For the past 3 months Simon has been preparing for his 8th birthday. His birthday falls pretty close to Christmas so it can easily be rolled into one big celebration -but not this year thank you very much. In our household it isn’t so much the birth DAY but a birthday SEASON.
We started it off the Saturday after Thanksgiving in Hood River, Oregon with a combined party for Simon and two other adult family members who have birthdays in December. Homemade chocolate cake was on the menu, lots of balloons, party favors, pin the tale on the donkey, musical chairs and musical statues. Now this may sound rigged, but Simon won all the games! Although to be fair Grandma, the most sprite-ful octogenarian on the planet, did a phenomenal job dancing to We Will Rock You. And Grandpa was rudely misinformed when he asked for direction on where to direct the Donkey’s tale and it ended up on the light switch not even in the same room as the donkey.
Leaving Hood River in the rear view mirror we headed up to Mount St Helen’s, then into the big city of Seattle for a few days, across to the Olympic Peninsula, down through the rainforest, back along the Oregon Coast and on to Highway 5 to Palo Alto.
Every day there was at least one conversation about the upcoming birthday celebrations. More to the point it was a pop quiz to make sure we all knew what was expected on the big day in mid December.
We were all very well versed on how Simon would wake up in Aunt Lalitha and Uncle Garret’s house on December 17th. Breakfast would be brought to him in bed and would include scrambled eggs, bacon, hot chocolate with extra extra whipped cream and multi colored sprinkles. He would open one present in the morning then take the Cal Trains from the California Street station up to San Francisco. There would be a walk over to the Hyde and Market Trolley Car to Fisherman’s Wharf, a walk down to Pier 39, an adventure at the aquarium and then top it all off at Ghirardelli Square for an ice cream sundae.
Research was done to figure out the train schedule, maps, admissions cost for the aquarium and lists of ice cream flavors available at Ghirardelli.
As Simon’s real birthday eve approached Simon was looking more and more pale, he had a non existent appetite and a forehead that kept getting warmer and warmer. At 1 AM, an hour in to being 8, he woke up in a feverish stupor saying, “Mom, can I have a rain check on San Francisco?” His actual birthday was spent at the doctor but he did rally for a Birthday Bike Ride with Balloons thanks to Miracle Motrin, bubblegum flavored.
On December 28th, 11 days into being 8, we were in San Francisco for the Birthday Make Up Day – and, hang on to your hats Ladies and Gentlemen – you may wonder if the following could possibly be true, but it is!
A cable car ride. You have to ride the cable car up and down the incredible hills of SF, especially if it is your birthday. But when there is a 90 minute wait behind 548 fellow tourists you start questioning just how necessary it really is. Who knew that the week between Christmas and New Years would find the city chock a block with everyone and their mother? The line wrapped around the round house and circled down the long block towards Union Square.
We had been waiting about 15 minutes and had moved up hardly 10 feet. There were plenty of Cable Cars coming and going but it takes a while to unload, turn them around and load them up again with the maximum of 50 passengers per car. There was a Cable Car next to us with a couple of conductors in their brown uniforms chatting and laughing. I got to thinking there must be some other stops along the way. So I asked Simon if he would feel comfortable asking the conductor if there was another stop near where we could board that didn’t have such a crazy line. He said he felt fine with that I reminded him to be polite and wait for them to finish their conversation before he asked. He looked back at me and asked smiling, “Should I tell the conductor it is my birthday?” “Sure, why not?” I replied.
Simon waited patiently for the Conductors, who spoke in a mixture of English and Spanish, to finish up their chat while I watched from the line. The conversation ended. Simon looked up at the Conductor and started out, “Excuse me sir, I am sorry to interrupt but today is my birthday and I was wondering if there might be another line….”
The Conductor stopped Simon and asked him his name, how old he was, who he was here with and then said, “Come on up here Simon. Today is your lucky day.” Not only did he pull us out of the line and have the two of us jump aboard the Trolley Car, held him up to ring the bell, and sit in the very front, but after he spun the car around and we headed towards the front of the line to let the other people on he shouted, “No other passengers on this Trolley Car today folks, this is the Simon Birthday Special.”
Should the Conductor be suspended for favoritism of 8 year old adorabel red headed boys? Did Simon work the birthday angle? Perhaps a little of both, but it made for a memory that will last a lifetime.
Thursday, 31 December 2009
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
Flying Alone With A Walking Stick
I am sitting in the Phoenix Airport on Monday the 21st of December waiting to catch a Southwest flight to San Jose, CA. Evan and I flew here on Friday to help my mom move into her new place in Scottsdale. We left the kids with my brother and sister in law in Palo Alto. That was the trade off. They take the boys, we move Mom. Excellent. We are all happy. Evan flew back yesterday so I am flying alone today. 3 nights without my boys after close to four months of rather extreme togetherness has produced interesting separation issues and intrigue around a walking stick.
Alone. Nobody knows I am a mother. Nobody knows I have no set address and that I live in a travelling RV.
On Saturday night I made the mistake of phoning to check in on the boys. Reminder to all mothers whose kids are under the age of 10: Never let them hear your voice if you are away over night. My sister in law Lalitha and I were chatting about their day, how Simon has been feeling, what they had eaten. All is well. “Josh is out on a walk with Garret and the boys but Simon wants to talk with you,” she says. “Great, put him on! Hi Babe,” I say in a bright, sunshine voice. Who knows what Simon was saying between the tears, snorts and blubbers. My interpretation: “Mommy, I am being tortured by my brother and ignored by everyone else. You are a Bad Mother. I will be scared for the rest of my life. I will never be able to have a close relationship with any other human being. `I will need extreme psycho therapy AND IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”
I am at gate C4 in the Phoenix Airport, I am coming home Sweet Simon!
Lots of families travelling with multi colored backpacks, activity bags and brothers’ poking each other. Standing in line at security there was a Dad in his late 30’s travelling with his 3 kids. The eldest was about 11 and the Dad was getting ready to blow up. “Can’t you stop touching or poking your brother for one minute?” he yells. The answer of course is, “No, I a programmed genetically to be annoying and this won’t stop until I am in my early 20’s.” Which reminds me of the song Simon and I made up last week, sung to the tune of Up on the Roof Top: “Let’s be annoying 1-2-3, I’ll poke you and you poke me, Then we will sing an annoying song. If you are lucky it will last REAL L—O—N—G--.”
But I am flying by myself. I will not sing the song to the 11 year old boy behind me. Nobody knows that I am a mother, they would just think I was a weirdo. I am so focused on watching the Dad and the three kids I forget to focus on my stuff and make sure the walking stock went through. It did.
It is a Cattle Call here at the gate. I am in the C group – the last group. Why even bother figuring out where to position myself. It is just me. Nothing to check in. Nothing to declare. I am flying alone so I can sneak in anywhere. Anonymous. Maybe people are looking at me and thinking I am a business woman typing important documents on my little computer. Maybe they think I am brokering a deal that is worth lots of money and that I am highly valued. But business women don’t travel with walking sticks.
Let’s be real. Nobody is looking at me. Everyone around me is too busy trying to figure out how to position themselves so that when the Flight Agent says GO they can take off and get the best seat with a roomy overhead compartment.
The Gate Agents for Southwest Airlines wear regular street clothes. Many are wearing shorts. I don’t like that. Call me old fashioned but I want my Gate Agents in a uniform. Not necessarily caps and gloves, but a basic uniform so I can tell them apart from the customers would be nice. For some reason reading Comme Caca (written out like Coca Cola) does not instill deep loyalty or confidence in passengers
There goes the first bell and the masses are off and running onto the plane. Unaccompanied minors are first. Families and the infirmed are next. Maybe I could use the walking stick and pretend I am handicapped so I can go first. But why? So I can sit on the plane longer?
My phone rings. Josh reset my ring tone last week and it is straight out of an Indian Epic Movie. I am thinking of Delhi and I am hungry for a palak paneer. I want to dance with scarves but that would blow my cover as an important business woman with a walking stick. It is Evan. He calls me about every 4 hours. He is very helpful. He has lots of ideas on how I can be more efficient. I love him. I love the fact that he is always thinking about ways to make my life easier. “Yes sweetie, the flight is on time. No, I didn’t have any trouble getting the walking stick through security. Yes, I have something to suck on for departure and arrival. See you soon.”
Back at Gate C4…oh shit. They just called my name. I was so busy pretending to be an important business woman I forgot to pay attention. They are closing the gate. No problem. Throw my stuff in the bag. It is just me and I am fast. I am at the gate. They check my boarding pass. I am waiting on the gang way at the end of the line behind a mother who looks about 12 holding a beautiful baby. They are both wearing pink valour. We smile. I think she thinks I am old enough to need a walking stick.
I am the last person on the plane. I am entering the cabin. Open seat in the middle of the right hand second row. I eyeball the woman in the aisle and ask if the seat is free. She moves over to the middle. I put the walking stick on the aisle seat along with my hand bag. I shove my carry on suitcase up above the seat. I spy another overhead for the walking stick. I sit down. I turn to the woman in the middle and offer to sit there, but “No”, she says, “just tell me the story of the walking stick.”
Alone. Nobody knows I am a mother. Nobody knows I have no set address and that I live in a travelling RV.
On Saturday night I made the mistake of phoning to check in on the boys. Reminder to all mothers whose kids are under the age of 10: Never let them hear your voice if you are away over night. My sister in law Lalitha and I were chatting about their day, how Simon has been feeling, what they had eaten. All is well. “Josh is out on a walk with Garret and the boys but Simon wants to talk with you,” she says. “Great, put him on! Hi Babe,” I say in a bright, sunshine voice. Who knows what Simon was saying between the tears, snorts and blubbers. My interpretation: “Mommy, I am being tortured by my brother and ignored by everyone else. You are a Bad Mother. I will be scared for the rest of my life. I will never be able to have a close relationship with any other human being. `I will need extreme psycho therapy AND IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”
I am at gate C4 in the Phoenix Airport, I am coming home Sweet Simon!
Lots of families travelling with multi colored backpacks, activity bags and brothers’ poking each other. Standing in line at security there was a Dad in his late 30’s travelling with his 3 kids. The eldest was about 11 and the Dad was getting ready to blow up. “Can’t you stop touching or poking your brother for one minute?” he yells. The answer of course is, “No, I a programmed genetically to be annoying and this won’t stop until I am in my early 20’s.” Which reminds me of the song Simon and I made up last week, sung to the tune of Up on the Roof Top: “Let’s be annoying 1-2-3, I’ll poke you and you poke me, Then we will sing an annoying song. If you are lucky it will last REAL L—O—N—G--.”
But I am flying by myself. I will not sing the song to the 11 year old boy behind me. Nobody knows that I am a mother, they would just think I was a weirdo. I am so focused on watching the Dad and the three kids I forget to focus on my stuff and make sure the walking stock went through. It did.
It is a Cattle Call here at the gate. I am in the C group – the last group. Why even bother figuring out where to position myself. It is just me. Nothing to check in. Nothing to declare. I am flying alone so I can sneak in anywhere. Anonymous. Maybe people are looking at me and thinking I am a business woman typing important documents on my little computer. Maybe they think I am brokering a deal that is worth lots of money and that I am highly valued. But business women don’t travel with walking sticks.
Let’s be real. Nobody is looking at me. Everyone around me is too busy trying to figure out how to position themselves so that when the Flight Agent says GO they can take off and get the best seat with a roomy overhead compartment.
The Gate Agents for Southwest Airlines wear regular street clothes. Many are wearing shorts. I don’t like that. Call me old fashioned but I want my Gate Agents in a uniform. Not necessarily caps and gloves, but a basic uniform so I can tell them apart from the customers would be nice. For some reason reading Comme Caca (written out like Coca Cola) does not instill deep loyalty or confidence in passengers
There goes the first bell and the masses are off and running onto the plane. Unaccompanied minors are first. Families and the infirmed are next. Maybe I could use the walking stick and pretend I am handicapped so I can go first. But why? So I can sit on the plane longer?
My phone rings. Josh reset my ring tone last week and it is straight out of an Indian Epic Movie. I am thinking of Delhi and I am hungry for a palak paneer. I want to dance with scarves but that would blow my cover as an important business woman with a walking stick. It is Evan. He calls me about every 4 hours. He is very helpful. He has lots of ideas on how I can be more efficient. I love him. I love the fact that he is always thinking about ways to make my life easier. “Yes sweetie, the flight is on time. No, I didn’t have any trouble getting the walking stick through security. Yes, I have something to suck on for departure and arrival. See you soon.”
Back at Gate C4…oh shit. They just called my name. I was so busy pretending to be an important business woman I forgot to pay attention. They are closing the gate. No problem. Throw my stuff in the bag. It is just me and I am fast. I am at the gate. They check my boarding pass. I am waiting on the gang way at the end of the line behind a mother who looks about 12 holding a beautiful baby. They are both wearing pink valour. We smile. I think she thinks I am old enough to need a walking stick.
I am the last person on the plane. I am entering the cabin. Open seat in the middle of the right hand second row. I eyeball the woman in the aisle and ask if the seat is free. She moves over to the middle. I put the walking stick on the aisle seat along with my hand bag. I shove my carry on suitcase up above the seat. I spy another overhead for the walking stick. I sit down. I turn to the woman in the middle and offer to sit there, but “No”, she says, “just tell me the story of the walking stick.”
Thursday, 10 December 2009
Christmas in the RV Park
We are tucked in for the night in an RV park in Port Angeles, Washington on the Olympic Peninsula. We took the ferry over here today from Seattle. Port Angeles is a town of about 8000 across the bay from Victoria, British Columbia.
Our next door neighbor here at the RV Park is a Class A. Judging by the winterizing to the RV it has been here awhile – the wheels are all covered up and a thick canvas skirt is secured around it to help keep the heat inside. It is a fancy rig with 2 slide outs. Peeking in the windows it looks like the $250,000 - $400,000 variety. There is a 6’ lit up wreath across the front engine, 3 spiral Christmas trees of different heights lit up in front of the door, and candles are in the window. It looks very cozy. As I was backing up into our space watching Evan as he was giving me direction in the rear view window, I took a quick sideways glance and caught the eye of the woman inside lighting the candles. We smiled. She had on a knowing smile. I imagined it to say, “Ahh the stress of backing up your RV while your husband tells you what to do. Ever since I backed up over Ralph in Idaho and took off, I don’t have to listen anymore.”
