Two Peas in an Automotive Pod

Both my husband and my son are pilots. Both my husband and my son own old, junky cars, as well as the well-kept, modern vehicles they drive daily and provide for their spouses. They are both tall, talented and funny men. They love burgers and baseball and they are extremely good at things no one ever taught them to do. They are clean shaven and tidy about their personal habits, they do not inflict unkempt nastiness upon either of us, their adoring wives, they will eat almost anything you put in front of them and take you out to dinner if it’s not in the stars for you to cook tonight. They are almost perfect. 

But these cars. The Captain’s is a ’41 Chevy and you have to write it and say it that way, never does one utter the full 1941, it simply isn’t done. It’s a ’41 Chevy. It used to be light blue and was the first car owned by his grandfather. It has enormous, personal, family history, taken as it was to college by two other brothers but left, in fact willed to the Captain by grandma Zimmerman. Due to a stint in the army which required the Captain or the Warrant Officer as he was then, to reside in far away exotic places such as Louisiana and Washington State, for a time the car was stored in the barn of a kindly uncle. There it was left to rest.  And to rot, and to rust, home to many a rodent and hundreds of birds and a dozen or more cats, none of whom felt any compunction about soiling its every surface with the remains of their day. There were nests built and fights for life fought with equal regularity; battles won and lost over food, territory and the right to abide. Fast forward another twenty years or so and the kindly uncle retired and wished for his barn space to be recovered. Perhaps his lovely wife was asking for the removal of the now unsightly gargantuan residing front and center in their erstwhile beautiful barn. 

With reluctance I agreed to its being towed to our place. Allow me to elaborate, our dream home. Ten acres purchased from the same uncle’s farm upon which we constructed a home that we designed and built to our every detailed specification. A home to accommodate our five children and various pets. A home built around ample closet space, three garages and a place for everything. Gentrified landowners now, our homestead would also require the purchase of a tractor. Every pilot’s secret ambition is to be a farmer. So where to put the car. In the garage of course says the Captain, then as soon as funds are made available (By whom? The antique car fairie or the state lottery?) I can restore it. The girls can ride in homecoming parades, I can drive them to their proms in it, they can use it in their weddings, it’ll be a thing of beauty, was his enthusiastic reply. Well what kind of wife and mother is going to nix that? Certainly not I. I’m not crushing the wistful dreams of an indulgent, loving father. So there it came to rest in 1989 and there it continues to lapse into the depths of mechanical and upholstered decay. The astronomical cost of raising said daughters and their brother left little spare cash, much less anything that would come close to the cost of a restoration of the beast. Even our son referred to it once as an eyesore, for which I am eternally grateful as it pertains to my case building for ridding ourselves of it. 

But the flame of hope burns eternal, the Captain still dreams of the great restoration to come, the holy grail for which is now a television show where contestants are chosen to be the recipient of a team of experts who come to your home, retrieve the beast and return it to a pristine condition at no cost to the owner other than the invasion of your privacy to televise the entire undertaking. Bring it. 

When the junior bird man was a third degree or underclassman at a certain academy he was allowed a car. He and the Captain purchased a 2001 Jeep Cherokee. The last year this particular type was made, it is a small tank by anyone’s standard. Living as he did in Colorado there was ample space and opportunity for off-roading which became his new passion. You know how it is with youthful males in a military setting, a certain overabundance of testosterone is evident and if left unchecked can grow to alarming heights. He had the thing custom jacked of course with all sorts of hydraulic accoutrements that defy description. He loved, at the time to listen to angry rap music which was afforded a national audience by the installation of four 200 lb speakers all tuned to bass high. So this chariot would boom and thunder its way up a mountain to disturb nature’s peace and charge back down again at alarming rates of speed all to the giddy amusement of unfettered male youth. Understand, unlike the smooth ride afforded the ’41 in its day this was no romance machine. He was the envy of all at the academe as we called it. Upon graduation and in the midst of flight school he and other brilliant young men thought they’d drive it on a cross country road trip as a sort of reward for all their hard work. All went surprisingly well until a sudden massive downpour in Mississippi resulted in a flash flood. The men came upon a rivulet of fast moving water that defied, to most reasonable persons, a crossing possibility. All of them looked at this body of water, they hemmed and hawed using their vast, expensive and high calibre education, agreed they could “take it”. They hopped back into the Jeep, floored it in four wheel drive and……sank like a rock. There is even a name for this, says the Captain, it's called swamping it. So having admitted defeat, calling in a professional towing service they made one last heroic attempt to restore their manhood by offering assistance to the towers. One game young feller going as far as to dive down under the Jeep to try and hook up the winch installed for four wheeling rescue. Fail.  

Upon it’s arrival in Pennsylvania the smell of rotting carpet and upholstery was unbearable, the thick sludge that had permeated every soft place in the car was infused with a sort of death vapor, the likes of which would never leave the vehicle. Even after a very expensive and thorough cleansing the car still has a lingering malodorous stench to it that leaves one leaning out of the window on an early December morning just to catch one’s breath. We had to sit on trash bags for a couple of years as it dried, finally sealing in the permanent pong. Orders did indeed come taking our boy to far away places over oceans which the Jeep could not cross so of course it has taken up residence at the family abode. In the driveway where all who visit can enjoy the great hulking mass of it with that huge bumper that sort of smiles at us whenever we approach. People often comment on it, asking reasonable questions like why, ten years after graduation do we still harbor this beast. Well, I say, his wife certainly doesn’t want it in their driveway!  The registration was the first thing to expire followed quickly by the tires and then the insurance. So now it has taken on a new position as the second of two sad, rotting useless “cars” that live at our house. I suppose in the great scheme of things they are no worse than my penchant for shoes or Christmas ornaments both of which are immune to counting. But if you have any pull with that TV show let me know, I have a pretty good story for them. 

