It sounds silly, I suppose. I got certified in part for my everyday life when I see children in the nurse's office at school. Applying a bandaid to a pinched finger is tiny (except, of course, to the wounded child) compared to applying a tourniquet to a severed leg. Still, if some horrific something happened, I have enough knowledge, enough practice, enough confidence, that I like to think I would be one of those running toward, not away. I could be one of Mr. Rogers' famouse helpers.

You could too.

http://www.redcross.org/take-a-class

Small Moments

As prompted by Jocelyn: Write ten significant, specific, moments of your life in a micro-narrative form.

The plain cardboard box didn't seem much of a birthday present until I noticed it quivering. Peering in I saw two kittens huddled against the light. I was allowed to cuddle them for just a moment, then release them into the house to explore and become familiar with our home. I didn't see Rumpleteaser or JennyAnyDots again until the middle of the night when I awoke to needleteeth chewing on my wiggly toes.

My first parakeet didn't recognize the safety of his cage in a house with two cats. I came home to find a single clawed foot, band still around the ankle, lying amid drifted feathers in the middle of the floor.

Dodgeball had filled us all with adrenaline. Some, the athletes, strutted aggressively into the locker room. I trembled on a bench, grateful that the stinging welts on my legs and back were fading. A girl stormed in and berated her teammate for costing them the game. She cowered. I breathed that it wasn't a big deal. Within seconds I was face-to-face with a challenge to fight. I raised my fists and held my breath. She waited. I lowered my hands and walked away, not sure if I was cowardly or courageous.

I tried several churches and even a synagogue, but never could find a spiritual home. My best friend grew up with the surety of a Lutheran pastor's daughter. One afternoon as we rode the city bus home she turned to me and said "I love you, and it makes me terribly sad that you are going straight to hell when you die." 

My mother directed me into the back when I got to the shop. Standing by the counter on which the numbering machine sat, she hesitantly told me, "Your father is dead. He killed himself. I don't know much more than that." Relief surged through me as I realized our dear friend, who had been hospitalized two days before, was okay.

The postal worker locked the door behind the last person in line. Until the final transaction was completed there would be no leaving. One by one we massed by the door, waiting compliantly while the remainder were served. A man stared at and paced toward me. He started mumbling about people of the sun and people of the snow; as he drew nearer his voice grew louder and he stood taller. "WE!" he shouted at me, "are the PEOPLE of the SUN! YOU! are people of the SNOW! And we will DEFEAT you!" I looked around as he harangued me, the only white person present. The clerks continued nonchalantly selling stamps. The other customers edged to the windows and turned to face the spectacle. The man loomed over me, shouting that my kind was POISON, that our time was OVER, that it was TIME for the SUN to RISE. When I could retreat no further, when violence seemed imminent, a bystander finally said "Hey man, that's enough." My abuser settled back into himself. We all grew bashful and waited with eyes averted until the clerk unlocked the door; everyone was silent as we shuffled out.

The plane slid sideways, and back, then sideways again like a leaf drifting down a breeze. One valley cut sharply between peaks to my right, and sun glinted off a meandering river to my left. Snow had recenly fallen, leaving knife-like ridges starkly black against the white drifts that climbed above timberline. Settling down into our valley, we came to a surprisingly gentle stop on the tarmac. I leaned my head against the cold plastic window as tears of homecoming joy leaked from my closed eyes.

I read the word twice, then spun around and read the sign on the other door. Ferfi. Noi. I turned again to see if there was any indication as to which door I should choose. Defeated, I minced back into the dining room -- still desperate to pee -- and asked my guide which word meant "woman".*

I was looking out the window when he boarded the train. In my lap I had fresh bread, cheese, and a sliced tomato from which I'd made my supper. I was alone in the compartment. My feet were curled underneath me, my hiking boots were on the floor. I'd been staring into the blackness wondering if I'd aced or failed that morning's exam. I heard a rustling by the door. The intruder was rat-like, narrow in the face and lost in the army coat he wore. He was shaking; I wondered why he was so cold. His smile was superior and possessive. I realized that he wasn't chilled. He was masturbating while staring at me, fly open, hand frantic. I clutched my pocketknife and reached for a boot for additional defense. His eyes closed. He spent himself on the floor, then grinned at me as he tucked his penis away and left. All that remained was a small white puddle by the door. A passing conductor saw the mess, glared at me, and continued down the corridor.