What is her real story?
Maybe she lost the house in the recent recession and is now living in the RV and all these decorations are from her former life that she pulled out of the storage facility. I mean, buying that many decorations for an RV? Where do you store them in the off season? Or maybe she just keeps them up all year. One of “those people” – the kind that never takes their lights down and keeps their tree up until mid February.
Is there a pecking order in RV parks? The permanent people vs. those just passing through? The Class A v Class B v Class C? You betcha! Here is the run down - according to nobody else but me:
Class A (these are the busses). Usually driven by tiny old men they are the fanciest of the line up. Inside they are the equivalent of a one bedroom apartment in New York. Only roomier and nicer. While they are larger then Class C’s they are usually occupied by older couples. We have been in many in various showrooms and have even witnessed one with a full size bathtub, and another with 3 flat screen TV’s. Sometimes they even have televisions on the outside so you can sit in your recliner rocker by the lake and watch you favorite Discovery Show at the same time. Talk about weird. Living in an adventure, watching someone else’s adventure. And here I am writing about someone having an adventure watching and adventure on a blog. WHERE IS REALITY?
Class B (converted camper vans). Think VW bus. Groovy. These are for the serious campers who are 1. living out of their camper doing the alternative thing or; 2. mountain climbers who could care less where they sleep (not a lot of room in these puppies) but need the room for their gear.
Class C (trucks chassis with integrated living – the Big Pig). Families. Most of the rentals are Class C’s as well. Alternative families with web sites writing blogs from RV parks in the pacific northwest wondering why they think they are so important as to warrant a blog.
5th Wheels. These are the campers that connect into the back of a big pick-up truck so that when you get to the RV park you can dismount and drive the truck independently. Hunters. Serious campers.
How I would love to be a sociologist – or more to the point – I just want to ask all the nosey questions that you are never allowed to ask and have a legitimate reason to do it. How I would love to be able to stop the world, find out the answers and then continue the revolving. In the 7th Harry Potter book that we are listening to as we drive, Hermione has just delivered the ever useful forgetful spell (“obliviate”). What I wouldn’t give for just a little bit!
It is Christmas time here in the RV Park. A little sad. We won’t be hosting our annual Holiday Party this year, and our ornament collection will be taking the year off. With that said, we have our own bit of cheer going on in the Big Pig. 3 nice big red bows adorn the cabinets, two sets of twinkle lights, 4 matching plastic holiday cups, and a new Santa tea towel hangs in front of the oven with a matching hand towel in the bathroom.
And we are headed down to my brother’s and sister-in-law’s next week where a proper tree and parties and family await.
Last night we strolled through the town and admired all their decorations in the windows and on the street. When we got back to the RV, we had dinner and then all got in pajamas, lit the fairy lights, added a few tea lights, and started reading aloud from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.
No Bah Humbug here thank you!
Our next door neighbor here at the RV Park is a Class A. Judging by the winterizing to the RV it has been here awhile – the wheels are all covered up and a thick canvas skirt is secured around it to help keep the heat inside. It is a fancy rig with 2 slide outs. Peeking in the windows it looks like the $250,000 - $400,000 variety. There is a 6’ lit up wreath across the front engine, 3 spiral Christmas trees of different heights lit up in front of the door, and candles are in the window. It looks very cozy. As I was backing up into our space watching Evan as he was giving me direction in the rear view window, I took a quick sideways glance and caught the eye of the woman inside lighting the candles. We smiled. She had on a knowing smile. I imagined it to say, “Ahh the stress of backing up your RV while your husband tells you what to do. Ever since I backed up over Ralph in Idaho and took off, I don’t have to listen anymore.”
What is her real story?
Maybe she lost the house in the recent recession and is now living in the RV and all these decorations are from her former life that she pulled out of the storage facility. I mean, buying that many decorations for an RV? Where do you store them in the off season? Or maybe she just keeps them up all year. One of “those people” – the kind that never takes their lights down and keeps their tree up until mid February.
Is there a pecking order in RV parks? The permanent people vs. those just passing through? The Class A v Class B v Class C? You betcha! Here is the run down - according to nobody else but me:
Class A (these are the busses). Usually driven by tiny old men they are the fanciest of the line up. Inside they are the equivalent of a one bedroom apartment in New York. Only roomier and nicer. While they are larger then Class C’s they are usually occupied by older couples. We have been in many in various showrooms and have even witnessed one with a full size bathtub, and another with 3 flat screen TV’s. Sometimes they even have televisions on the outside so you can sit in your recliner rocker by the lake and watch you favorite Discovery Show at the same time. Talk about weird. Living in an adventure, watching someone else’s adventure. And here I am writing about someone having an adventure watching and adventure on a blog. WHERE IS REALITY?
Class B (converted camper vans). Think VW bus. Groovy. These are for the serious campers who are 1. living out of their camper doing the alternative thing or; 2. mountain climbers who could care less where they sleep (not a lot of room in these puppies) but need the room for their gear.
Class C (trucks chassis with integrated living – the Big Pig). Families. Most of the rentals are Class C’s as well. Alternative families with web sites writing blogs from RV parks in the pacific northwest wondering why they think they are so important as to warrant a blog.
5th Wheels. These are the campers that connect into the back of a big pick-up truck so that when you get to the RV park you can dismount and drive the truck independently. Hunters. Serious campers.
How I would love to be a sociologist – or more to the point – I just want to ask all the nosey questions that you are never allowed to ask and have a legitimate reason to do it. How I would love to be able to stop the world, find out the answers and then continue the revolving. In the 7th Harry Potter book that we are listening to as we drive, Hermione has just delivered the ever useful forgetful spell (“obliviate”). What I wouldn’t give for just a little bit!
It is Christmas time here in the RV Park. A little sad. We won’t be hosting our annual Holiday Party this year, and our ornament collection will be taking the year off. With that said, we have our own bit of cheer going on in the Big Pig. 3 nice big red bows adorn the cabinets, two sets of twinkle lights, 4 matching plastic holiday cups, and a new Santa tea towel hangs in front of the oven with a matching hand towel in the bathroom.
And we are headed down to my brother’s and sister-in-law’s next week where a proper tree and parties and family await.
Last night we strolled through the town and admired all their decorations in the windows and on the street. When we got back to the RV, we had dinner and then all got in pajamas, lit the fairy lights, added a few tea lights, and started reading aloud from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.
No Bah Humbug here thank you!
Penelope Snodgrass’s School for Boy(s)
Penelope Snodgrass’s School for Boy(s)
Mission: To enlighten young charge to the silliness of life through games, recess and small chocolate treats whenever possible.
Objective: To keep up with the 2nd grade curriculum so that repetition of the year is not necessary upon landing back in alternative reality.
Materials used: Every Day Math, Time 4 Learning Web site, writing books, blank books, random writing journals, blogs, Junior Ranger Programs, road signs, tourist brochures, maps, restaurant menus, sticks, pinecones, stones, money, marshmallows, bits of paper, colored pencils, crayons, needles and thread, old socks, egg cartons and lots of books.
Sample Day
7:15 Alarm. Ignore.
8 Alright already. Out of bed.
8:15 – 8:45 Cooking class. Banana chocolate chip muffins. Review fractions by
doubling the recipe. ½ tsp +1/4 tsp = ¾ tsp of baking soda. More
importantly, whenever given the option of ½ cup vs 1 cup of
chocolate chips – go for the 1 cup. Sample chocolate chips to
ensure they are not poisonous.
8:45 Breakfast. Bacon and scrambled eggs. Hot chocolate if possible.
Whipped cream if available. Sample whipped cream if in a canister
directly into mouth for sanitary purposes.
9 AM School starts. Strictness about the timing is crucial. Kind of.
Schedule for the Day
9:03 – 9:10 Day Book. Fill in first new clean page with: date, where we happen
to be that day and the day’s activities. Sometimes includes a quote
of the day depending on creativity, organizational skills and
preparedness of Ms Snodgrass.
9:10 – 9:30 Write postcards to four best friends. 3 in London. 1 in
Connecticut. Discuss how much we miss them. What they are doing
now?
9:30 – 9:45 Clean out and reorganize pencil box and traveling milk crate.
9:45 – 10:45 Research fun things to do in Seattle. Times open. Cost. Café and
gift shop availability. Proximity to public transportation or
parking for Big Pig. Zoos are always good.
10:45 – 11:05 Card game! 21… with chips. Ms. Snodgrass is reminded of Willie
Nelson song The Gambler. Pulls out guitar, finds words and music.
Impromtu music class. Discussion of metaphor “I see you are out of
aces” and Simon’s middle name – Ace. Make connections between
whiskey swilling, cigarette smoking, gamblers and 7 year olds. No
real whiskey is involved.
11:05 – 11:45 Everyday Math. Knock off 6 pages. Review digital and analogue
clocks with the help of our Marshmallow Clock and home made flash
cards for a matching game. Ms. Snodgrass loses…again.
11:45 – 1 PM Bike Ride
1. Post office to mail postcards written in the AM. Discuss
postal system, stamps. Price variance between US and UK stamps.
Stamp design.
2. Hood River Water Front Playground. Practice climbing techniques
picked up at the Sun Valley YMCA. No, Ms. Snodgrass will not be
joining her class on the top of the structure even though she does
realize the view of the Columbia River Gorge is even better from the
higher vantage point. Yes, or course Ms. Snodgrass could mount the
wall in a matter of moments – it is the fear of not being able to
get down that has her worried.
3. Children’s Park on 9th Street. Fabulous Adventure Playground.
Lots of places to hide. Game of Jet and Star ensues where we are
both boys at the mysterious School of Light.
1:00 – 1:45 Lunch. Mac and cheese, broccoli, milk.
1:45 – 3 PM Read. Current book – Charlie Bone.
3 PM School dismissed.
Mission: To enlighten young charge to the silliness of life through games, recess and small chocolate treats whenever possible.
Objective: To keep up with the 2nd grade curriculum so that repetition of the year is not necessary upon landing back in alternative reality.
Materials used: Every Day Math, Time 4 Learning Web site, writing books, blank books, random writing journals, blogs, Junior Ranger Programs, road signs, tourist brochures, maps, restaurant menus, sticks, pinecones, stones, money, marshmallows, bits of paper, colored pencils, crayons, needles and thread, old socks, egg cartons and lots of books.
Sample Day
7:15 Alarm. Ignore.
8 Alright already. Out of bed.
8:15 – 8:45 Cooking class. Banana chocolate chip muffins. Review fractions by
doubling the recipe. ½ tsp +1/4 tsp = ¾ tsp of baking soda. More
importantly, whenever given the option of ½ cup vs 1 cup of
chocolate chips – go for the 1 cup. Sample chocolate chips to
ensure they are not poisonous.
8:45 Breakfast. Bacon and scrambled eggs. Hot chocolate if possible.
Whipped cream if available. Sample whipped cream if in a canister
directly into mouth for sanitary purposes.
9 AM School starts. Strictness about the timing is crucial. Kind of.
Schedule for the Day
9:03 – 9:10 Day Book. Fill in first new clean page with: date, where we happen
to be that day and the day’s activities. Sometimes includes a quote
of the day depending on creativity, organizational skills and
preparedness of Ms Snodgrass.
9:10 – 9:30 Write postcards to four best friends. 3 in London. 1 in
Connecticut. Discuss how much we miss them. What they are doing
now?
9:30 – 9:45 Clean out and reorganize pencil box and traveling milk crate.
9:45 – 10:45 Research fun things to do in Seattle. Times open. Cost. Café and
gift shop availability. Proximity to public transportation or
parking for Big Pig. Zoos are always good.
10:45 – 11:05 Card game! 21… with chips. Ms. Snodgrass is reminded of Willie
Nelson song The Gambler. Pulls out guitar, finds words and music.
Impromtu music class. Discussion of metaphor “I see you are out of
aces” and Simon’s middle name – Ace. Make connections between
whiskey swilling, cigarette smoking, gamblers and 7 year olds. No
real whiskey is involved.
11:05 – 11:45 Everyday Math. Knock off 6 pages. Review digital and analogue
clocks with the help of our Marshmallow Clock and home made flash
cards for a matching game. Ms. Snodgrass loses…again.
11:45 – 1 PM Bike Ride
1. Post office to mail postcards written in the AM. Discuss
postal system, stamps. Price variance between US and UK stamps.
Stamp design.
2. Hood River Water Front Playground. Practice climbing techniques
picked up at the Sun Valley YMCA. No, Ms. Snodgrass will not be
joining her class on the top of the structure even though she does
realize the view of the Columbia River Gorge is even better from the
higher vantage point. Yes, or course Ms. Snodgrass could mount the
wall in a matter of moments – it is the fear of not being able to
get down that has her worried.
3. Children’s Park on 9th Street. Fabulous Adventure Playground.
Lots of places to hide. Game of Jet and Star ensues where we are
both boys at the mysterious School of Light.
1:00 – 1:45 Lunch. Mac and cheese, broccoli, milk.
1:45 – 3 PM Read. Current book – Charlie Bone.
3 PM School dismissed.
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Shut Up and Listen
I have moved a lot and every time I move I think, “This is the time I will be the quiet, mysterious one. The woman that leaves a lot unsaid. The woman who people wonder about because she said so little - but what she did say was so intriguing. The woman with the slightly foreign accent wrapped in a scent of sandal wood.”
It hasn’t worked yet because I talk too much. Only when I hit the age of 35 did it dawn on me that if you don’t tell people things, they don’t know. For some reason I have felt compelled to tell everybody, everything, all the time, whether they were interested or not.
Then we moved to the UK where it is socially unacceptable to divulge much of anything, ever. Unless you are drunk. You barely nod acknowledgement to people whom you do know as you walk down the street, let alone a stranger. Then there is the whole protocol when it comes to the morning school run that I had to learn as I would walk the mile to the Hampstead Garden Suburb Infant School to drop Simon for reception, the US equivalent of preschool. Women, mostly all women, whom I would walk next to everyday under the large arcade would not share a glace, god forbid a smile. After the first term there might be an acknowledging look, after the second term a half smile, towards the end of the year, a slight wave.