Imprinting Thanks

It is the day before Thanksgiving and most of those who are coming are here. The youngest and the eldest are in from the southern climes, one had a violent episode with a gastrointestinal hiccup and the other is in bed having come from the urgent care facility with bronchitis. The children, six and three are playing in four inches of snow without boots, hats, or gloves. Their father is chaperoning this endeavor in borrowed but still unsuitable attire. I have made four breakfasts and I've lost count of the lunches thus far. The dog is lying in an exhausted heap on the kitchen floor, un-used to such a level of attention and fun, not to mention noise and wicked good opportunities for dropped food. She is happy. I woke the Captain up at 2:00am to inform him that I forgot to buy cranberry sauce yesterday so he is charged with that, plus the epic drive of more than an hour each way to the airport to pick up more southerners. Snow is coming down at about an inch per hour. Perfect. Son and wife making it in from warmer latitudes.

It's quiet, I made pastry for the pies and am about to peel 30 lbs of potatoes while there is a lull in the cafeteria traffic that has become my kitchen. Lots of crafting going on today, a beautiful paper leaf wreath made by my grand daughter with guidance from her teacher auntie. Marker stains all over the island and dollops of glue to hold them in place. I have conveniently forgotten what this was like when there were five of them at home. The Captain invariably away on a trip and hopefully returning to us just in time for dinner. I used to do all this prepping and cooking while holding down a job outside the home too. I must have been mad.

Why do we do this? Perform these massive rites of feasting and forced family fun. Because we love each other that's why. Because when your sister walks in the door and you hug her and laugh and make a joke that only the two of you understand you are imprinting. You are telling one another and reminding yourself that you belong. This is your clan, these are your people. It is worth every grueling drive through hazardous conditions, every delay at an airport, every forgotten vital piece of make up, electronic equipment or shoes just to get here, where you belong. You belong to us and we to you, and you to each other. We stamp approval and acceptance all over one another as we hug, kiss and remember. Every bite is gravied with the support that only comes from knowing you have a place.

I served a dinner to poor families this year in an effort to give thanks and appreciation for all that I have. I was met with gratitude and happiness. I was thanked and it was obvious that all those attending, whether as volunteer cooks and servers or diners were meant to be somewhere else. They did not belong, they had no connection so visceral as our family and yours at Thanksgiving. It was humbling in its ability to ground me in the reality that not everyone is as fortunate as I. Not everyone is out worrying about the perfect sides to go with the picturesque bird. Many in our community suffer the outsider label, they don't belong. It's worth thinking about them and what you can do to help and how you may only be a step, a job loss, a diagnosis away from the same fate.

Where are the Candles?

This is not new to me, I have been decorating this house since 1989. I have photographed it every year and for the most part kept things pretty much the same. I have of course added some new items from time to time and retired others as needed. I am not one of those great mums who hung onto every ornament my children made, let’s be honest here, there are five of them and between sporadic periods of religiosity where they created little Marys and Josephs, boy scouts, girl scouts and school, where I understand all things Christmas have been replaced by a more pagan and nebulous albeit in-offensive Winter Holiday now, they must have created a hundred or more “ornaments.” From paper plates, popsicle sticks, glue and glitter. And felt, remember felt? Each brought home with a grin, a prideful question mark on each little blighter’s face asking if it could take pride of place on the tree. Yes, of course it could….for about 20 minutes. Then frankly I got sick of celebrating around a tree that was famous for its smell of old glue and animal bits found on nature walks and later turned into treasures. I began to long for brightly coloured ornaments that shone and sparkled but were not made from snot and  macaroni. I wanted a designer tree, like the ones in magazines. I wanted to have a Martha flippin’ Stewart tree. As a mother of five, sometimes things just hit you that way. Bang crash…

“This is why we can’t have anything nice!”

And so it began, the captain suggested that I have a second tree and purchase spiffy ornaments of my choice so that the super-glued, kid friendly monstrosity could be left for the children to continue to express their creativity. That was really all it took for me to begin the journey that has ended in there being no less than seven Christmas trees in our home. I can’t even lie and say I didn’t notice, it was not stealth but rather grim determination that got us here. I was on a mission once begun, to have themed trees in each room and the madness continues. As people in your life realize that you have a small obsession with anything they fall loyally into one of two categories. They begin to purchase you something for the collection for every birthday or other gift worthy occasion or they try to put a stop to it. In my case the former has taken on a life of its own. From one or two snowmen perched cheerily atop a shelf in the family room we now own what has been christened the boyfriends of Christmas past shelf, containing about twenty snow men in every shape and size, each one gifted over time upon recommendation from one of our four daughters. The Santa that made its way to a book case now has at least thirty cousins in resin, pottery, wood and various other mediums, again all gifted over time to evolve into a Santa grave yard of epic proportions. There are Santas tumbling out of drawers and flying in a tin airplane (yes another theme; aviation of course!) I have tiny little Santas that sit jauntily beside tiny Christmas trees and Santas from foreign lands collected lovingly from Boscov’s every year. There are Santa pilots and Santa military men each gifted in honor of the two aviators in our family.