The technician moved briskly, making easy small talk while she prepared. She dimmed the lights and rolled the sonogram apparatus toward the table. Lifting my shirt she squirted cold jelly across my abdomen and placed the wand above my belly button. Focusing, she began sliding the device left and right, up and down. My husband and I waited quietly, not sure of our role. She smiled as a rhythmic sound came through the speakers. "It's like the cavitation of a submarine propeller!" my husband remarked. He held my hand and we silently listened to our child's heartbeat for the first time.

*The Hungarian for woman is női

Sub Zero

Cold gnaws at the house. Chill seeps through the brick walls and pours across the floor in invisible rivulets that seek out and nip at toes. Frost crawls up the windows, riming every pane. The children scrape at it and giggle when snow falls to the sill. The furnace cycles ceaselessly. On. Off. On. Off. It's not truly cold inside, but still we huddle, cringing at the creaks and pings of a house under assault.

The fireplace crackles. Before it one dog rolls and yips, reveling in the heat. The other dog stomps in circles and flops down, satisfied with her warm nest. My children tumble to the floor and lean against their living pillows, snuggling into the warmth, absorbing the animal stillness and drooping into sleep. I sit above, tangled on the couch in a mess of blankets, jealous of their ease. The dogs grow restless, slinking out from under their young masters. My babies have grown far too big for me to carry up the stairs, so I collect blankets and tuck them in together on the floor.

I remain vigilant through the night, stoking the fire, keeping the children covered. The dogs paw at my feet and only reluctantly withdraw from the couch. I am minded to let them up, but that is a step from which I never can retreat. I draw the line.

I doze, wakened occasionally by restless stirring on the floor or cold breezes that herald the need for more wood. Toward morning I stretch and pet the dogs who have slunk up beside me. Their trespass was forgiven in the darkest hours, when my ankles grew cold and their company was a balm. Dawn comes slowly, heralded by a halo of salmon and peach ice glistening at the tip of every branch. 

The children wake. They are gleeful at finding themselves downstairs, on the floor, together. It is different, and different is good. Seeing me, they leap. Soon the sun will rise high and the freeze will wane. Until then I hold my children, basking in their warmth.

A Forest Grows

A forest grows in the quiet still center of my soul. There are pine trees and firs, there are spruces and aspens. The wind sighs in the topmost branches and punctuates the sound with the papery rattle of aspen leaves. On the ground the air is quieter, perfumed by the sunny sweet vanilla smell of ancient ponderosas and decaying granite. The forest floor is pine needles laid down in thick carpets, broken by wild rose and geranium and decorated with the dark green leaves and bright red berries of kinnikinick. A brook winds through, silvery clear and sweet, burbling between grottoes lined with willow and long grasses. It is not quiet, but peaceful. And when I start twisting and fretting with worry, I breathe deep, picture this place, and start again.

Eight inches

of snow, people! It snowed all weekend, and this morning the air is crisp and chilly and the sun is reflecting so brightly we didn't need to to turn the lights on for breakfast this morning. I'm awfully glad to see the sun - we had a fair bit of morning gloom over the past couple of weeks, which makes the o-dark-hundred dog walk rather dreary. In fact, I couldn't force myself out of bed when the alarm went off at 6:20 this morning, possibly because the smoke detector chirped all night and worked it's way into my dreams and I didn't sleep all that well, but most likely because it was still dark and who wants to get up in the dark? The dog is staring pitifully at me now, hoping I'll take her out so she can smell every last inch of snow and hopefully find a buried squirrel. What is it with dogs and squirrels? Fortunately I did get all my bulbs planted in the last couple of weeks, so if all goes well in the spring I will have tulips and daffodils and irises and the whole front of the house will be a riot of daylily color. Of course, Violet was "helping" with the planting, so it may turn out far different than I imagine. Things involving our children usually do. I promise pictures, regardless.