On my low self esteem days I would think, “These women with their posh British accents have all attended Oxford, grown up with Dickens and Shakespeare and are probably dropping their kids off before they return to their massive 17th century home libraries to translate Chaucer and just can’t be bothered with the unwashed masses such as myself.”
On my better self esteem days I would think, “This nation is so repressed and stuck in its ridiculous social classes that nobody can acknowledge anyone without a proper introduction. They are missing all the fun in life!”
And then I went out to lunch with an American woman whom a friend from the US had introduced me to. She had just moved to London and was in the market for friendship, information on the city, and the gossip about the local school. I had been living in London for a number of years and I could fill her in. Over the course of our one hour lunch she didn’t stop talking a second. By the time we asked for the bill I knew where she was born, went to college, her children’s learning issues, her professional life, her part relationships, her future travel plans, her relationship with her husband, her hopes, dreams and bowel movement patterns.
Profound observation of the absurdly obvious: The more someone else talks, the less you have to talk. And the more this woman talked the less I wanted to tell her anything about myself. When we said goodbye I felt as if I was walking away from a one night stand – bowled over, exhausted, used and making a promise to myself to never to be the chatter like her again.
Over the past three months since we have been on the road I am talking less and less. Given, I don’t have as many people to talk to and the three people I am with are mostly interested in the latest Hero’s episode, computer role play games, and bionicles. But I have also had more time by myself than I have ever had – by myself but not alone.
I am realizing it is ok to be quiet with others in the room. I don’t feel compelled to fill up the room with my chatter. And I realize that most of my chatter was about the adventures of the day and the people I had encountered. When you live with people 24/7 there are no adventures they don’t already know about. And since most of our adventures are of the remote variety – we don’t have as many encounters with other people in the course of the day.
I am learning to listen more. Snow shoeing for a couple of hours around Crater Lake we stopped to listen to the quiet. The silence was deafening. Not a bird. No wind. No airplanes. No cars. Just stillness.
When we finally land, maybe this will be the time I will start speaking with a slight accent, change my name to Elise, and dab myself with sandal wood perfume.
It hasn’t worked yet because I talk too much. Only when I hit the age of 35 did it dawn on me that if you don’t tell people things, they don’t know. For some reason I have felt compelled to tell everybody, everything, all the time, whether they were interested or not.
Then we moved to the UK where it is socially unacceptable to divulge much of anything, ever. Unless you are drunk. You barely nod acknowledgement to people whom you do know as you walk down the street, let alone a stranger. Then there is the whole protocol when it comes to the morning school run that I had to learn as I would walk the mile to the Hampstead Garden Suburb Infant School to drop Simon for reception, the US equivalent of preschool. Women, mostly all women, whom I would walk next to everyday under the large arcade would not share a glace, god forbid a smile. After the first term there might be an acknowledging look, after the second term a half smile, towards the end of the year, a slight wave.
On my low self esteem days I would think, “These women with their posh British accents have all attended Oxford, grown up with Dickens and Shakespeare and are probably dropping their kids off before they return to their massive 17th century home libraries to translate Chaucer and just can’t be bothered with the unwashed masses such as myself.”
On my better self esteem days I would think, “This nation is so repressed and stuck in its ridiculous social classes that nobody can acknowledge anyone without a proper introduction. They are missing all the fun in life!”
And then I went out to lunch with an American woman whom a friend from the US had introduced me to. She had just moved to London and was in the market for friendship, information on the city, and the gossip about the local school. I had been living in London for a number of years and I could fill her in. Over the course of our one hour lunch she didn’t stop talking a second. By the time we asked for the bill I knew where she was born, went to college, her children’s learning issues, her professional life, her part relationships, her future travel plans, her relationship with her husband, her hopes, dreams and bowel movement patterns.
Profound observation of the absurdly obvious: The more someone else talks, the less you have to talk. And the more this woman talked the less I wanted to tell her anything about myself. When we said goodbye I felt as if I was walking away from a one night stand – bowled over, exhausted, used and making a promise to myself to never to be the chatter like her again.
Over the past three months since we have been on the road I am talking less and less. Given, I don’t have as many people to talk to and the three people I am with are mostly interested in the latest Hero’s episode, computer role play games, and bionicles. But I have also had more time by myself than I have ever had – by myself but not alone.
I am realizing it is ok to be quiet with others in the room. I don’t feel compelled to fill up the room with my chatter. And I realize that most of my chatter was about the adventures of the day and the people I had encountered. When you live with people 24/7 there are no adventures they don’t already know about. And since most of our adventures are of the remote variety – we don’t have as many encounters with other people in the course of the day.
I am learning to listen more. Snow shoeing for a couple of hours around Crater Lake we stopped to listen to the quiet. The silence was deafening. Not a bird. No wind. No airplanes. No cars. Just stillness.
When we finally land, maybe this will be the time I will start speaking with a slight accent, change my name to Elise, and dab myself with sandal wood perfume.
Friday, 27 November 2009
In Praise of Libraries
“Having fun isn’t hard, when you’ve got a library card, “Arthur the Aardvark.
729 Boylston Street, Boston MA 02116. An address I can rattle off in my sleep 15 years after I worked there. On the second floor there was a tailor shop where the three sisters worked, all in their 70’s, none of whom had ever married. They had worked in the same 10’ x 12’ foot shop since after the war, the big one, WWII, after inheriting the business from their father. I employed their services to alter my wedding dress I had picked up for $50 at a resale shop. It cost me more to have it altered and boy, did they have fun at my expense as I would model the dress with straight pins sticking into my skin.
I worked on the 5th floor which also had roof access. This was the place to be on Boston Marathon Day where we could peer over the edge to see the skinny, sinewy runners crossing the finish line as we ate our bagels and drank coffee.
The office building was nestled between the Pizzeria Uno and down from Au Bon Pain where I would buy my salads and eat them at my desk which had a lovely view into a light well where pigeon poop, air conditioning vents, fire escapes, soda lids, cigarettes butts and old plastic bags would greet me. But on a beautiful day in the spring, summer or fall, I would take my salad and go into the secret courtyard of the Boston Public Library.
I would enter on the North Side under the words of the libraries Board of Trustees etched high above, “The Commonwealth requires the education of the people as the safeguard of order and liberty”. But I wasn’t interested in the education, I was interested in a bit of solace, a safe and quiet space, a free place to sit where no one would bother me, the phone wouldn’t ring, and I could read while eatting my salad balanced on my lap.
Having sneaky relationships with libraries is an indulgence I have had since I was little and I would go to the Linden Hills Library in Minneapolis. Upstairs was the adult section where I learned the meaning of the word “Quiet”. Downstairs was the children’s section where I would sit for hours lost in another world, then wake up my legs, put on five layers of clothes and walk home with my new treasures. All for free! As someone once said, “Knowledge is free at the library – just bring your own container.” Unfortunately, while I have no problem finding the bottom of the container, I have trouble finding a lid that fits properly and the knowledge keeps sloshing out. So I keep going back for another fill up.
At St. Olaf College my student job was working at the Rolvaag Memorial Library, checking out books, shelving books and one ridiculously magical night tap dancing on the tables once we were closed. At Graduate School at Tufts University I would study down in the basement in the deathly quite, rarely used, study carols until the notorious flasher found me and from then on I would study in the well lit and highly populated reading room.
Once I had kids I realized libraries weren’t just about sneaky spaces and free books but hubs for the community and opportunities to find friends and outlets for stay at home moms who were going nuts with their babies stuck at home. Story time. Sing Along Time. Arts and crafts time. A place to go. Again, all for free.
In London the stinky Golders Green Library with their dirty toys and limited selection of sticky children’s board books had a redeeming grace: it netted me an introduction to Wallace and Grommit, and my dear fried Mei Chen. We had been in London for just a few weeks and the library was a destination for 1 ½ year old Simon, 6 year old Josh and me. We could walk there, do our shopping along the way, check out books and stop for a snack as headed home. On a fateful October 16, 2003, Mei and Justin, her almost 2 year old, were there as well. We chatted, we laughed, we chatted some more, the boys played. By the end of the quick encounter we had exchanged numbers and Simon and I were invited to Justin’s birthday party the next day. We have been great friends ever since. Score another win for the library!
Since we have been back in the US we have been using the public libraries as classrooms to home school our boys, warm places to retreat to on cold rainy days, plug in our computers, use their free wifi, and explore the books on the shelves in a safe inviting atmosphere.
From The Mark Skinner Library in Manchester, Vermont to the Lincoln Library in Springfield, IL, to the Minneapolis Public Libraries, Great Forks, North Dakota, Thompson Manitoba, Ketchum, Idaho Community Library, and now Hood River, Oregon we have been checking out material and seeing what is going on in the local communities.
To paraphrase Lady Bird Johnson, there is no other institution that is more democratic than a town library. The only entrance requirement is interest.
729 Boylston Street, Boston MA 02116. An address I can rattle off in my sleep 15 years after I worked there. On the second floor there was a tailor shop where the three sisters worked, all in their 70’s, none of whom had ever married. They had worked in the same 10’ x 12’ foot shop since after the war, the big one, WWII, after inheriting the business from their father. I employed their services to alter my wedding dress I had picked up for $50 at a resale shop. It cost me more to have it altered and boy, did they have fun at my expense as I would model the dress with straight pins sticking into my skin.
I worked on the 5th floor which also had roof access. This was the place to be on Boston Marathon Day where we could peer over the edge to see the skinny, sinewy runners crossing the finish line as we ate our bagels and drank coffee.
The office building was nestled between the Pizzeria Uno and down from Au Bon Pain where I would buy my salads and eat them at my desk which had a lovely view into a light well where pigeon poop, air conditioning vents, fire escapes, soda lids, cigarettes butts and old plastic bags would greet me. But on a beautiful day in the spring, summer or fall, I would take my salad and go into the secret courtyard of the Boston Public Library.
I would enter on the North Side under the words of the libraries Board of Trustees etched high above, “The Commonwealth requires the education of the people as the safeguard of order and liberty”. But I wasn’t interested in the education, I was interested in a bit of solace, a safe and quiet space, a free place to sit where no one would bother me, the phone wouldn’t ring, and I could read while eatting my salad balanced on my lap.
Having sneaky relationships with libraries is an indulgence I have had since I was little and I would go to the Linden Hills Library in Minneapolis. Upstairs was the adult section where I learned the meaning of the word “Quiet”. Downstairs was the children’s section where I would sit for hours lost in another world, then wake up my legs, put on five layers of clothes and walk home with my new treasures. All for free! As someone once said, “Knowledge is free at the library – just bring your own container.” Unfortunately, while I have no problem finding the bottom of the container, I have trouble finding a lid that fits properly and the knowledge keeps sloshing out. So I keep going back for another fill up.
At St. Olaf College my student job was working at the Rolvaag Memorial Library, checking out books, shelving books and one ridiculously magical night tap dancing on the tables once we were closed. At Graduate School at Tufts University I would study down in the basement in the deathly quite, rarely used, study carols until the notorious flasher found me and from then on I would study in the well lit and highly populated reading room.
Once I had kids I realized libraries weren’t just about sneaky spaces and free books but hubs for the community and opportunities to find friends and outlets for stay at home moms who were going nuts with their babies stuck at home. Story time. Sing Along Time. Arts and crafts time. A place to go. Again, all for free.
In London the stinky Golders Green Library with their dirty toys and limited selection of sticky children’s board books had a redeeming grace: it netted me an introduction to Wallace and Grommit, and my dear fried Mei Chen. We had been in London for just a few weeks and the library was a destination for 1 ½ year old Simon, 6 year old Josh and me. We could walk there, do our shopping along the way, check out books and stop for a snack as headed home. On a fateful October 16, 2003, Mei and Justin, her almost 2 year old, were there as well. We chatted, we laughed, we chatted some more, the boys played. By the end of the quick encounter we had exchanged numbers and Simon and I were invited to Justin’s birthday party the next day. We have been great friends ever since. Score another win for the library!
Since we have been back in the US we have been using the public libraries as classrooms to home school our boys, warm places to retreat to on cold rainy days, plug in our computers, use their free wifi, and explore the books on the shelves in a safe inviting atmosphere.
From The Mark Skinner Library in Manchester, Vermont to the Lincoln Library in Springfield, IL, to the Minneapolis Public Libraries, Great Forks, North Dakota, Thompson Manitoba, Ketchum, Idaho Community Library, and now Hood River, Oregon we have been checking out material and seeing what is going on in the local communities.
To paraphrase Lady Bird Johnson, there is no other institution that is more democratic than a town library. The only entrance requirement is interest.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
The Present
I will not obsess that we have not had a home for five months.
I will not dwell on the fact that neither Evan nor I have jobs.
I will not worry that Simon is not doing second grade work, has yet to lose a tooth at close to 8 years old, and refuses to get his hair cut.
I will not fret that we have no real doctors.
I will not give a rat’s ass that I dress like a woman who has no fashion sense, showers every other day, and hasn’t had a proper hair cut in 6 months.
I will trust that all this will pass and that when we decide to, we will be back amongst society, find jobs, a house, a garden, matching clothes, doctor’s, and start bathing regularly.
What I will do now is be aware and wallow in life’s goofiness, its teaching moments, and being together with my family knowing that all will be well. This trip isn’t about having enough courage it is about trust.
Small moments are what make up a life. This is it. Life is short and it can change quickly.
Here are some of my moments over the past few days:
The word ennui. Isn’t is weird how a word you don’t really use comes up, you discuss it and next thing you know it starts popping up all over the place. The word first came up in a book Julia shared with us in Minnesota, where a child dies of a horrible case of ennui. It came up again while listening to the Cole Porter song “Anything Goes”, and then in the book Goonie Bird Greene by Lois Lowry. Goonie Bird is an eccentric seven year old girl and what she does to ward off a dreaded case of ennui is to always wear mismatching socks. We embrace this whole heartedly.
Shopping at Trader Joe’s in Bend, Oregon in anticipation of camping the next four nights and trying their samples. A couple of times.
Eating pie at the Starlight Café in Vale, Oregon.