I will not bore you with the details of the contents of the many, many plastic bins in the Christmas closet, the basement and the laundry room. Don’t judge, where’s yours? Suffice it to say it takes a great deal of planning to execute the appearance of a casual Smith Christmas with a few nice things artfully placed, it takes a gargantuan effort of at least three days to haul it to each room and display it all just so. It is then photographed and shown to the captain to whom the task will fall should I meet with an untimely demise, to re-create it for the children. His constant and never failing response to this is to inform me that he will set fire to all of it if I go first. How many of those arguments have you had!! 

Today, some four days after Thanksgiving I thought it would be nice to just make a start and place the candles in the windows. You know, the electric kind, that have timers on them and make your home look warm and inviting in the winter snow. We built this house with those in mind, there is a double outlet under every single window in our home, I am so proud of that. I must admit it was the captain’s idea however, not mine. Credit where it’s due. But I love that I don’t need extension cords and can have the wires neatly tied up in a small bundle just under the sill. Just the way Martha would have done it if she weren’t such a bitch and therefore not married to someone great like the captain! All our candles plug into the lower of the two outlets and can all be turned on at once with the flip of a light switch as one enters or leaves the room. Brilliant. I have a system, usually, when putting all the detritus of the holidays away, but last year we had extra dogs as guests, as well as people, and something must have snapped, I must have had a few too many eggs of the nog, I don’t really know but when I began the search for these window candles they were completely lost to me. I spent more than three hours rifling through bins and tubs, each labeled in indelible marker with helpful sentences that say things like “Kitchen window sill, east 2009” or “Bay window, 2010, needs fresh pine cones.” Where did I put the candles? Why did I not place them all in one box clearly labeled? Now, a bourbon and ginger ale later I sit amidst the chaos I have created in the fruitless search, still no candles. But I am struck by the stories behind all the “mess” The memories of these little gifts given over three decades of a great marriage and a wonderful family. I am bliss-filled and melancholy all at once, another holiday will come and go, gifts will be given, new memories will be made and through it all the sameness and the newness will be a constant. Oh look at that… here’s the Easter bunny I couldn’t find this spring, maybe I’ll look there for the candles!

My Favourite Holiday

Just back from the airport and having said a speedy farewell to the last of our family visitors I  should be feeling a little relief. After all, no more massive meals to cook, no more five loads of laundry per day, no more tiptoeing around delicate issues or tricky personalities. We all have those moments when we are fearful that the wrong thing will be said to the wrong person, the faux pas are often mine as viscerally, I still think of them as my children while logically, I know they are their own adults by now. 

But what I feel is supremely grateful. For such a large family we all get along really well, we rarely argue over anything big, anything that would be a game changer, we bicker like everyone who loves is wont to do, but as a rule we like each other, respect one another’s opinions and express them freely. I know how difficult it is to get everyone in the same place at the same time, they partner up and marry and these other people make demands on them to be present for their family traditions but somehow, once again, they all made it home for thanksgiving in one piece and sailed through the confines of their family home, filled as it is with memories and past indiscretions. They flew, they drove, they overcame bronchitis and two trips to emergency health-care facilities. They dragged huge suitcases and supplies for two small children, they drove in rain and snow, they came early, late, and in the middle of the day. Thankfully they brought no extra pets this year, a blessing for which both my dog and I are grateful. They dutifully ventured to their grandparents homes to say hello, catch up on news and share more memories, and they did it all without being asked. 

They played in the snow, they played with their niece and nephew and took over a little of the care for them so that momma could rest, she with the bronchitis. They played checkers and watched a movie or two and they cleared their dishes, helped set the table many times and respected the rules of the mud room. They let the dog out when need be and they said please and thank you. They were quiet in the early mornings, they went to bed at reasonable hours and let us know if they’d be home late so we could rest between bouts of cooking and laundry. 

Am I surprised? No, of course not, these are all adults in grown-up jobs with grown-up relationships of their own, it’s just that I am still so grateful that we put in the work to raise them this well. That they listened, when perhaps we thought they didn’t, that they understood when they failed to respond, that those decades of investing our time, patience and not an insignificant amount of money have paid off in full. For anyone who is raising teenagers and wondering when that phase will end, I offer you the solace of time. Keep repeating yourself, they are paying attention, keep showing them what being in love, remaining in love and working at a loving relationship looks like. Like sowing high quality seeds in good dirt, the results are worth the wait. 

This holiday of thanks is the favorite for many, but form me it is my life’s greatest reward and it keeps coming every year. I don’t have to make or buy gifts, I don’t have to worry about getting it right. I just clean up, make room and cook. A lot! And they come home, they show love and respect and have fun, and they teach me again that having this family of ours is the greatest gift I have ever been given. And now let’s nip into the Christmas closet to begin the seamless transition!

Easy Like Sunday Morning

It was our childhood prescription for normalcy, a trip back to the weekends of our past; we got up a little earlier than we wanted to and dressed in our Sunday best, we walked or drove to our local church of choice and sat obediently listening, joining in when required and hopefully learning a lesson for the upcoming week. We did much the same as we raised our own family and things didn’t really change that much until…they left home and made their own decisions about whether or not to attend a formal place of worship and we were suddenly afforded the luxury of choice. 