10,000 foot overview

I'm brewing several posts, not sure what will percolate up first. Until then, here's a simple status update . . .

Sam has just plunged into the world of Harry Potter, and we now are on book 2 (Chamber of Secrets). I've ruled that he's not allowed to watch a movie until he's read/been read the corresponding book. I'm not sure how else to slow him down -- some of the later books have such intense stories that he's not yet ready for. Nonetheless, it's wonderful to see him entranced by a story. He's also enjoying school more than ever before, which is a relief and delight. He'll like it even more next year when Violet doesn't get to spend all day with me while he's with his peers. Sibling rivalry at its most subtle. He's also active in cub scouts (which he enjoys) and karate (which he doesn't like but I insist on).

Violet is deep into a Princess/Barbie (commercialized beyond anything I could have predicted. Did you know there are Barbie movies based on tales like "The Prince and the Pauper'? Holy cows.) phase, and often insists I call her Cinderella for hours at a time. I am surprised by how relieved I am when she joins Sam in a Star Wars jedi battle where she's shooting things and "killing them dead!" I guess it's all about balance, right? When she's not prancing around in nearly inappropriate clothing (do the designers at Disney even THINK about the fact that these expensive little fairy/princess costumes will be worn by four year olds? They don't need to show cleavage or bellies!) she is working hard to learn how to read, and is trying to convince Sam that she's ahead of him in the literacy race. Fine by me.

Will is currently under-employed, which I am not-so-secretly enjoying in that he's spending a lot of time playing with me and the kids and even gets so bored as to load and unload the dishwasher. He has found other ways to fill his time (I don't understand why he doesn't get bored playing playing computer solitaire), my favorite of which was teaching Sam yesterday how to split logs for the wood stove.

As for me, I'm 24 hours from finished with the elementary school Directory (a glorified phone book for school families). It's taken absurd amounts of my time, and more money than I dare admit to Will (but I NEED this $800 software to do the directory!) but I am quite proud of my accomplishment, and have learned a great deal about PhotoShop, InDesign, and Acrobat. I've told Will that it's "valuable skills" and "hard evidence" for when I go back to the real world, but in all honesty, it's just plain fun for me. I shall now turn to other projects like actually cleaning the house (oh glory what a mess it is right now) and perhaps even finishing the quilt I started for Violet two or three years ago. And maybe I'll even write a real essay one of these days. We shall see.

Chai, anyone?

I'ts been so long since I wrote anything that I have been feeling a need to write something momentous and monumental. I don't, however, have time for grandiose screeds, so today I am just going to tell you something.

The smell of chai tea makes me think of band-aids. How weird is that?

Hello out there!

We're here and mostly settled in, striving to get some basic maintenance chores done before guests being arriving. The big news -- we finally have a modem/internet connection! I'll do more of a post tonight (I hope) but wanted to let you know that we haven't completely fallen off the face of the planet.