An early morning walk with Josh through the ghetto of sad trailers in Vale and discussing the importance of respecting all people – including poor people. The conversation changes to include gangster rap music, hoodies, sunglasses, and how while we are just passing through the RV/trailer part of our lives, some other people don’t have the luxury of choices.
Two nights ago we drove through a snowstorm south of Bend in the dark. I was behind the wheel. Josh was nervous and leaned over to me and commented that he feels more confident when I drive and, “how ironic it is Mom. Dad is the more calm, matter of fact one and you are the wild and crazy one, but when you drive, you reverse roles.” He noticed.
Last night at the Big Pine RV Park in Crescent, Oregon we were very pleasantly surprised to find a lovely warm large and clean bath house. A cozy recreation room separated the men’s from the women’s showers. Josh and I packed up our shower kits and clean pajamas and headed over in the dark, through the snow, under a clear sky full of incredible stars. Simon came with us as our entertainment. He promised jokes. It turned into a joke contest. Since Josh and I couldn’t hear each other, Simon was the translator running back and forth between the showers telling us each others latest entry in the competition. The winner? Q: Why did the monkey fall out of the tree? A: Because it was dead.
This morning I woke up to Simon (who had crawled into our bed at some point in the wee hours of the night) asking me, “Mom, do you want to know what my favorite things are?” “Why no, why don’t you tell me,” I replied in a gravely voice. “Eating and sleeping,” he said. “Oh I bet there are some more,” I prodded. “Oh ya, rock climbing, bike riding, my birthday and cuddling!”, he yelled, as he gave me a full body cuddle.
Today we drove to Crater Lake National Park in Oregon. Only the south entrance is open after October. They have already received close to 5 feet of snow. They have over 15,000 visitors a year. Today we were it. We took a 2 mile gorgeous hike out to Destination Point on snow shoes. On the way back we stopped midway to break off huge icicles and decided they needed a bit of sugar. We stopped again to listen to the quiet. I don’t ever remember hearing nothing for so long.
Right now we are tucked in for the night at Jo’s Motel, RV Park and Organic Grocery Store in Fort Klamath, Oregon. We are listening to Ella Fitzgerald while I write this at the table in the RV. Simon is sitting in the back having some alone time with his container of stuffed animals. Evan is editing the photos from today. Josh is sitting across from me working on a homework assignment and is quietly singing along to Ella.
To quote some sappy Holly Hobbie-esque poem that is, however, true…
Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery
Today is a gift, that is why it is called the present.
I will not dwell on the fact that neither Evan nor I have jobs.
I will not worry that Simon is not doing second grade work, has yet to lose a tooth at close to 8 years old, and refuses to get his hair cut.
I will not fret that we have no real doctors.
I will not give a rat’s ass that I dress like a woman who has no fashion sense, showers every other day, and hasn’t had a proper hair cut in 6 months.
I will trust that all this will pass and that when we decide to, we will be back amongst society, find jobs, a house, a garden, matching clothes, doctor’s, and start bathing regularly.
What I will do now is be aware and wallow in life’s goofiness, its teaching moments, and being together with my family knowing that all will be well. This trip isn’t about having enough courage it is about trust.
Small moments are what make up a life. This is it. Life is short and it can change quickly.
Here are some of my moments over the past few days:
The word ennui. Isn’t is weird how a word you don’t really use comes up, you discuss it and next thing you know it starts popping up all over the place. The word first came up in a book Julia shared with us in Minnesota, where a child dies of a horrible case of ennui. It came up again while listening to the Cole Porter song “Anything Goes”, and then in the book Goonie Bird Greene by Lois Lowry. Goonie Bird is an eccentric seven year old girl and what she does to ward off a dreaded case of ennui is to always wear mismatching socks. We embrace this whole heartedly.
Shopping at Trader Joe’s in Bend, Oregon in anticipation of camping the next four nights and trying their samples. A couple of times.
Eating pie at the Starlight Café in Vale, Oregon.
An early morning walk with Josh through the ghetto of sad trailers in Vale and discussing the importance of respecting all people – including poor people. The conversation changes to include gangster rap music, hoodies, sunglasses, and how while we are just passing through the RV/trailer part of our lives, some other people don’t have the luxury of choices.
Two nights ago we drove through a snowstorm south of Bend in the dark. I was behind the wheel. Josh was nervous and leaned over to me and commented that he feels more confident when I drive and, “how ironic it is Mom. Dad is the more calm, matter of fact one and you are the wild and crazy one, but when you drive, you reverse roles.” He noticed.
Last night at the Big Pine RV Park in Crescent, Oregon we were very pleasantly surprised to find a lovely warm large and clean bath house. A cozy recreation room separated the men’s from the women’s showers. Josh and I packed up our shower kits and clean pajamas and headed over in the dark, through the snow, under a clear sky full of incredible stars. Simon came with us as our entertainment. He promised jokes. It turned into a joke contest. Since Josh and I couldn’t hear each other, Simon was the translator running back and forth between the showers telling us each others latest entry in the competition. The winner? Q: Why did the monkey fall out of the tree? A: Because it was dead.
This morning I woke up to Simon (who had crawled into our bed at some point in the wee hours of the night) asking me, “Mom, do you want to know what my favorite things are?” “Why no, why don’t you tell me,” I replied in a gravely voice. “Eating and sleeping,” he said. “Oh I bet there are some more,” I prodded. “Oh ya, rock climbing, bike riding, my birthday and cuddling!”, he yelled, as he gave me a full body cuddle.
Today we drove to Crater Lake National Park in Oregon. Only the south entrance is open after October. They have already received close to 5 feet of snow. They have over 15,000 visitors a year. Today we were it. We took a 2 mile gorgeous hike out to Destination Point on snow shoes. On the way back we stopped midway to break off huge icicles and decided they needed a bit of sugar. We stopped again to listen to the quiet. I don’t ever remember hearing nothing for so long.
Right now we are tucked in for the night at Jo’s Motel, RV Park and Organic Grocery Store in Fort Klamath, Oregon. We are listening to Ella Fitzgerald while I write this at the table in the RV. Simon is sitting in the back having some alone time with his container of stuffed animals. Evan is editing the photos from today. Josh is sitting across from me working on a homework assignment and is quietly singing along to Ella.
To quote some sappy Holly Hobbie-esque poem that is, however, true…
Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery
Today is a gift, that is why it is called the present.
Monday, 16 November 2009
Semi Affluent Homeless Person?
I was cruising websites the other day and stumbled on an article about an Airstream Rally. Airstreams are high end RV’s. And rallies, as we all know, are when a bunch of people who are wild about something get together to go wild about it en masse so they won’t feel so weird about doing it on their own. It’s a validation thing. It’s a sharing of information thing. It is a geek out festival.
I have been to rallies before; I have organized rallies before - albeit for political candidates or causes. But I really hope I never find myself at a rally for an RV’s.
However, Airstreams really are beautiful retro silver bullets that remind me of the Jetson’s cartoon because they look like what we use to think the future would look like. Only the future is here and we still don’t have individual hover crafts which really bums me out. Nor do we have those really cool conveyor belts that you can roll onto from bed in the morning in your pajamas and robots automatically wash, polish, and feed you and then zip you into your clothes for the day.
At the Airstream Rally someone was selling pins that said, “Semi Affluent Homeless Person”. According to a number of RV websites and blogs that is how my family would be designated if the US Census Bureau came knocking. But there is no validation of that term on neither the US Census Bureau website, nor the IRS website for that matter. I think people who are living in their RV’s made it up and it has turned into an urban myth…or would that be an RV Park Myth?
Full time RV’ers like the term because it makes them feel like they are part of a movement. They (we?) are so numerous we have our own designated box to tick on a form from the government. You know you are powerful when you get a box to tick that says what you are and you don’t have to settle for one that just says “Other”.
Full Time RV’er. We have our own rallies. We have our own pins. We have our own T shirts. We are organized and we vote. We are a movement.
But most importantly - we have our cheer:
Hey RV’ers. Hey RV’ers.
Introduce yourselves right on!
Introduce yourselves right on!
We are RV’ers…and we are proud.
That’s why we honk… so very loud.
Alright!
Who needs validation from the Federal Government so long as you have a cheer.
I have been to rallies before; I have organized rallies before - albeit for political candidates or causes. But I really hope I never find myself at a rally for an RV’s.
However, Airstreams really are beautiful retro silver bullets that remind me of the Jetson’s cartoon because they look like what we use to think the future would look like. Only the future is here and we still don’t have individual hover crafts which really bums me out. Nor do we have those really cool conveyor belts that you can roll onto from bed in the morning in your pajamas and robots automatically wash, polish, and feed you and then zip you into your clothes for the day.
At the Airstream Rally someone was selling pins that said, “Semi Affluent Homeless Person”. According to a number of RV websites and blogs that is how my family would be designated if the US Census Bureau came knocking. But there is no validation of that term on neither the US Census Bureau website, nor the IRS website for that matter. I think people who are living in their RV’s made it up and it has turned into an urban myth…or would that be an RV Park Myth?
Full time RV’ers like the term because it makes them feel like they are part of a movement. They (we?) are so numerous we have our own designated box to tick on a form from the government. You know you are powerful when you get a box to tick that says what you are and you don’t have to settle for one that just says “Other”.
Full Time RV’er. We have our own rallies. We have our own pins. We have our own T shirts. We are organized and we vote. We are a movement.
But most importantly - we have our cheer:
Hey RV’ers. Hey RV’ers.
Introduce yourselves right on!
Introduce yourselves right on!
We are RV’ers…and we are proud.
That’s why we honk… so very loud.
Alright!
Who needs validation from the Federal Government so long as you have a cheer.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Hemingway's Grave
When I was ten years old I went to Marcy Open School in SE Minneapolis and we studied graveyards. Open schools are designed with no set curriculum so that students can have the freedom to follow their own passions. At ten my passions were Laura Ingall’s Wilder, pioneer life, and math.
Some kids were passionate about pottery and spent the year in the Pottery Shed making ashtrays and mugs. Some kids were passionate about machinery and spent weeks, or months, with Stan the carpenter in Hammer Hall. I remember one boy was passionate about a square skateboard that he rode unceasingly throughout the entire school, inside, everyday. Ruthie and Lisa were passionate about Marlboro’s and talking about boys. I was passionately scared of Ruthie and Lisa, but I wasn’t scared of graveyards.
We studied why people died and which epidemics went through Minnesota from the 1860’s – 1920’s and then we went out in search of those people whose lives were taken so abruptly. One wild weekend we camped in southern Minnesota in the oldest graveyard in the state looking for diphtheria victims. We found entire families taken out by disease and did rubbings of their gravestones. I didn’t think of it as weird – rather we were collecting stories of people that I wish I could know more about. I often thought, and still think, “Wouldn’t it be cool to have a little screen on the gravestone, push a button and see a video of that person’s life?”
My love of cemeteries traveled with me when I moved to Boston and I found myself spending many hours at Mt Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, MA. Evan and I had a date or two wondering around through the tombs, past the lake looking for birds, and up the tower to look out at the views of Boston across the Charles River. I remember visiting Mount Auburn Cemetery when I was 8 months pregnant scouring the grounds with my aunt and uncle, devoted botanists, in search of the prize winning beech trees.
Needless to say, here in Ketchum, Idaho we had to check out Hemingway’s grave and pay homage. First we stopped by The Community Library to see if we could get some background material on the man. The Community Library is a privately funded library and anyone can get a card. For those of us with no fixed address it is perfect. It also has provided us with a wonderful space for teaching school, has wifi throughout, and helpful librarians. Librarians. What wonderful people.
Side note: I was so proud of Josh when he mentioned his favorite store in Ketchum is The Gold Mine – a thrift store whose proceeds benefit The Community Library. Josh shares my view that the best thrift stores are in rich towns and if you need to buy something – why not buy it at a place that benefits a cause you believe in. Plus, we found a $10 waffle maker there!
In the library we found Sandra, the research librarian who gave an impromptu child friendly lecture on Hemingway in Ketchum. Next thing you know we are hearing about Hemingway’s son Jack who at the age of 8 ran up a $600 tab at the Sun Valley Lodge eating his way through the menu. We discussed famous writers and how just a mere speck of writers can actually make a living off of their passion. We discussed how writers in the 1930’s were as famous as rock stars are today and how Sun Valley, as a marketing ploy, enticed Hemingway to come to Sun Valley Lodge to write in exchange for them taking pictures of him enjoying himself. Room 206 is where he finished For Whom the Bell Tolls.
With books in hand we made our way 1 ½ miles down the road from the library to the graveyard. His grave is very plain. We stumbled on it because it was strewn with empty wine bottles, cigarettes, pens and pennies. We sat on the grave. We read from The Old Man and the Sea and speculated on relationships between old and young people, Cuba and the fishing trade. We added our own coins and wondered about who the people were who made pilgrimages to his grave.
Too bad we didn’t have a flask of whiskey to pour on his grave.
Some kids were passionate about pottery and spent the year in the Pottery Shed making ashtrays and mugs. Some kids were passionate about machinery and spent weeks, or months, with Stan the carpenter in Hammer Hall. I remember one boy was passionate about a square skateboard that he rode unceasingly throughout the entire school, inside, everyday. Ruthie and Lisa were passionate about Marlboro’s and talking about boys. I was passionately scared of Ruthie and Lisa, but I wasn’t scared of graveyards.
We studied why people died and which epidemics went through Minnesota from the 1860’s – 1920’s and then we went out in search of those people whose lives were taken so abruptly. One wild weekend we camped in southern Minnesota in the oldest graveyard in the state looking for diphtheria victims. We found entire families taken out by disease and did rubbings of their gravestones. I didn’t think of it as weird – rather we were collecting stories of people that I wish I could know more about. I often thought, and still think, “Wouldn’t it be cool to have a little screen on the gravestone, push a button and see a video of that person’s life?”
My love of cemeteries traveled with me when I moved to Boston and I found myself spending many hours at Mt Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, MA. Evan and I had a date or two wondering around through the tombs, past the lake looking for birds, and up the tower to look out at the views of Boston across the Charles River. I remember visiting Mount Auburn Cemetery when I was 8 months pregnant scouring the grounds with my aunt and uncle, devoted botanists, in search of the prize winning beech trees.