Now, instead of leading by example we have become expert slackers. We have made a choice to stay in bed until at least nine and then, after sauntering down the driveway (in the truck) to fetch the Sunday paper we lounge about reading it and sipping a second cup of coffee or tea. We cook an animal fat based breakfast of sausage or bacon, sometimes both, fresh local eggs, toast slathered in real butter and homemade jam and then we begin in earnest, our true dedication to sloth. We sit at opposite ends of a room and share the Sunday paper. He removes all the advertising inserts first and stacks them neatly on the floor. He divides the paper into sections and reads them in the order in which they were presented to him by the publisher stating: “That was the way it was intended to be read, you don’t flip around in a book do you?” I hesitate to let him in on the secret that a newspaper is not a sequential story, but we are talking about relaxing here so my point is moot. 

I, on the other hand need even more to relax. I must have my lap top and be ready at a moment’s notice to look up the first of the week’s new MLS listings.  I am a confessed real estate stalker, I can tell you at any time where you can find a house in the tri-county area with four bedrooms and a deck or a neat little retirement cottage along Penn’s Creek. I can waste away considerable time reading the paper and snooping at the living quarters of total strangers in equal assignment. We have a system. As I clean up from breakfast, (it’s now at least ten thirty in the morning) he will spout off an MLS number and I will stop what I am doing to look it up. We are of course, preparing some five years ahead of when we will have to downsize to something that will more align with our needs as a couple, as opposed to our desire for the perfect family home, but that’s another story. 

Once I am ready to receive the newspaper itself, I have very little reading left to do, because he likes to read aloud to me the bits he finds interesting but more important, the ones he knows will interest me. If I happen to be in another room I can hear this sound “Hmm?” It begs a response, and try as I might to ignore it, it will escalate in volume and intensity until it gets one. He will then read the little section or ask if I know the person about whom the article has been written. He will always tell me I could have done a better job on some subjects or should expand on it, on others. He is loyal that way. He shares the Sunday paper with me in a way that we would never be able to if we only subscribed on line. We will never sort, read aloud, and recycle anything we find on the internet. Our ritual of sloth and interest is founded on a principle of shared pleasures. He enjoys the holding of the real paper, the control of keeping bits from me until he has finished with them and the joy of presenting articles he knows will invoke a response. This cat like behavior aligns with his other pleasure, waiting for me to be outraged, or to laugh or add my own twist to the topic. 

We are a couple of a certain age, there are few surprises left for either of us in one another but what we lack in surprise we make up for in the full account of shared understanding. I love how much he enjoys the paper, I am still trying to teach him that once finished it could go neatly into the recycle bin instead of onto the decorative stool in the kitchen where it will rise to alarming heights until it topples, and swearing mildly at the other, one of us will escort it to its almost resting place.  There are two more stops on its journey. It will go from the pantry recycling bin to the much larger container in the garage, then, (semi-annually) will be heaved into the truck, remember it began its tour here at our house, then it will be taken to the recycling center. I don’t know what happens to it after that. There are other uses I know, barn bedding, fire starting logs and even decorative vases and artwork have been made and sold. But for us it’s over. The end of the journey, we will leave the recycling center and maybe stop for a milk shake or an ice cream cone, we almost always perform this task together, just like we read the newspaper together, on our Sunday morning rituals of sloth.

Bringing up Baby

Those of us at a certain age, and I know this is a recurring theme in my musings; have come to understand that the raising of one’s offspring is on a sort of continuum, rather than a finite timeline that stops at a certain point. We have learned that the roles of mentor, trainer and support staff linger in various ways; that it changes and evolves just as any relationship does. We have breathed a collective sigh of relief as we moved a twenty something yet again into another apartment, waived fondly through the rear view mirror only to be called back a couple of years later to move, store, and replenish furniture and belongings. We have coached them through break ups and new love, through jobs lost and found, we have yearned for love and stability to enter, and remain in their lives. Sometimes this transpires in a smooth arch from college graduation to marriage and parenthood, allowing us to gracefully embody the next roles in our own lives: proud parents of accomplished adults, in-laws, and grandparents. All the while our own journey through menopause, empty nest syndrome, and finally retirement are not to be undertaken lightly. But along the way for some adult children; don’t you just love that little oxymoron, the road is pitted with the emotional potholes of a Pennsylvania turnpike in springtime. There should be a collective name and descriptor for these persons, boomerang children has been used, one that I like is transient adults.

An added bonus if you will, to some grown up children; again enjoy the silent snicker at that particular turn of phrase, is that they may have accumulated pets.  We are allergic to cats. I mean, stay in a hotel don’t hug the owners, full on asthma attack allergic. We simply cannot tolerate the dander. It sticks to everything the pet owners own, their clothes, their coats and scarves, anything they have that is soft and cuddly, a seeming magnet for the dreaded dander of kitty life. It clings with tenacity unrivaled by a five year old blood hound on the trail of a fresh kill. Naturally, when one of these temporarily homeless adults returns, albeit temporarily, to the family castle this detritus of feline living comes with them.  In the most recent episode the sad adult child comes with a puppy. Understand that we have a dog of our own, a small well behaved dog who rarely reminds us of her existence.  A little barking at the oncoming UPS man or the unannounced visitor, the occasional resounding announcement to the local corps of rabbits that this is her turf, and sometimes just a low growl, the cause of which is known only to her tiny little brain. She has us well trained to her needs, she is happy to sleep in until noon if we do, she can even be parceled out to friends who then remain friends, who can care for her when we are…visiting our adult children!