My new favorite thing

As I was cleaning out one the bathroom cabinets yesterday afternoon I discovered a collection of hotel freebies I had stuffed in the back and forgotten about. Most went directly into the garbage or recycling, along with an embarrassing amount of expired medicines, empty shampoo bottles (I consolidated all the too-much-to-throw-away-but-I'm-bored-and-ready-for-new-stuff bottles), used q-tips (ick!), and random torn washcloths. One thing, though, caught my attention. You see, we have a skylight in our bedroom. I love it. From my bed I can watch storms pass, admire the stars, glory in the full moon, and wake to the sun. It's the last part that's currently a problem. As summer approaches, even though I have turned off the alarm clock and learned to ignore the excited whimpering of the morning dog, I cannot ignore the sun. It beams down on me, more intense than any other time of day. It creeps into my consciousness, between my lids, and forces me up at 6, then 5:45, then 5:30 in the morning. All of which would be fine if I didn't stay up until 12:30, but I do, and it isn't. So when I found the unused cheapo hotel eyemask in my hands, I decided to try it. I've always scoffed, thinking it looked silly and would be uncomfortable. But if it blocks the morning sun and Will's late night bedside lamp, it may be worth looking silly and feeling a little odd. And when I woke at 7:30 this morning, I rose from my bed a convert. All praise my new favorite thing - the eye mask.

Easter (Dust) Bunnies

I hosted an Easter egg hunt for the kids on our block yesterday.  When I originally invited the neighbors over, several of us moms were standing in our front yards turning to face the spring sun, twisting like sunflowers to catch the warmth on our faces.  I envisioned the kids racing across three or four yards, searching under bushes, in flower beds, and on top of porch railings to find eggs cleverly hidden while their families breakfasted.  Instead, the forecast called for chill winds and rain, and we moved the festivities inside.

This, of course, meant I had to clean the house so the adults could stand around guarding their coffee cups while children zipped by in a frenzy intermittently fueled by sugar in various forms. And on Saturday, as I marshalled my cleaning troops, I came to the most unfortunate of realizations: when hiding Easter eggs, one has to clean the spots usually hidden.  So, for Easter, I replaced all my dust bunnies with candy-filled eggs.  And after having ten kids running madly around the house is, again, a comfortable mess.  But at least it's still clean under my couch.

Vegetable love

I love having cut flowers in my home.  There is a Navajo saying, "I walk in beauty", and having fresh flowers in my home reminds me that beauty truly is all around me.  Usually I buy my own flowers at the grocery store, but I am occasionally graced with a bouquet by my husband.  Last week he brought home a wonderful spray of yellow orchids which looked like Victorian dresses blowing on a clothesline.

My favorite bouquet from him, however, had no flowers.  I don't remember the occasion, but I treasure the memory of him presenting me with an artful arrangement of vegetables.  It sounds odd -- well, it was odd -- but it was lovely.  Red onions mixed with tall white leeks, and they were off set by a couple of long-stemmed, purple-edged artichokes. Instead of baby's breath I received a spray of broccoli.  It even smelled good in a hearty, savory way.  It took me several days before I took the whole thing apart and used its beauty in a whole new way -- supper.

Making People Happy

I spend a lot of my time trying to make the people around me happy, but tonight I have been unsuccessful.  I should go to bed and get a fresh start tomorrow, but I don't know that I could sleep through the dark noises in my head.

For me, one of the hardest parts of parenting is the knowledge that a failure on my part could have disastrous consequences for my children.  That, combined with a near-constant sense that I am doing things wrong, leaves me spinning in circles, trying to both please and discipline, constrain and encourage my children.  Sometimes I wonder if as adults they'll use their hindsight to quietly diagnose me with bi-polar disorder.

I should be making dinner

but I haven't been to the grocery store in five days, and I don't know how to make dinner with what I have left in the fridge and cupboards. I've been trying (as have we all) to save money, and one way was to use some of the bounty from my cabinets. We've made it a couple of weeks that way, but unfortunately, that now means creating dinner using ingredients like: two limp refrigerator carrots, cheddar cheese sticks, a can of water chestnuts, three unopened jars of curry powder, Cheetos, a can of baked beans, and random segments of deep-frozen lamb that would take hours to defrost.

I need to pitch a new reality TV show to some network.  I'd call it "What's for Dinner?" and send a celebrity chef into a randomly chosen home, giving him or her 45 minutes to create a nutritious, balanced, tasty meal with whatever is in the cupboards/freezer/fridge of the house in question, and regardless of the state of the kitchen (What?  You have to work around dirty dishes in the sink? There are no sharp knives? Welcome to the REAL world). It'd be particularly fun (challenging) to send gourmet chefs into households in food desert areas (under-priviledged neighborhoods where food is only available from convenience stores or big-box stores) and see what they can do. All recipes would then be published for real families to use.