Needless to say, here in Ketchum, Idaho we had to check out Hemingway’s grave and pay homage. First we stopped by The Community Library to see if we could get some background material on the man. The Community Library is a privately funded library and anyone can get a card. For those of us with no fixed address it is perfect. It also has provided us with a wonderful space for teaching school, has wifi throughout, and helpful librarians. Librarians. What wonderful people.
Side note: I was so proud of Josh when he mentioned his favorite store in Ketchum is The Gold Mine – a thrift store whose proceeds benefit The Community Library. Josh shares my view that the best thrift stores are in rich towns and if you need to buy something – why not buy it at a place that benefits a cause you believe in. Plus, we found a $10 waffle maker there!
In the library we found Sandra, the research librarian who gave an impromptu child friendly lecture on Hemingway in Ketchum. Next thing you know we are hearing about Hemingway’s son Jack who at the age of 8 ran up a $600 tab at the Sun Valley Lodge eating his way through the menu. We discussed famous writers and how just a mere speck of writers can actually make a living off of their passion. We discussed how writers in the 1930’s were as famous as rock stars are today and how Sun Valley, as a marketing ploy, enticed Hemingway to come to Sun Valley Lodge to write in exchange for them taking pictures of him enjoying himself. Room 206 is where he finished For Whom the Bell Tolls.
With books in hand we made our way 1 ½ miles down the road from the library to the graveyard. His grave is very plain. We stumbled on it because it was strewn with empty wine bottles, cigarettes, pens and pennies. We sat on the grave. We read from The Old Man and the Sea and speculated on relationships between old and young people, Cuba and the fishing trade. We added our own coins and wondered about who the people were who made pilgrimages to his grave.
Too bad we didn’t have a flask of whiskey to pour on his grave.
Friday, 6 November 2009
Two Timing My Loyalty Cards
I am a person you can rely on. I am a good friend. I am the gal who will pick up your kids after school if you are running late, bring them home, feed them home baked cookies, make up goofy songs on the guitar with them, and make you feel guilty that you aren’t as much fun of a mom as I am.
I am the neighbor who plants perennials, sweeps her walk and talks to everybody who walks by. I am the one who plans the block parties for the street. I am the one who connects people and has the good information. I am the Go to Gal and I am proud of it!
I don’t think of myself as one of those people who move all the time. Shiftless. Rootless. Not willing to commit. Just passing through.
But now I am facing the ugly reality. My wallet betrays me for what I am. A poser. A shiftless hussy. An opportunist willing to pass herself off to save a buck.
It started off innocently enough back in July in Vermont. Shaw’s Grocery store in Manchester is really the only game in town. About a thirty minute drive from the holiday house I am there once a week during the 4 or 5 weeks we are in Vermont every summer and I had no qualms about signing up for their loyalty program. Especially now that I have a permanent address in Vermont, our car has Vermont plates, and I carry a Vermont driver’s license.
But them I was enticed by Price Chopper. Was it their 2 for 1 special’s on all boxes of cereal? Their proximity to the one movie theater in town? Did I feel I could connect more with the less polished ambiance and the more true Vermonters who chopped there as opposed to the Summer Residents at Shaw’s?
Whatever the reason, I did it. I signed up for their Loyalty Card program as well. I justified the brief affair by noting that as we were passing through western New York – a number Price Choppers greeted our arrival in small towns along the way where I could use the card as well.
And then there was Schnuck’s Grocery. We were first introduced in St. Louis and kept up our relationship into Illinois. With an in-house Starbucks, ease in finding parking for the Big Pig, and lovely produce aisles, I was seduced, Writing down my aunt and uncles address I held my breath and took the plunge and signed on the dotted line.
Alright, I am coming clean. The next was a brief affair. Simon was sick. We were in Boulder, Colorado and I needed Children’s Sudafed to keep his ears clear as we would be driving an additional 2000 feet up to the Colorado Rockies National Park. I ran in to the Safeway while Evan circled the parking lot. I could save $2 on the Sudafed if I was a Club Member. I am a joiner! I want to be part of the Club! I wanted to make our CFO proud of me that I was looking for ways to save. I took the form, filled it out in line, they swiped my pristine card, I saved the $2. True confession: I never turned the form in. I think it is in a recycling bin in South Dakota.
And now we have landed in Sun Valley, Idaho for a few weeks of much needed hang out time at a friends beautiful condo. But my assorted past is catching up to me. After three months on the road and 5 months of travel I have become calloused, brazen, and rarely flinch when I go to the Courtesy Window at the local grocery store and request an application. It is always when you get too confident that you get caught.
In Ketchum, Idaho (population 3,244) the grocery store is Atkinson’s. In Hailey, the next big town, there is an Albertson’s. Atkinson’s vs. Albertson’s …you can see where this is going, yes?
I have all my tricks down for hiding my various Loyalty Cards. I have a little pouch in my wallet where I keep them all and pull out the one I need as I approach the cashier. Why do I keep them all? Reminders of past purchases? Past campgrounds? Meals cooked? Forgotten youth?
So there I was at the Atkinson’s check out holding my Albertson’s card up proudly to the cashier. She looked at me and said, “I will have to charge you double with that card.”
The shame.
The remorse.
The loss of trust.
The need for forgiveness.
I’m not even Catholic and I am having fantasies about going into a confessional.
Until the next grocery store…
I am the neighbor who plants perennials, sweeps her walk and talks to everybody who walks by. I am the one who plans the block parties for the street. I am the one who connects people and has the good information. I am the Go to Gal and I am proud of it!
I don’t think of myself as one of those people who move all the time. Shiftless. Rootless. Not willing to commit. Just passing through.
But now I am facing the ugly reality. My wallet betrays me for what I am. A poser. A shiftless hussy. An opportunist willing to pass herself off to save a buck.
It started off innocently enough back in July in Vermont. Shaw’s Grocery store in Manchester is really the only game in town. About a thirty minute drive from the holiday house I am there once a week during the 4 or 5 weeks we are in Vermont every summer and I had no qualms about signing up for their loyalty program. Especially now that I have a permanent address in Vermont, our car has Vermont plates, and I carry a Vermont driver’s license.
But them I was enticed by Price Chopper. Was it their 2 for 1 special’s on all boxes of cereal? Their proximity to the one movie theater in town? Did I feel I could connect more with the less polished ambiance and the more true Vermonters who chopped there as opposed to the Summer Residents at Shaw’s?
Whatever the reason, I did it. I signed up for their Loyalty Card program as well. I justified the brief affair by noting that as we were passing through western New York – a number Price Choppers greeted our arrival in small towns along the way where I could use the card as well.
And then there was Schnuck’s Grocery. We were first introduced in St. Louis and kept up our relationship into Illinois. With an in-house Starbucks, ease in finding parking for the Big Pig, and lovely produce aisles, I was seduced, Writing down my aunt and uncles address I held my breath and took the plunge and signed on the dotted line.
Alright, I am coming clean. The next was a brief affair. Simon was sick. We were in Boulder, Colorado and I needed Children’s Sudafed to keep his ears clear as we would be driving an additional 2000 feet up to the Colorado Rockies National Park. I ran in to the Safeway while Evan circled the parking lot. I could save $2 on the Sudafed if I was a Club Member. I am a joiner! I want to be part of the Club! I wanted to make our CFO proud of me that I was looking for ways to save. I took the form, filled it out in line, they swiped my pristine card, I saved the $2. True confession: I never turned the form in. I think it is in a recycling bin in South Dakota.
And now we have landed in Sun Valley, Idaho for a few weeks of much needed hang out time at a friends beautiful condo. But my assorted past is catching up to me. After three months on the road and 5 months of travel I have become calloused, brazen, and rarely flinch when I go to the Courtesy Window at the local grocery store and request an application. It is always when you get too confident that you get caught.
In Ketchum, Idaho (population 3,244) the grocery store is Atkinson’s. In Hailey, the next big town, there is an Albertson’s. Atkinson’s vs. Albertson’s …you can see where this is going, yes?
I have all my tricks down for hiding my various Loyalty Cards. I have a little pouch in my wallet where I keep them all and pull out the one I need as I approach the cashier. Why do I keep them all? Reminders of past purchases? Past campgrounds? Meals cooked? Forgotten youth?
So there I was at the Atkinson’s check out holding my Albertson’s card up proudly to the cashier. She looked at me and said, “I will have to charge you double with that card.”
The shame.
The remorse.
The loss of trust.
The need for forgiveness.
I’m not even Catholic and I am having fantasies about going into a confessional.
Until the next grocery store…
Thursday, 29 October 2009
Pajama Talk
We need to talk about pajamas. I don’t mean night shirts, nightgowns, or boxers and tee shirts; I mean 2 piece pajamas – usually flannel - with either a draw string waist or an elastic one. A button up top is a given. But not the kind with built in feet – those are too hard to wear when you are driving a car, especially the kind with the little plastic bumps on the soles.
My mother has accused me of wearing my pajamas a little too much. I have been known to get in to my pajamas far before bed time and to stay in them well past noon. I have cooked meals in them, gardened in them (but only the back garden), walked to the end of the driveway to pick up a poorly tossed newspaper, and on our first Christmas in London I went to my next door neighbor Jane’s house and had coffee with she and her husband that cemented our relationship.
And yes I have thrown a coat and boots on and worn them to the grocery store – but only before 9 am. Not that there are any set rules and regulations regarding improprieties and pajama wear like there are with white shoes after Labor Day, but I do have some self respect.
And then of course there are the Pajama Adventures I have had with my jet lagged kids in various parts of the US where we sneak out of the house or hotel and look for trouble (and donuts) between 5 and 6 am in pajamas. Everything is a little more fun if you do it in pajamas. I wore my summer stripped pj’s to visit Lincoln’s house in Springfield, Illinois at 6 AM one early summer morning. I wore my yellow sunflower set to Hapgood Pond in Peru, Vermont in August. And the tropical flowers pair I wore in a memorable swim in the Pacific Ocean in San Diego with the boys when they were no more than 5 years old – the swim was unintentional but when they both went in…how could I stop myself?.
My mom has commented that I am the only person she knows who has worn out pajamas. But considering how much I wear them, that is to be expected.
And then there was last weekend. We were staying with our friends in Zumbro Falls, Minnesota, population 177. 5 of those people are my friends Doug and Pam and their 3 kids. I hadn’t seen Pam for 20 years and she still looks 23. We parked the Big Pig in a snowstorm Friday night next to their new house – their new house because the old house was damaged by a tornado.
Saturday morning I walked across the muddy driveway in my pajamas (of course) and boots around 9 AM to hang out, drink coffee and have breakfast. I walked in and Doug said, “Did Pam loan you her pajamas?” I was wearing my Gnome pajamas. Pam was wearing hers.
There are some friends you don’t see for 20 years and those years just dissolve away over a cup of coffee in your matching Gnome PJ’s.
My mother has accused me of wearing my pajamas a little too much. I have been known to get in to my pajamas far before bed time and to stay in them well past noon. I have cooked meals in them, gardened in them (but only the back garden), walked to the end of the driveway to pick up a poorly tossed newspaper, and on our first Christmas in London I went to my next door neighbor Jane’s house and had coffee with she and her husband that cemented our relationship.
And yes I have thrown a coat and boots on and worn them to the grocery store – but only before 9 am. Not that there are any set rules and regulations regarding improprieties and pajama wear like there are with white shoes after Labor Day, but I do have some self respect.
And then of course there are the Pajama Adventures I have had with my jet lagged kids in various parts of the US where we sneak out of the house or hotel and look for trouble (and donuts) between 5 and 6 am in pajamas. Everything is a little more fun if you do it in pajamas. I wore my summer stripped pj’s to visit Lincoln’s house in Springfield, Illinois at 6 AM one early summer morning. I wore my yellow sunflower set to Hapgood Pond in Peru, Vermont in August. And the tropical flowers pair I wore in a memorable swim in the Pacific Ocean in San Diego with the boys when they were no more than 5 years old – the swim was unintentional but when they both went in…how could I stop myself?.
My mom has commented that I am the only person she knows who has worn out pajamas. But considering how much I wear them, that is to be expected.
And then there was last weekend. We were staying with our friends in Zumbro Falls, Minnesota, population 177. 5 of those people are my friends Doug and Pam and their 3 kids. I hadn’t seen Pam for 20 years and she still looks 23. We parked the Big Pig in a snowstorm Friday night next to their new house – their new house because the old house was damaged by a tornado.
Saturday morning I walked across the muddy driveway in my pajamas (of course) and boots around 9 AM to hang out, drink coffee and have breakfast. I walked in and Doug said, “Did Pam loan you her pajamas?” I was wearing my Gnome pajamas. Pam was wearing hers.
There are some friends you don’t see for 20 years and those years just dissolve away over a cup of coffee in your matching Gnome PJ’s.
Thursday, 22 October 2009
Schadenfreude
Schadenfreude – malicious joy in the misfortunes of others," 1922, from Ger., lit. "damage-joy," from schaden "damage, harm, injury" + freude, from O.H.G. frewida "joy," from fro "happy," literally "hopping for joy."
I love this word. I love the naughty, guilty pleasure I get when I feel a pang of schadenfreude. Perhaps you will feel this way after you read the following. But please know, I am laughing. Don’t feel guilty! You have my complete blessing.
So there we are camped in the Wal*mart parking lot…again -- this time in Grand Forks, North Dakota.
This is a familiar parking lot. We stayed here 12 days before on the way up to Churchill, Manitoba and we liked the neighborhood so much we thought we would drop by on the return trip. Splashers of the South Seas Water Park is just down the street. The Red Lobster sign shines a nice red glow in the front window of the RV. And the trees that are planted in the parking lot in an attempt to make it not look like the vast parking lot that it really is, are skinny and losing their leaves but appreciated.
Parking Lot, Sweet Parking Lot (if I knew how to embroider, that’s what I’d be putting on one of our pillows).
After a nice swim at Splashers, a dinner of left-over’s and an exciting game of Clue we are all snuggled into our beds.
Then at 3 AM a loud beating of hands against the side of the RV wakes us all up.
Funny how we are thousands of years from cavemen but our responses are programmed just the same.