Enter the 8 week old puppy, not yet housebroken, riddled with need, hunger and a capacity to pee that leaves us in awe of its volume, consistency and surprise regularity. He has not yet learned to respond to any command other than “Who wants a treat?” so statements like “Get down” or “No” leave him in a confused, happy ignorance of what might be expected. His boundless energy is not appreciated by our sedate Scottish Terrier who herself rises for a walk only at our insistence. He leaps over her and she wags her tail and pretends to enjoy the rumpus. He leaps over every barrier we have attempted to erect as a deterrent to his ruining every surface of our home. They race in circles around our large kitchen, roughhousing and barking, he consumes her food as well as his and she, like us, tolerates it. He sleeps for seven minutes at a time twice a day and she who is used to a great deal of pleasant solitude combined with 20 hours of napping per day has learned to ignore him or change her schedule depending upon his persistence. They are both black, he of a mixed breed built more like a miniature lab than the Beagle/Pug/Jack Russell mix we are told he actually is. When they run outside and do what dogs do, she becomes another beast entirely; she too jumps and runs, barks happily and seems to love the attention, the tussle and the chase. This small annoying, needy little bugger has transformed us all, making us forget that we have another move impending and yet another boyfriend to learn to like at some point. He has made us, as dogs and adult children often do, better, more patient and appreciative. 

As we guide this child one more time through the rough seas of life and help her get back on her feet again, it would seem this little partner she has acquired is also going to be by her side reminding her that life goes on, it needs to be mopped up frequently and usually the stains it leaves behind are heartfelt memories that helped advance her down the road to happiness. A puppy is a great equalizer, we all become finely tuned to its needs and hyper alert to its schedule for bathroom activities, we leap up when we think he wants to play, poop, or puddle and we all take responsibility in wanting to teach him when and where each of those activities is appropriate.

A puppy makes you think that you can improve; him, yourself, others in your circle. This is innate, no one can resist the urge to train, mentor and teach the little guy his manners and help him on the road to dog-hood. Everyone else in the house is talking in a softer more loving tone; they are constantly telling him what to do, asking him what he wants, and searching his adorable little face for an answer.  He, like the adult children will take all the time he needs to reach his full potential and be rewarded with the true treat, that life is good.   

  

Back to School, the Other Side.

As we listen to the last strains of the cicadas and linger under the stars for one last chapter in a good book before the sun sets just a little earlier than it did yesterday, we know it’s coming. The advertisements have begun in earnest, some of them are so good; I love that woman in Target who fairly dances up the aisles with her down-at-the-mouth kids in tow, popping school supplies into the cart, singing that silly Christmas song. We sing along and feel that familiar sense of excitement mixed with relief at the thought of our darlings jumping onto the old yellow bus once again, to spend their days in the care of others. But what of the others? The teachers; who have in some cases just graduated from college or have been in the business of education for a decade or so, what of the administrators who hope that they made judicious choices about cutbacks and changes? What of the guidance counselors who know that they will face a year of sadness and despair as well as a mound of applications to colleges for which they know some students are ill suited.  

Just as students and their parents worry about what to wear and how best to fit in, should they pack a lunch, will they get the course they need, will there be new friends or will the same rotten kids that hurt them last year be back for more, so do teachers have a certain level of anxiety. How many conversations and letters home to parents who really have more to worry about than whether or not Jonny can read, how many conferences to be had when Jonny is acting out at school by hitting or verbal bullying. How many awkward conversations with helicopter parents who think they know why their child is failing and it’s all the fault of the school. We ask a great deal of teachers; they must adhere to strict state and local guidelines and expectations, as well as meet the criteria that the PTO has in mind. They have chosen a profession that allows the general public, their client, so to speak, to have a great deal of say about what they do. Comments are made, such as, teachers only work half the year or they make too much money and their health and retirement benefits are putting us in a statewide poor house. The pressure to do more with less is a thread that runs through the fabric of all economies, not for profit, small business and government alike, are all battling for the same tax dollar or relief therefrom.    

We’re headed up to the teacher supply store next week so that our daughter who makes less than you do, can borrow a couple hundred bucks from her dad and I to outfit her early childhood classroom for the kids she teaches. Next, we’ll send some cash down south to the one who drives the 16 year old Honda in order to keep it on the road a few more years, because by the time she pays her rent and school loans, on top of her living expenses, there’s nothing left to even think about buying a replacement car, new or used. She teaches third grade. The one who is an art teacher worries every single year along with the music teachers whether or not there will even be an art or music program left to teach.  All three of them get up early, commute, arrive an hour or more before their students do, then teach, to the very best of their abilities, until their students leave. They remain to plan for the next day, to meet with administrators, to negotiate with a parent or coach another child. When they get home they grade papers, plan some more then drop into bed exhausted and happy. We never call after nine at night, we know they are sleeping. We know many of their students might be up until the wee hours watching television or playing magical games online and conversing with their thumbs. They are not all shiny and sparkly and well fed and properly prepared for class in the morning. To teach is to love something so much greater than yourself, to sacrifice and to give, to continue to learn and grow for years, all for the benefit of someone else’s child. My son in law, also a teacher said it best to me a few years back, after a grueling year teaching little ones whose parents don’t speak English and whose culture didn’t understand why in America they were being asked to bring in paper towels and clothes pins for a science project. He said he needs to be the kind of teacher he wants his children to have.

I often wonder why three of my five children chose teaching as a profession. They were all good students in a small public school in a small community; they excelled at different things, two were jocks, one was a bit of a nerd, they were musicians and artists and one was extremely talented at being social. Yet they must have seen something that inspired them to want to be just like one or more teachers in their lives, they must have been gifted with the right spoken word of encouragement at the right time, or the right kind of mentoring that only a dedicated teacher can give, because he or she notices.  To all the teachers who are nervous and excited about the coming school year, good luck to you, you’re gonna need it. 