Ultimately, a second review of the deep freeze turned up some hamburger, which, when combined with the tortilla chip crumbs from the back of the pantry, chopped up cheese sticks, slightly fermented salsa (vegetables -- with a kick!) and some canned (white northern) beans should be able to pass as nachos. Dinner, anyone?

I'm a morning person

Much to my night-owl husband's dismay, I'm a morning person. And not just a morning person -- I like to be up when everyone else is sleeping.  There's something about a sleeping house that is remarkably peaceful. Since getting the alarm clock, er, dog, I've expanded to enjoying a sleeping city. This morning, no thanks to the time change, we walked again in the dark. At long last we were accompanied by the scolding of robins and crows who were unaccustomed to our company. I was delighted; robins are the first sign of spring, and their song cheers me like nothing else.  In addition, we witnessed garbage trucks trolling the alleys -- a sight that thrills me now that I have children who get excited by heavy machinery -- and groggy bathrobe-clad people taking the recycling bins to the curb.  My personal symphony also included the rumble of freight trains announcing in long wails their arrival and departure through the rail yard.  Sometimes I am privileged to hear the roar of lions or trumpeting of elephants from the zoo near our home.  Today I did not, but as soon as I returned home I was treated to the cacophany of a waking family.

Morning commute

I quit my job two years ago this month.  I suppose it's an odd anniversary to celebrate, but, like most anniversaries, it marks a life-changing event.  Actuarial tables indicate that marriage, moving, and job changes are the most stressful things in American life, and I can believe it.  I also believe that it has taken me this long, and may take a little longer, to undo some of the mind-pretzels I bent at the end of my career.  I am finally able to acknowledge how unpleasant I was at the end -- how my bitterness must have affected those around me. And I now allow myself to take pride in how hard I worked, and even believe that it made a difference.  I may not have been terribly effective at single-handedly fixing everything I touched, but I learned a tremendous amount -- and not just accounting!  That said, I'm not yet ready to return to that world.  I'm afraid to try.  I'm afraid that I will make the same mistakes, and bumble through, and lose confidence, and nearly break myself again.

All this went through my head this morning as I drove away from a sleeping family in the pre-dawn light.  I met my dearest friends downtown for breakfast, and to get there I had to join the worker-bee commute.  Few people in this world have such a lovely morning drive. I faced west, the sun behind me outlining eastern clouds in pink and orange and shades of gray that are too beautiful for a name.  Before me lay drifts of mountains fading into banks of gentle morning clouds, the tableau rendered in black and white by winter's hand.  Standing tall -- behind the leafless branches arching above, but proud before the mountains -- were skyscrapers made of dawn light, sparkling in the rising sun.  And above, a sleepy yellow moon drifted downward, relieved of duty by Apollo.

This view was once familiar to me.  I never took it for granted, but my morning commute now involves sweat pants and a lone set of stairs.  Dog walks have reopened my eyes to the dawn, but I face east, and trade the mountains for the sun.

So today, I cracked open my window and breathed deeply until my nose chilled, and then watched the dance around me of cars and people and bustling hurry-hurry between trains and buses, weaving cyclists and cell phones into the tapestry of a city whose walls rose above me and blocked out the grandeur of both mountains and sunlight.  And I missed it, the sense of purpose; the heads-down idea that if you just get there a little faster something will change and you will have made a difference.  I missed it for a little while, and then I had breakfast, and came home, and quietly, slowly, without rules or deadlines, crossed a few things off my list before picking Violet up from school.  And I decided that my fear, for now, is okay.  I don't need to join the dance yet.  And when I do, I will remember to look up to the sky and the mountains, even if it means bumbling some of the steps.