Evan wakes up yelling, “Get out of here!” I wake up silently thinking to myself, “If we hide, they will go away.” We hear the drunken voices and laughter of teenagers as they continue their weaving path across the parking lot. We are fine.
Simon makes his way into our bed 2 minutes later, “What was that noise? I had a bad dream. Can I sleep with you?” We move over.
Josh makes his way back 4 minutes later, “The tree branches look like a hand and it’s scratching against the window.” We move over again.
If we all sleep on our sides we fit, but nobody sleeps.
I contort my body so I can climb out of there.
Are we seeing the humor in this people? We have a small double bed in the back of an RV with a family of four all sleeping together in the Wal*mart Parking lot in Grand Forks, North Dakota for god sakes! It is 3 am and I am in my fashionable flannel Target gnome pajamas crawling through arms and legs and twisted blankets in a room no bigger than the bed.
I make my way to the front of the RV to sleep in Simon’s pull-out couch bed in order to go back to sleep.
Sleep. Ya, right. 3 AM. Awakened by hooligans. Who am I kidding? I am not sleeping. I am lying in the RV making lists of what to worry about next.
1. Carbon monoxide poisoning. We will be found by the Wal*mart greeter three days from now;
2. It is cold outside. The gray and black water it the RV holding tank will freeze, the pipes will burst and an ugly stinky rain will pour down around the RV;
3. We run out of propane and we freeze to death;
4. The gang of skinny, pimply-faced Grand Forks teenagers returns to finish the job they started;
5, Josh and Simon are scared for life due to RV trip, never get jobs, live at home forever hating us the whole time;
6. Even worse -- Josh and Simon love being home schooled and this is my life forever.
I hear the tree hand that Josh mentioned. Yep, it is scary. I peek through the window to make sure the bad guys have left. Nothing out there but a vacant parking lot. I put my cell phone and keys right next to me as I sleep so I am ready for a quick get away.
I make a mental note to explore over-the-counter, organic, non-addictive sleeping aid options.
I fall asleep.
I love this word. I love the naughty, guilty pleasure I get when I feel a pang of schadenfreude. Perhaps you will feel this way after you read the following. But please know, I am laughing. Don’t feel guilty! You have my complete blessing.
So there we are camped in the Wal*mart parking lot…again -- this time in Grand Forks, North Dakota.
This is a familiar parking lot. We stayed here 12 days before on the way up to Churchill, Manitoba and we liked the neighborhood so much we thought we would drop by on the return trip. Splashers of the South Seas Water Park is just down the street. The Red Lobster sign shines a nice red glow in the front window of the RV. And the trees that are planted in the parking lot in an attempt to make it not look like the vast parking lot that it really is, are skinny and losing their leaves but appreciated.
Parking Lot, Sweet Parking Lot (if I knew how to embroider, that’s what I’d be putting on one of our pillows).
After a nice swim at Splashers, a dinner of left-over’s and an exciting game of Clue we are all snuggled into our beds.
Then at 3 AM a loud beating of hands against the side of the RV wakes us all up.
Funny how we are thousands of years from cavemen but our responses are programmed just the same.
Evan wakes up yelling, “Get out of here!” I wake up silently thinking to myself, “If we hide, they will go away.” We hear the drunken voices and laughter of teenagers as they continue their weaving path across the parking lot. We are fine.
Simon makes his way into our bed 2 minutes later, “What was that noise? I had a bad dream. Can I sleep with you?” We move over.
Josh makes his way back 4 minutes later, “The tree branches look like a hand and it’s scratching against the window.” We move over again.
If we all sleep on our sides we fit, but nobody sleeps.
I contort my body so I can climb out of there.
Are we seeing the humor in this people? We have a small double bed in the back of an RV with a family of four all sleeping together in the Wal*mart Parking lot in Grand Forks, North Dakota for god sakes! It is 3 am and I am in my fashionable flannel Target gnome pajamas crawling through arms and legs and twisted blankets in a room no bigger than the bed.
I make my way to the front of the RV to sleep in Simon’s pull-out couch bed in order to go back to sleep.
Sleep. Ya, right. 3 AM. Awakened by hooligans. Who am I kidding? I am not sleeping. I am lying in the RV making lists of what to worry about next.
1. Carbon monoxide poisoning. We will be found by the Wal*mart greeter three days from now;
2. It is cold outside. The gray and black water it the RV holding tank will freeze, the pipes will burst and an ugly stinky rain will pour down around the RV;
3. We run out of propane and we freeze to death;
4. The gang of skinny, pimply-faced Grand Forks teenagers returns to finish the job they started;
5, Josh and Simon are scared for life due to RV trip, never get jobs, live at home forever hating us the whole time;
6. Even worse -- Josh and Simon love being home schooled and this is my life forever.
I hear the tree hand that Josh mentioned. Yep, it is scary. I peek through the window to make sure the bad guys have left. Nothing out there but a vacant parking lot. I put my cell phone and keys right next to me as I sleep so I am ready for a quick get away.
I make a mental note to explore over-the-counter, organic, non-addictive sleeping aid options.
I fall asleep.
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
Churchill Manitoba - Worth The Schlep
I have never been to a town I have never wanted to live in more than Churchill, Manitoba. It is early October and the snow is on the ground, the wind is whipping off the Hudson Bay at 40 mph, the architecture is double wide mobile homes. The tundra is vast and flat with little to break up the scenery than the left over rocket silos from a forgotten mission of the US during the cold war, huge grain silos down by the Port of Churchill, the Bear Jail, and the abandoned dreams of a man who was building a Rock Castle.
What is it like for the 942 people who live here?
The tourism industry is what brings in the business. Polar bears in October, beluga whales in June and July and viewing of the aureole borealis from November – March. Reason enough to warrant the 10 hour drive to Thompson and then the 18 hour train to Churchill?
Even with these negatives the answer is: YES. Go to Churchill if you can.
(Side note: There are sleeper cars available for an extra $400 per person – we didn’t fork over the equivalent of 2 weeks on the road for the sleepers and it took a day for this 47 year old body to recover from lying sideways on a metal plank. At one point Josh was woken up by an inebriated gentleman wanting to make sure he knew the end of the world was coming in 2012. Josh assured him he knew about the Mayan Prediction, rolled over and went back to sleep after, in the words of Josh, “He had a most interesting and creative use of swear words I have ever heard!”)
Our dog sled adventure was at 1 PM on Sunday so plenty of time to hang out in pajamas playing scrabble, holding RV Elementary, writing blogs and reading.
We were picked up by the lovely Jennifer from Blue Sky who gave us a running commentary on life in Churchill. www.blueskymush.com She came to Churchill on a three week nursing contract seven years ago, found dog sledding (and her future husband Gerald) and her life was turned upside down – for the better. She was a wealth of information and the perfect host.
We traveled out from Churchill to Blue Sky’s place and parked in front of their permanent tent in front of the sign “Dog Sled Parking Only – violators will be peed on”.
Not a poodle or Chihuahua in the mix – all gorgeous huskies,
Now, I like my dogs as well as the next guy. I grew up with a royal standard poodle and we are definitely going to get a dog once we are settled and have a yard but I never would have ever considered a husky. What lovely dogs.
I have to say I was a little worried thinking how could dogs be excited to pull fat tourist around in the snow all day – but no! They are all so well taken care of and loved and anxious as anything to be chosen to saddle up and take us for a ride. While there wasn’t enough snow to use the sleigh, they have specially designed carts on wheels so we could still have the experience. Simon and I were first up which was certainly the fastest ride of the day zipping around on the course through the tundra with the incredibly knowledgeable Gerald, the Musher.
It was so quiet. And watching the backs of the dogs it was as if they were pulling a feather. The ride was quick – but so memorable.
Afterwards we spent time getting to know the other dogs in the yard including Isobel the Blind Snow Dog as well as having a chance to hear Gerald and Jennifer tell us stories over hot chocolate and cake about their life where moose, polar bears and wolves play a pretty regular role. In fact, it is common to hear shots around town as the Bear Police keep the polar bears out of town.
Any bear that is caught in town digging through trash cans is tranquilized and brought to the 24 occupancy Bear Jail where they are kept, without feeding except for water and snow, until the Hudson Bay freezes. The Bear Jail is right on the shore of the Hudson Bay so the Jailers just open the doors and the bears run out and head up to the Arctic Circle straight away.
Yesterday we were off again on the Tundra Buggy with Brendon who, as a Churchill Native, was able to spot a polar bear with his eagle eyes miles away. I am happy to report that the Polar Bears are healthy this year do to the later break up of the ice this past spring. They had an extra couple of weeks to fatten up on seal. We saw our first polar bear – a 2 -3 year old male – messing about on the rocks. Later we spent the better part of an hour with a very large male who spent most of his day napping. Occasionally he would wake up, acknowledge the 4 tundra buggies gathered around him and then snuggle down for another nap.
It was wild to watch him and wonder what it would be like to have that thick of a neck and to enjoy the cold.
I spent an hour at the Churchill K-12 grade school where there is an adult swim from 5 – 7 pm. As I was walking in I saw the large posters on the wall announcing the finding from the Sustainability Study that was conducted by the University of Winnipeg along with the Churchill community. One of the things that struck me was the list of hazards - high winds, tornados, draughts and floods, snow, hail, ice storms, fog, polar bears, chemical contamination from the ports.
While I am having trouble getting my head around Northern Canada – the loneliness, the barren tundra, the nomadic culture, the houses up on blocks so they can be easily moved – I have an incredible respect for the people who live here and the challenges they must face.
With all that said, I am so glad we are here.
What is it like for the 942 people who live here?
The tourism industry is what brings in the business. Polar bears in October, beluga whales in June and July and viewing of the aureole borealis from November – March. Reason enough to warrant the 10 hour drive to Thompson and then the 18 hour train to Churchill?
Even with these negatives the answer is: YES. Go to Churchill if you can.
(Side note: There are sleeper cars available for an extra $400 per person – we didn’t fork over the equivalent of 2 weeks on the road for the sleepers and it took a day for this 47 year old body to recover from lying sideways on a metal plank. At one point Josh was woken up by an inebriated gentleman wanting to make sure he knew the end of the world was coming in 2012. Josh assured him he knew about the Mayan Prediction, rolled over and went back to sleep after, in the words of Josh, “He had a most interesting and creative use of swear words I have ever heard!”)
Our dog sled adventure was at 1 PM on Sunday so plenty of time to hang out in pajamas playing scrabble, holding RV Elementary, writing blogs and reading.
We were picked up by the lovely Jennifer from Blue Sky who gave us a running commentary on life in Churchill. www.blueskymush.com She came to Churchill on a three week nursing contract seven years ago, found dog sledding (and her future husband Gerald) and her life was turned upside down – for the better. She was a wealth of information and the perfect host.
We traveled out from Churchill to Blue Sky’s place and parked in front of their permanent tent in front of the sign “Dog Sled Parking Only – violators will be peed on”.
Not a poodle or Chihuahua in the mix – all gorgeous huskies,
Now, I like my dogs as well as the next guy. I grew up with a royal standard poodle and we are definitely going to get a dog once we are settled and have a yard but I never would have ever considered a husky. What lovely dogs.
I have to say I was a little worried thinking how could dogs be excited to pull fat tourist around in the snow all day – but no! They are all so well taken care of and loved and anxious as anything to be chosen to saddle up and take us for a ride. While there wasn’t enough snow to use the sleigh, they have specially designed carts on wheels so we could still have the experience. Simon and I were first up which was certainly the fastest ride of the day zipping around on the course through the tundra with the incredibly knowledgeable Gerald, the Musher.
It was so quiet. And watching the backs of the dogs it was as if they were pulling a feather. The ride was quick – but so memorable.
Afterwards we spent time getting to know the other dogs in the yard including Isobel the Blind Snow Dog as well as having a chance to hear Gerald and Jennifer tell us stories over hot chocolate and cake about their life where moose, polar bears and wolves play a pretty regular role. In fact, it is common to hear shots around town as the Bear Police keep the polar bears out of town.
Any bear that is caught in town digging through trash cans is tranquilized and brought to the 24 occupancy Bear Jail where they are kept, without feeding except for water and snow, until the Hudson Bay freezes. The Bear Jail is right on the shore of the Hudson Bay so the Jailers just open the doors and the bears run out and head up to the Arctic Circle straight away.
Yesterday we were off again on the Tundra Buggy with Brendon who, as a Churchill Native, was able to spot a polar bear with his eagle eyes miles away. I am happy to report that the Polar Bears are healthy this year do to the later break up of the ice this past spring. They had an extra couple of weeks to fatten up on seal. We saw our first polar bear – a 2 -3 year old male – messing about on the rocks. Later we spent the better part of an hour with a very large male who spent most of his day napping. Occasionally he would wake up, acknowledge the 4 tundra buggies gathered around him and then snuggle down for another nap.
It was wild to watch him and wonder what it would be like to have that thick of a neck and to enjoy the cold.
I spent an hour at the Churchill K-12 grade school where there is an adult swim from 5 – 7 pm. As I was walking in I saw the large posters on the wall announcing the finding from the Sustainability Study that was conducted by the University of Winnipeg along with the Churchill community. One of the things that struck me was the list of hazards - high winds, tornados, draughts and floods, snow, hail, ice storms, fog, polar bears, chemical contamination from the ports.
While I am having trouble getting my head around Northern Canada – the loneliness, the barren tundra, the nomadic culture, the houses up on blocks so they can be easily moved – I have an incredible respect for the people who live here and the challenges they must face.
With all that said, I am so glad we are here.
Thursday, 8 October 2009
Notes from a Moronic Hippie
Have I mentioned we live in a 29 foot RV? Have I mentioned my older son is now my height, can pick me up, wants to start his own country, has designed his own religion and is demanding his own space? His own space in the RV. I want my own space in the RV too!
I love this age. I love all the ages my kids have been. Just when I think, “I am done. He is launched.” Oops.
Yesterday we drove from Grand Forks, North Dakota to Winnipeg, Manitoba and today we are doing the bone crunching, butt numbing 450 mile drive up to Thompson along Route 6. This is the most rural of places I have been since I lived in the mud hut in Sobela, Mali in West Africa…but that is my next book. Thompson, Manitoba is where the road ends and we get on the train for the last 500 miles to get up to Churchill so we can see the polar bears!