The Captain is Home

Captain Dan is gone four days a week, he flies the friendly skies for a living and I am left to my own devices for the duration. This is not all bad, whilst I miss him terribly it does allow for a certain amount of freedom and independence both of which must be quashed once he returns to the fold, albeit for just three days. The challenge with these days is to make it look as though I am truly happy (now and newly unemployed) and extremely busy. If I don’t, then I succumb to the Captain’s schedule which is vastly different than mine, even though I haven’t created mine yet. For example, chores. For the past month we have been jointly working on the exterior painting of our house. Built in 1989 it is made of stone and has what looks like a wooden addition although it was all built at the same time. The wooden section has only ever been painted twice. Once, when we built it, then again about 10 years later. So now in 2014 it really needs to be done. After weeks of grueling decision making I finally just caved and agreed to his choice. Brown is brown as far as I’m concerned, it wasn’t that big a deal. Although now that it’s on the house I’m really not in love with it. We hired a professional as we both suffer an aversion to heights and hard labour. Upon discreet enquiries I also discovered that said painters would be willing to finish a couple of stalled interior projects too. A great month October, all kinds of accomplishments. But the shutters, all 98 or so still needed to be painted. This was something the Captain felt moved to personally undertake. How hard could this be? He did some research (translation, nine weeks online) then purchased a professional-grade paint sprayer. It came with a video he has watched at least as often as I have viewed Terms of Endearment. “GIVE MY DAUGHTER THE PAIN MEDICATION”

And so it began, three days of removing the shutters, two broke in this process, pressure washing every one of them. Drying overnight in the garage, all precariously balanced amidst the normal twenty odd years of detritus one accumulates in such spaces. Then he rigged a painting station outside. Not bad for a non pro, he managed to paint the first round of shutters, those from the wooden side of the house. Hauled them all back into the garage and gently leaned them against the interior of the doors. I only broke one, accidentally opening the wrong garage door. Now another weekend is dedicated to removing the shutters from the front of the house, I won’t bore you with the scary details of his trying to do this with one hand whilst perched on a ladder, ready with the other hand to deflect any bats that we assumed lived behind the shutters, judging by the droppings deposited directly below. (Don’t tell Rachel she’ll never spend the night here again.) This time he set up the mechanics of the paint job on the front, south facing lawn. A sixty foot extension ladder atop two saw horses received the painted shutters, he was on a roll, paint, lay down, next, repeat. It was all pretty impressive… until it wasn’t.

Despite my misgivings which, believe it or not, I do upon occasion keep to myself, it was decided after consulting the weather channel, to leave all the shutters outside overnight to dry before applying a second coat. And so to bed. The next morning we rose, eager to complete the task and forge on with the shutters still affixed to the rear of the house, those which had yet to be taken down. I made tea and coffee and as we like to call it, the big breakfast; eggs, porcine meat, muffins, juice. Whilst sipping the last of our drinks we sauntered into the front hall to gaze upon the fruits of our labors, only to witness a brief wind gust pick up most of the shutters and toss them off the ladder and over the front stone wall. We lost two more. He superglued one back together and by god we continued. 

On the third weekend the Captain tried valiantly, to complete this now Herculean task. We trudged back and forth from the garage with the shutters one last time, set them up against the ladder and went in to view the instructional video, one last time. Not seven minutes in we heard a light crash followed by a cracking sound. Followed by words that are not fit for this page. Disbelief would be the best way to describe the look on my beloved’s face as we approached the stack of shutters. This time the ladder itself had blown off the saw horses. Three more were broken. I’ve lost count now how many we’d lost and it doesn’t matter. He has given up. Admitted defeat. Sold his handyman soul. He came into the house after a brief period of mourning and announced that he is buying replacement shutters. Pre-painted. I am trying to feel empathy for the man I love, to whom I had suggested, in light of his limited time at home, those pilots have terrible schedules you know, that hiring the housepainters to also remove, paint and re-install the shutters would be a good investment. He is always game to try, I do adore that, he will not lie down to allow other men onto his property to do something he feels he can do himself. But sometimes the time and money wasted in futility is not worth it, except for the writing fodder it gives to me. Don’t feel sorry for him, I can hear the chain saw running, he has clearly moved on.

The World's Most Expensive Potatoes

Early in the spring I, like millions of others am seduced virtually, on paper and in my best imagination. I succumb like a weakling to a virus, to the false sense of farmer that lurks in all of us who live in anything greater than a city apartment on the 10^th floor. First the seed catalogues arrive, glossy and charming with their carefully groomed pages fairly smelling of fertility, then you start to see packets of seeds everywhere, the hardware store, the drug store, even the grocery store.  Milk, bread and prizewinning zinnias. Next it’s in all the layouts in the spring magazines featuring the perfectly groomed well planned photo ready gardens of perfection. There’s no end to the pressure, you must grow something, you live in the country. You are un-American if you are not trying to feed yourself and your family from that which you have personally dug, sown, fertilized, weeded and harvested. 

It is this unrelenting sense of urgency which drives me every year, ever hopeful, yet ever brown thumbed into the shops to spend massive amounts of money on plants and seeds, fencing and stakes, cages and wires and labeling sticks and clay nursing pots. Burlap and weed mat, fountain heads and hoses, buckets and trowels and little forks, big spades and specialty spades for digging things I may not even have planted, but all that shiny stainless steel speaks to me and beckons me. Buy me and the peas will not fail. Purchase this, it is the best, and guarantees a bumper crop. There are items in the garage about which I have no knowledge, tools that defy description of purpose, but have forced me to bring them home in the ever hopeful anticipation that I will grow food for us this year.  

This has gone on at various levels of insanity since 1989, so one can only begin to imagine the untold fortune that has been spent to date. Eagerly, annually I put on my Eddie Bauer hat and don my LL Bean boots, only the best for me. And I march into the garden, enthused and encumbered with hope.  I dig and plant and photograph, I post pictures on facebook of the early seedlings as they pop their sprouty little heads up out of the rich, expensively augmented soil. I am all pride and wishful thinking at this point. This year under the spell of some confounding, deranged sense of self delusion, I said yes to being on the garden tour and all H E double hockey sticks broke loose. I didn’t even admit to the hubs that this was going down until one Saturday three weeks before the dreaded day, he happened to notice and comment on how great things were looking. Noting that I had really stuck with it this year, had really kept up with the weeds and such, well I admitted finally, we are on the garden tour. I mumbled rather than spoke these words articulately then ran off ostensibly too busy to continue our chat. He tracked me down to the laundry room whereupon he gazed down at me in complete and utter disbelief. Have you lost your mind he asked, strangers will come here and look at all our stuff. All our weeds and all the bits of the house that need painting, they’ll notice the shingles missing over the breakfast room, they’ll see where I didn’t finish painting the other two garage trim pieces. No, you’re looking at it all wrong said I, they will only see the pretty things, they’ll see the flowers and all the shrubs that are in bloom this time of year. Besides I am going to serve drinks so everyone will be happy, and they won’t have the nerve to criticize. 

The garden tour came and went and to be honest, that is another story in itself. The garden was spectacular on that particular weekend. The hubs came through, my horticultural knight on shining John Deere, all was mowed and trimmed and painted anew. But my garden, harbinger of failure’s future, still had weeks to go before any broken promise of harvest was to manifest. After the tour of course, I stopped weeding in earnest. I no longer really minded all those cute vines that were rambling out of control over most of what might turn out to be produce. I could no longer see a lot of what was growing by a month later and now in August, it is time to reap the rewards of my mediocre, lack luster maintenance. I shall recount for you the entirety of this year’s harvest. About nine strawberries, and they were good, two beets which I forgot to cook and thus, they rotted in the fridge. There are some onions and what I think is garlic still to pull. I have eaten one serving of green beans and possibly two of peas. I was astonished to discover that lettuce, if left to its own devices will grow to about four feet high before it topples under the weight of my neglect. But let me tell you about my potatoes. There are eleven of them. They were grown in sacks, the latest rage amongst we veggie types, they are red and gold and I will milk the joys of these spuds for days. I intend to photograph them, bake them, fry them and make a salad out of a couple. I will take some to work so that I can talk about them, and I will even offer a couple to my sister in law’s kids who will say just the right thing: Oh I wish our mom would grow vegetables like you do, auntie Anne!   Yes, those eleven perfect potatoes are my redemption, for lies of omission to my husband, for ideological self agrandizement, they will be my gardener’s glory. Ooh look the fall bulb catalogue just came in the mail, I can’t wait.