It is 175 kilometers between towns. And the towns are so sad. Corrugated metal houses. Used cars and refrigerators in the front yards.
People drive in the middle of the road along Route 6 to avoid the particularly big pot holes. It isn’t an issue to drive in the middle of the road since your can see a good mile in front of you so you can get over when the other car headed the other way over the course of the hour is upon you.
Half way to Thompson and it is 1:30 in the afternoon. Boys have been plugged into Ipods watching movies (all educational of course) and listening to Weird Al since 10 AM. We stop in Grand Rapids to do a little bike ride along the one road through town along the Saskatchewan River and have a spot of lunch at the one restaurant run by a man from Shanghai, China. When I told him I was in Shanghai in 1982 he said that was the year he was born. I thought he looked familiar.
After lunch we pull the bikes off the back of the RV, take our helmets out from the basement of the RV (alright, it is just a storage space but it feels more spacious to call it a basement) and we take off ignoring the yells of protest from our almost teenager. “I don’t want to go on a bike ride in this moronic town. I am freezing. How can you do this to me? You and Dad are such morons. Where is my free will? You are such hippies! I hate this Jesus loving town!”
I go back to the RV with Josh to dig out gloves and a scarf and to take the blows from today’s outburst. Evan and Simon take off on their own separate bike race through town.
We discuss what a hippy is. Josh describes a hippie as, “Someone who brings their own snacks to public events.” I try not to laugh. He tries not to laugh. I suggest that bringing your own snacks is just good planning from an economic and health stand point. He calls me a hippie again with such disgust it is as if it is a swear word and when he spits it out of his mouth it leaves a bunch of dirt.
But he doesn’t ride off. He wants to talk. He wants to get me going. He wants a real discussion. He wants a reaction.
So I give him one.
So I says to the guy I says, “When I think of a hippie I think of someone who goes against the grain. A counter culture type. A person who marches or skips or hops to the tune of their own drummer. I will take this as a complement and will wear the sobriquet as a badge of honor.”
“When I grow up I am going to buy a ranch in California and declare it my own country and I won’t pay taxes to the insane American governement,” says Josh.
“And when you grow up and they take you off to the Federal Pen I will visit you every Sunday and make you hand made stripped shirts,” I retort.
I am reminded of the book The Runaway Bunny that we use to read when he was 3 and 4 about the renegade baby bunny who wanted to make his own way in the world and where ever he went, his mother followed.
Too bad I can’t just give Josh a carrot and everything will be better.
Yes, it is hard to be 12... And yes, it is hard to have embarrassing parents.
But Josh, if you are reading this, isn’t it better to be embarrassed by your parents in Grand Rapids Manitoba where you don’t know anyone than at a Middle School in Anytown, USA? Hmmm, next year I think we will park the RV outside of your new school and paint it with peace signs with a big banner reading, We are Josh’s parents and we are moronic hippies!
If we aren’t embarrassing our children, we aren’t doing our job!
I love this age. I love all the ages my kids have been. Just when I think, “I am done. He is launched.” Oops.
Yesterday we drove from Grand Forks, North Dakota to Winnipeg, Manitoba and today we are doing the bone crunching, butt numbing 450 mile drive up to Thompson along Route 6. This is the most rural of places I have been since I lived in the mud hut in Sobela, Mali in West Africa…but that is my next book. Thompson, Manitoba is where the road ends and we get on the train for the last 500 miles to get up to Churchill so we can see the polar bears!
It is 175 kilometers between towns. And the towns are so sad. Corrugated metal houses. Used cars and refrigerators in the front yards.
People drive in the middle of the road along Route 6 to avoid the particularly big pot holes. It isn’t an issue to drive in the middle of the road since your can see a good mile in front of you so you can get over when the other car headed the other way over the course of the hour is upon you.
Half way to Thompson and it is 1:30 in the afternoon. Boys have been plugged into Ipods watching movies (all educational of course) and listening to Weird Al since 10 AM. We stop in Grand Rapids to do a little bike ride along the one road through town along the Saskatchewan River and have a spot of lunch at the one restaurant run by a man from Shanghai, China. When I told him I was in Shanghai in 1982 he said that was the year he was born. I thought he looked familiar.
After lunch we pull the bikes off the back of the RV, take our helmets out from the basement of the RV (alright, it is just a storage space but it feels more spacious to call it a basement) and we take off ignoring the yells of protest from our almost teenager. “I don’t want to go on a bike ride in this moronic town. I am freezing. How can you do this to me? You and Dad are such morons. Where is my free will? You are such hippies! I hate this Jesus loving town!”
I go back to the RV with Josh to dig out gloves and a scarf and to take the blows from today’s outburst. Evan and Simon take off on their own separate bike race through town.
We discuss what a hippy is. Josh describes a hippie as, “Someone who brings their own snacks to public events.” I try not to laugh. He tries not to laugh. I suggest that bringing your own snacks is just good planning from an economic and health stand point. He calls me a hippie again with such disgust it is as if it is a swear word and when he spits it out of his mouth it leaves a bunch of dirt.
But he doesn’t ride off. He wants to talk. He wants to get me going. He wants a real discussion. He wants a reaction.
So I give him one.
So I says to the guy I says, “When I think of a hippie I think of someone who goes against the grain. A counter culture type. A person who marches or skips or hops to the tune of their own drummer. I will take this as a complement and will wear the sobriquet as a badge of honor.”
“When I grow up I am going to buy a ranch in California and declare it my own country and I won’t pay taxes to the insane American governement,” says Josh.
“And when you grow up and they take you off to the Federal Pen I will visit you every Sunday and make you hand made stripped shirts,” I retort.
I am reminded of the book The Runaway Bunny that we use to read when he was 3 and 4 about the renegade baby bunny who wanted to make his own way in the world and where ever he went, his mother followed.
Too bad I can’t just give Josh a carrot and everything will be better.
Yes, it is hard to be 12... And yes, it is hard to have embarrassing parents.
But Josh, if you are reading this, isn’t it better to be embarrassed by your parents in Grand Rapids Manitoba where you don’t know anyone than at a Middle School in Anytown, USA? Hmmm, next year I think we will park the RV outside of your new school and paint it with peace signs with a big banner reading, We are Josh’s parents and we are moronic hippies!
If we aren’t embarrassing our children, we aren’t doing our job!
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
Coming to Grips with my Minnesota Nice
Here we are in Minnesota. We snuck in through the southwest corner along highway 90 from South Dakota. But then we quickly took a right hand turn and ended up in Spirit Lake, Iowa for the night, camping along the lake shore at an Iowa State Park. Close enough? Heck no!. Iowa is not Minnesota thank you very much!
However, Spirit Lake was beautiful and the smells of autumn were everywhere – the fallen leaves mixed with the smell of the fresh-water lake with a hint of stinky dead Walleye fish brought back memories of a life I had forgotten about for decades.
The next day it was back in the Big Pig headed north along a dirt road through harvested corn fields to pop out back in Minnesota again.
What is it about this state that just feels so comfortable? I was born in Minneapolis and lived here until I was 12 then moved back for college. It just feels like an old comfortable pair of shoes. And isn’t that we are all really in search of? Good conversation, a strong cup of coffee and comfortable shoes?
There is something called Minnesota Nice and if you ever met anybody from Minnesota you know what I am talking about. That voice over the phone when you know the person is smiling. The way the lilt in the voice goes up at the end of a sentence. The hint of a smile. The wry sense of humor. Good, down to earth people. Mostly over 6 feet tall, blonde and with large rear ends but that is for another blog…
Passing the towns of Blue Earth and Albert Lea we then turned north to head up highway 35 to Northfield. You might be thinking to yourself, “Why does that town sound so familiar? “ And slowly it comes back. Shoot out. Younger Brothers. Jesse James. Brad Pitt. Yes! It is where Jesse James and his gang had their last bank robbery attempt thwarted by a band of Swedish and Norwegian town’s people (Q: What do you call a mixed marriage in Minnesota? A: When a Swede marries a Norwegian) and the bank clerk Joseph Lee Hayward who refused to give up the goods!
Fast forward a good one hundred years and Northfields’ motto is now: Cows, Colleges and Contentment. Northfield is home of the most celebrated Norwegian Lutheran college in the world (albeit, there isn’t much competition) -- St Olaf.
Stop laughing! I can hear you through the internet!
No I am neither Norwegian nor Lutheran. But brother did I ever want to be my freshman year. I mouthed along with the Lutheran Apostles Creed and ate my leftse and fruit groot with the best of ‘em. You betcha! But never the lutefisk. God forbid! Not the Lutefisk (raw fish soaked in lye). Each Passover the Gifelte Fish reminds me of it….
I called ahead to arrange a tour of St. Olaf since in the 25 years since I had been there I knew it had changed quite a bit. We were met at the Admission Office by the lovely Amy from Claremont, CA. Already I knew something was up. She had brown hair!
Turns out she had read about St. Olaf in a handbook called Colleges That Change Lives. Dare I say it? The college I went to 25 years ago had disappeared and in its place was a much cooler (dare I say edgy?) place with great art installations, inspiring architecture, and the feeling of student involvement everywhere. While I attribute St. Olaf with giving me a fine education and introducing me to a global vision of the world (I spent my junior year in Chiang Mai Thailand on a program through St. Olaf) it was always a bit of a smirk, on my resume. But no more! I am embracing my inner Olaf!
From Northfield it was up to Eagan, Minnesota to stay for 6 nights with most hospitable Barb and Scott in their beautiful spacious house! What a treat!
I did 29 loads of wash. I showered two times a day because I could. I did somersaults in their living room. Simon and I rolled all over the house with their dogs and we didn’t bump into anything.
There were doors! Doors. What a great invention.
After 2 weeks non-stop in the RV I have a new found appreciation for the mundane.
We also spent a wonderful afternoon at the Baken Museum which is housed in the old Cornelius House along Lake Calhoun. When I was growing up the Cornelius Family house was known far and wide because they gave away full-sized candy bars at Halloween. Very important.
But now it is a cool museum devoted to how electricity interacts with human bodies…think Frankenstein. Think pace makers.
After 6 wonderful days playing with friends and family and renewing ties that were never broken but felt wonderful to retie and hold in my hands, we left yesterday.
But cha know, I’m a Minnesota girl. I love claiming it as my home. I love the accents, the beer, the tater tot hot dish, Garrison Keillor, the huge oak trees that arch over the streets, the plaster cast replicas of Paul Bunyan and Vikings, the Twins.
I love the people. There is something called Minnesota Nice. And ya know, that’s alright by me.
Bye now.
However, Spirit Lake was beautiful and the smells of autumn were everywhere – the fallen leaves mixed with the smell of the fresh-water lake with a hint of stinky dead Walleye fish brought back memories of a life I had forgotten about for decades.
The next day it was back in the Big Pig headed north along a dirt road through harvested corn fields to pop out back in Minnesota again.
What is it about this state that just feels so comfortable? I was born in Minneapolis and lived here until I was 12 then moved back for college. It just feels like an old comfortable pair of shoes. And isn’t that we are all really in search of? Good conversation, a strong cup of coffee and comfortable shoes?
There is something called Minnesota Nice and if you ever met anybody from Minnesota you know what I am talking about. That voice over the phone when you know the person is smiling. The way the lilt in the voice goes up at the end of a sentence. The hint of a smile. The wry sense of humor. Good, down to earth people. Mostly over 6 feet tall, blonde and with large rear ends but that is for another blog…
Passing the towns of Blue Earth and Albert Lea we then turned north to head up highway 35 to Northfield. You might be thinking to yourself, “Why does that town sound so familiar? “ And slowly it comes back. Shoot out. Younger Brothers. Jesse James. Brad Pitt. Yes! It is where Jesse James and his gang had their last bank robbery attempt thwarted by a band of Swedish and Norwegian town’s people (Q: What do you call a mixed marriage in Minnesota? A: When a Swede marries a Norwegian) and the bank clerk Joseph Lee Hayward who refused to give up the goods!
Fast forward a good one hundred years and Northfields’ motto is now: Cows, Colleges and Contentment. Northfield is home of the most celebrated Norwegian Lutheran college in the world (albeit, there isn’t much competition) -- St Olaf.
Stop laughing! I can hear you through the internet!
No I am neither Norwegian nor Lutheran. But brother did I ever want to be my freshman year. I mouthed along with the Lutheran Apostles Creed and ate my leftse and fruit groot with the best of ‘em. You betcha! But never the lutefisk. God forbid! Not the Lutefisk (raw fish soaked in lye). Each Passover the Gifelte Fish reminds me of it….
I called ahead to arrange a tour of St. Olaf since in the 25 years since I had been there I knew it had changed quite a bit. We were met at the Admission Office by the lovely Amy from Claremont, CA. Already I knew something was up. She had brown hair!
Turns out she had read about St. Olaf in a handbook called Colleges That Change Lives. Dare I say it? The college I went to 25 years ago had disappeared and in its place was a much cooler (dare I say edgy?) place with great art installations, inspiring architecture, and the feeling of student involvement everywhere. While I attribute St. Olaf with giving me a fine education and introducing me to a global vision of the world (I spent my junior year in Chiang Mai Thailand on a program through St. Olaf) it was always a bit of a smirk, on my resume. But no more! I am embracing my inner Olaf!
From Northfield it was up to Eagan, Minnesota to stay for 6 nights with most hospitable Barb and Scott in their beautiful spacious house! What a treat!
I did 29 loads of wash. I showered two times a day because I could. I did somersaults in their living room. Simon and I rolled all over the house with their dogs and we didn’t bump into anything.
There were doors! Doors. What a great invention.
After 2 weeks non-stop in the RV I have a new found appreciation for the mundane.
We also spent a wonderful afternoon at the Baken Museum which is housed in the old Cornelius House along Lake Calhoun. When I was growing up the Cornelius Family house was known far and wide because they gave away full-sized candy bars at Halloween. Very important.
But now it is a cool museum devoted to how electricity interacts with human bodies…think Frankenstein. Think pace makers.
After 6 wonderful days playing with friends and family and renewing ties that were never broken but felt wonderful to retie and hold in my hands, we left yesterday.