A Simple Trip

Two days before Thanksgiving and following one quick round trip to Harrisburg to pick up number five, I felt the need to grocery shop. The need, I say because we live in Pennsylvania and it is going to snow tomorrow which is when I prefer to shop for the big feast. As a rule I enjoy strolling around the store, running into folks I haven't seen for a while and will probably not see again until the same time next year. I like the rush of uncertainty about whether or not there will be any fresh turkeys available at this late date, I get a big high when it's me who grabs the last container of Durkee fried onions, c'mon you know you love green bean casserole. So doing this a day early was disconcerting, and it was late, around 4:30pm so all the working moms were now in high gear, hand held devices at the ready. But I was determined to enjoy the process, picking up potatoes and carrots and some fruit for the grandchildren whose dietary needs escape me this visit, as mom is keeping them off sugar. Yeah, good luck with that at my house, my new hobby is baking and dad's is eating the results, so you may run into a little sugary road block there. But I tried. I got some organic peanut butter for them and yogurt made from dirt or something else so healthy they would at least survive the week. I hid the candy and the "bad" cereal in the bottom of the cart as if she were actually with me. "Honestly mom how did we not all have hyperactivity disorder living with you?" Because when you were hyper I smacked you and sent you to your room. You didn't do it too often. Quick learners. Suffice it to say I made the rounds, real butter, whole milk, right next to the cartons of fat free, sugar free, taste free, non dairy cream substitute for the rest of you. I found an enormous fresh Butterball and heaved him into the cart, score! I bought fresh pumpkin puree and made a promise that I'd  only use the stuff from the can if A. no one would see it or B. the effort failed. Upon arrival at the check out lanes...mayhem. 16 lanes the day before a snow storm and two days before Thanksgiving at rush hour and five of them are unmanned and closed. There are at least seven people at each open lane all of whom are feeding the poor judging by the contents of their carts. So I look west to that forbidden territory where lies the dreaded self check out. First let me say that if I am forced to check out my own groceries you should give me a discount, an incentive to do your job for you.  At the very least give me that key around your neck so that I can override the bitch who resides inside the register. Welcome, do you have a discount club card? Please scan it now. I scan it. Welcome do you have a discount club card, please wait. The clerk comes over with his handy little override thingy and frees me to continue. I went to school, I am not a dolt, but I never worked in a grocery store so I am not fully checked out (pardon my brilliant pun) on bagging. And my first question is why is the bagging area so small? I am going to need room for at least nine bags by anyone's guess, you have designed this area to accommodate two. But onward, I slide each heavy can, each large container, each gallon jug over the little camera and we are bleeping along quite nicely until she who resides inside the register asks me a question and then refuses my answer. Would you like to use your own bag? I don't need a bag for the potatoes, they're in a bag. Unknown item in the bagging area. No, you rang them up you even said, potatoes $4.49 now let me place them in the bagging area. Unknown item in the bagging area. And that voice, why so calm, you're saying it for the third time now, let's raise the pitch shall we? So the guy comes over with the magic card once more and my dilemma is over the second he scans it. Now we are up to the seventh bag and we reach the Butterball, whereupon I see no tag, no UPC code, no price per pound, no easy to look up number. Hey buddy, can you help me find the price on this thing? My estimate of Mr. Butterball's weight would be around 80 lbs and he lobs it to a considerably older associate who bravely lunges down the aisle carrying this thing like one of those women from Minnesota who do the husband hauling races over the frozen tundra. Now the woman behind me is mildly annoyed, she has two items and her cash at the ready. Go to the fast lane, this is clearly not going to be quick. Her preference is to wait and look condescendingly at me whilst we both wait for the return of our intrepid cashier/olympian. And she's back, sweating profusely and looking as if she might expire from the exertion she slams Mr. Butterball into the seat of my cart and rings him up. Unknown item in the bagging area. As if any of this is not enough, at the precise moment the nazi inside the register speaks I get a cramp in my right foot. The kind that sends you instantly hopping in every direction in a vain attempt to relieve it. I get these all the time and the only cure is to remove my socks and shoes and pull on my toe. Imagine the delight for the lady behind me when I begin this process. Times like these remind us of the mysteries of quantum physics, why 8 seconds can slow to the length of a Super Bowl game, I pull the offending toe and slip my shoe back on sans the socks and finally have the opportunity to check out. But not before I realize I can simply not get any more items in the tiny bagging area so I begin placing them into the heretofore useless cart at which time we hear this, please replace items onto the bagging area. COME ON you've got to be kidding me. I scanned them, I called for help when I needed it, I got so tense my feet stopped working and now when it's almost at an end you're gonna call me out for putting my own groceries into the cart? No just no. Hey kid get back here, here's my debit card you do the rest. I've had it.

Just a Little Prick

You will only feel a tiny prick as the needle goes in, then maybe a bit of a small burn as the novacaine takes effect. This, as I am gently squeezing the hand of the kindly nurse who is also a friend, but goes all professional the minute we enter the operating room. I am undergoing a procedure to have a small mole removed from just above my eye. My family care physician’s assistant offered to take care of it for me in her office, but as I said to her, I appreciate the offer, but since it’s a bit more than a pimple on my bum and right above my eye, I think I’ll let the plastic surgeon have a go at it. So after an appointment to look at it and define it and decide upon a course of action, I made the appointment. Will there be anesthesia I asked hopefully, oh no I’ll just give you a prescription for some valium was the response. You’ll be fine. So I came home and explained all this to the hubs who was unsupportively really excited about the prospect of seeing me on valium. He who has witnessed my drug of choice which is either alcohol or versette the fabulous conscious sedation drip that, should it ever become available as a street drug will indeed be the demise of me as a civilized member of society. A few weeks went by; I made the requisite arrangements at work cancelling meetings and trying to make it sounds as if it was a very big deal in order to milk an entire day off. Oh I might be in after the “surgery” but I am told recovery is different for everyone and it’s just above my eye, so I am concerned. Plus the sedative might still be on board and I can’t be writing and talking to clients under those circumstances. 

The big day arrived and the hubs was quite disappointed that I had chosen not to take the valium. If indeed you can’t knock me out then I choose to brave it. I am the person who threw up all the premeds for a colonoscopy, so the idea of the mothers’ little helper from the seventies and the effect it might have on me was not something upon which, I was willing to gamble. The remembrance of many of my mum’s friends cruising through that decade in a waft of Liz Claiborne perfume and cigarette smoke was  still clear. Their days spent driving little Morris Minor wood sided estate cars about town in a complete fog of contentment. So I was content that I had decided to put my big girl panties on as Anna likes to say and take the numbing prick of the needle in stride. Of course no matter what precautions one takes prior to these things there is no guarantee as to how one’s actual body and its personal and intimate functions will choose to behave. Naturally mine was to need to void its entire content the minute I stepped into the office. Obviously not the first client to react this way prior to a procedure, the bathroom was conveniently located front and center. 

Once the nurse came in to escort me back to the operating theatre as we Brits say, it was all very pleasant, very quick and completely painless. A couple of tiny stitches that will apparently dissolve in a few days and a follow up visit to…check that it didn’t grow back? I am ready for a complete facelift now. No fear, as soon as this powerball ticket comes in, I am going to have it all done. Things are going to be replaced, rejuvenated and removed. I am going to have things put back up there where they belong and things shaped and sculpted just like they are in all the brochures that the hubs was reading during my brief but oh so successful dip into the pool of plastic surgery. I am going to be scraped and cleansed and nipped and tucked and the hubs can come too. They have couples procedures; we could do it as a vacation in some exotic venue.