But cha know, I’m a Minnesota girl. I love claiming it as my home. I love the accents, the beer, the tater tot hot dish, Garrison Keillor, the huge oak trees that arch over the streets, the plaster cast replicas of Paul Bunyan and Vikings, the Twins.
I love the people. There is something called Minnesota Nice. And ya know, that’s alright by me.
Bye now.
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
Does My Butt Look Big In This RV?
In July 2007 a study was written up in the New England Journal of Medicine using data from the Framingham Heart Study that one of the most prevalent reasons people are obese is not due to lack of physical activity, nor genetics. nor education.
It’s all about your peer group. (* Nickolas Christakis and James Fowler)
If your girlfriends are packing on an extra 40 pounds – chances are you are in the dressing room next to them at the Pretty and Plump looking at size 24’s.
However, if your best buddies are chowing down on carrot sticks – chances are you are sharing the bag with them while you take your daily walk.
So what do I see as I look around at my fellow RV’ers in the Walmart parking lot last night in Rapid City? Or the KOA here in Interior, South Dakota (population 76)?
This past week three separate friends emailed the latest photos montage making the rounds called “The People of Walmart” Are these are My People? My peer group?
While the cross dresser in his 4 inch high yellow go-go boots looked quite thin, and the guy in cowboy boots and pink velour work out pants was doing pretty good, the women were a mess. Rolls. I am talking rolls on top of rolls. I am talking stretched out stretch pants.
If I am to believe this study, expandable waistline polyester slacks are in my future.
But I know these folks we are randomly parked next to for the night are not my peer group but just in case I am taking control!
No fun size bags of Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups for the RV. Bunny Luv Carrots and water rule!
Roll over. Roll on.
It’s all about your peer group. (* Nickolas Christakis and James Fowler)
If your girlfriends are packing on an extra 40 pounds – chances are you are in the dressing room next to them at the Pretty and Plump looking at size 24’s.
However, if your best buddies are chowing down on carrot sticks – chances are you are sharing the bag with them while you take your daily walk.
So what do I see as I look around at my fellow RV’ers in the Walmart parking lot last night in Rapid City? Or the KOA here in Interior, South Dakota (population 76)?
This past week three separate friends emailed the latest photos montage making the rounds called “The People of Walmart” Are these are My People? My peer group?
While the cross dresser in his 4 inch high yellow go-go boots looked quite thin, and the guy in cowboy boots and pink velour work out pants was doing pretty good, the women were a mess. Rolls. I am talking rolls on top of rolls. I am talking stretched out stretch pants.
If I am to believe this study, expandable waistline polyester slacks are in my future.
But I know these folks we are randomly parked next to for the night are not my peer group but just in case I am taking control!
No fun size bags of Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups for the RV. Bunny Luv Carrots and water rule!
Roll over. Roll on.
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
A Typical Day
A Typical RV Day: Yellowstone National Park
Monday – or is it Tuesday?
7:30 ish Wake up in Yellowstone National Park - Fishing Bridge Area RV park.
8 – 8:30 Breakfast in the RV. Cereal, corn muffins, coffee and juice
9:00 ish RV Elementary
School begins with Ms. Penelope Snodgrass sitting in for Mr. Higgenbottom who is busy digging through the basement compartment of the RV looking for warm clothes because it is cold here in Yellowstone. Mr. Higgenbottom also needs to attend to the backed up sewer issue, figure out why we are going through so much propane, and duct tape the roof after an unfortunate incident with a low hanging tree.
School starts with our usual quote of the day, which elder student hates and thinks is pointless and younger student hates because he has to write it down in his daily journal.
Today’s quote was from George Mathew Allen and reads: "People who live with many interests live not only longest but happiest."
Conversation ensued to discuss interests of said students which included the usual suspects of computer games, Lego, robotics, music, reading and world domination. Discussed why it is important to be well rounded with lots of interests.
We then went through the Junior Ranger packets to see what was required and make sure we took the necessary hikes, explored the habitats of moose, and understood the importance of geothermal hot springs. We have two days to fulfill the requirements, pass the quiz, take the oath, and get the patch!
Note: All US National Parks have the Junior Ranger program. It consists of an age appropriate packet or newspaper that the kids need to fill in, attend ranger talks, do some drawings and reflections. Each park has a unique patch that says Junior Ranger on it that the kids collect and sew on to their hoodies. Adults can do them to. Yes, I am after my Yellowstone Junior Ranger Patch as well!
10:30 Departure with Mr. Higgenbottom on bicycles to the Mud Volcano to make the 11 AM Ranger Talk
10:45 Find our Mud Volcano site is 7 miles away. Bike back to RV, unplug electric and water, bring in the slide in, lock bikes and head out like proverbial Bats out of Hell to make 11 am ranger talk.
11:02 Arrive at Mud Volcano
11 – 1:30 Ranger Talk and ramble through incredible geothermal mud pots, mud springs, Dragon’s Mouth churning pool of stinky sulfer water. Also touch on wildlife and indigenous tribes from area.
1:40 Drive back the 7 miles to Fishing Bridge Visitors Center.
2 – 2:45 Make lunch in RV and have picnic at visitor’s center overlooking Lake Yellowstone. Lunch: quesadillas, grapes, yoghurt.
3 – 4:30 Simon and Ms. Snodgrass continue school at Visitor Center - Music and Art.
Listen to headphones in Visitor Center of violin concerto written for Yellowstone and tell stories and draw pictures that were inspired by music.
Look at diorama of grizzly bears and draw their picture.
Read children’s book about the origin of the real Smokey the Bear.
Sit by lake are play the recorder. Or at least try.
3 – 4:30 Josh and Mr. Higgenbottom take the RV to continue school at Merry’s Bay, about 5 miles down the road where the blackberry can pick up a phone tower signal and then convert it to the internet on the computer so Josh can do some of his on line home schooling.
4:30 – 6:30 Fill up propane, do laundry.
6:30 – 7 Make dinner, boys ride bikes, play in woods, play with balls, read books, complain about how they don’t like living in an RV.
7 – 8:30 Wash dishes, shower.
8:30 – 9:30 Watch The Walton’s on TV in RV.
10 PM Good night John Boy
Monday – or is it Tuesday?
7:30 ish Wake up in Yellowstone National Park - Fishing Bridge Area RV park.
8 – 8:30 Breakfast in the RV. Cereal, corn muffins, coffee and juice
9:00 ish RV Elementary
School begins with Ms. Penelope Snodgrass sitting in for Mr. Higgenbottom who is busy digging through the basement compartment of the RV looking for warm clothes because it is cold here in Yellowstone. Mr. Higgenbottom also needs to attend to the backed up sewer issue, figure out why we are going through so much propane, and duct tape the roof after an unfortunate incident with a low hanging tree.
School starts with our usual quote of the day, which elder student hates and thinks is pointless and younger student hates because he has to write it down in his daily journal.
Today’s quote was from George Mathew Allen and reads: "People who live with many interests live not only longest but happiest."
Conversation ensued to discuss interests of said students which included the usual suspects of computer games, Lego, robotics, music, reading and world domination. Discussed why it is important to be well rounded with lots of interests.
We then went through the Junior Ranger packets to see what was required and make sure we took the necessary hikes, explored the habitats of moose, and understood the importance of geothermal hot springs. We have two days to fulfill the requirements, pass the quiz, take the oath, and get the patch!
Note: All US National Parks have the Junior Ranger program. It consists of an age appropriate packet or newspaper that the kids need to fill in, attend ranger talks, do some drawings and reflections. Each park has a unique patch that says Junior Ranger on it that the kids collect and sew on to their hoodies. Adults can do them to. Yes, I am after my Yellowstone Junior Ranger Patch as well!
10:30 Departure with Mr. Higgenbottom on bicycles to the Mud Volcano to make the 11 AM Ranger Talk
10:45 Find our Mud Volcano site is 7 miles away. Bike back to RV, unplug electric and water, bring in the slide in, lock bikes and head out like proverbial Bats out of Hell to make 11 am ranger talk.
11:02 Arrive at Mud Volcano
11 – 1:30 Ranger Talk and ramble through incredible geothermal mud pots, mud springs, Dragon’s Mouth churning pool of stinky sulfer water. Also touch on wildlife and indigenous tribes from area.
1:40 Drive back the 7 miles to Fishing Bridge Visitors Center.
2 – 2:45 Make lunch in RV and have picnic at visitor’s center overlooking Lake Yellowstone. Lunch: quesadillas, grapes, yoghurt.
3 – 4:30 Simon and Ms. Snodgrass continue school at Visitor Center - Music and Art.
Listen to headphones in Visitor Center of violin concerto written for Yellowstone and tell stories and draw pictures that were inspired by music.
Look at diorama of grizzly bears and draw their picture.
Read children’s book about the origin of the real Smokey the Bear.
Sit by lake are play the recorder. Or at least try.
3 – 4:30 Josh and Mr. Higgenbottom take the RV to continue school at Merry’s Bay, about 5 miles down the road where the blackberry can pick up a phone tower signal and then convert it to the internet on the computer so Josh can do some of his on line home schooling.
4:30 – 6:30 Fill up propane, do laundry.
6:30 – 7 Make dinner, boys ride bikes, play in woods, play with balls, read books, complain about how they don’t like living in an RV.
7 – 8:30 Wash dishes, shower.
8:30 – 9:30 Watch The Walton’s on TV in RV.
10 PM Good night John Boy
This is So Not a Vacation
Can we be clear here. This thing we are doing – living in an RV for a year - is no vacation. We are not waking up each morning wondering if we should go swimming or play croquet.
We do not send our laundry out.
We are not drinking gin and tonics watching the sunset over the rockies. But we could. And on second thought - we should!
This is a lot tougher than I ever imagined. Not that it is all bad mind you, but we are running a household and being school teachers, companions and parents in a tiny space. Of course to quote Simon, "We have a little house, but the whole world is our garden."
All the stuff we dealt with in terms of parenting and chores are still with us. Parenthood: you can run but you can’t hide.
This morning’s conversation was about allowances. We had previously decided that allowances were suspended during the RV trip but there has been a mutiny among the troops. The proposal on the table, as presented by Counselor/CFO Josh, would be for Josh to get $4 a week and Simon $3. That is one dollar a day less from the family budget of $110/day.
I thought that sounded a bit high. What do they need to spend all that money on each week? I thought after getting rid of bags and bags of useless plastic objects when we moved had made an impact. The boys said they needed that money in order to save up for Christmas gifts for us. Here is the dilemma: Do we give our kids money so they can save it to give back to us in the form of Christmas gifts?
We decided that Josh would get $2 a week and Simon $1.50 cash, and that we would keep the remaining $2 and $1.50 would go into a Christmas savings account that they would get in a lump sum the first week of December. The money could be used to buy each other gifts.
But they can make gifts for Evan and me, family and friends and Mom and Dad would pay for the supplies. We will each come up with proposals on what we can make and when we are in Hood River in a proper house for a few weeks over Thanksgiving we will make the gifts. Let’s see how it works.
Right now we are in Yellowstone National Park camping in Fishing Bridge. We drove up here from the Grand Tetons National Park where they have a great Urgent Care. Simon has strep throat so we now have a 10 day supply of Amoxicillian in the fridge.
Real life skills we have taught the kids in the last month:
How laundromats work.
How to budget.
How to make Ramen noodles into a meal with added vegetables and chicken.
How to dry dishes.
How to use a bike lock.
How to tie shoes.
How speedometers and odometers work.
The difference between gas and propane.
And most importantly, how to take a shower with very little water.
Here is the Shower Ritual:
1. Remove bag of dirty laundry that is stored in shower stall. Put on bed.
2. Remove laundry basket full of cleaning supplies, bags of potatoes, onions and apples. Put on bed.
3. Open bathroom door so it swings back for privacy from kitchen and rest of RV and gives you an extra 2 feet of room.
4. Adjust water.
5. Get wet.
6. Turn off water
7. Soap up
8. Turn on water and rinse off
9. Dry shower stall with dirty t shirt.
10. Get dressed in tiny space
11. Put stuff back.
But the shower does work. We do get clean. And at this camp ground there is a water hook up so we have as much water as we want!
Is it worth it? Well, the highs are high – like right now. It is 6:30 am. Simon is asleep. Evan and Josh just left to ride bikes in the dark to the Fishing Bridge Visitor Center to meet up with a group for a 5 hour class on Wildlife Photography. Simon – assuming he feels better – and I will have breakfast, do a little school work, work on his Junior Ranger Badge and take a bike ride through unparalleled beauty.
So while this is not a vacation, it is an adventure. Get over yourself Wendy – it is so not about the shower.
Tomorrow onwards to Devil’s Tower.
We do not send our laundry out.
We are not drinking gin and tonics watching the sunset over the rockies. But we could. And on second thought - we should!
This is a lot tougher than I ever imagined. Not that it is all bad mind you, but we are running a household and being school teachers, companions and parents in a tiny space. Of course to quote Simon, "We have a little house, but the whole world is our garden."
All the stuff we dealt with in terms of parenting and chores are still with us. Parenthood: you can run but you can’t hide.
This morning’s conversation was about allowances. We had previously decided that allowances were suspended during the RV trip but there has been a mutiny among the troops. The proposal on the table, as presented by Counselor/CFO Josh, would be for Josh to get $4 a week and Simon $3. That is one dollar a day less from the family budget of $110/day.
I thought that sounded a bit high. What do they need to spend all that money on each week? I thought after getting rid of bags and bags of useless plastic objects when we moved had made an impact. The boys said they needed that money in order to save up for Christmas gifts for us. Here is the dilemma: Do we give our kids money so they can save it to give back to us in the form of Christmas gifts?
We decided that Josh would get $2 a week and Simon $1.50 cash, and that we would keep the remaining $2 and $1.50 would go into a Christmas savings account that they would get in a lump sum the first week of December. The money could be used to buy each other gifts.
But they can make gifts for Evan and me, family and friends and Mom and Dad would pay for the supplies. We will each come up with proposals on what we can make and when we are in Hood River in a proper house for a few weeks over Thanksgiving we will make the gifts. Let’s see how it works.
Right now we are in Yellowstone National Park camping in Fishing Bridge. We drove up here from the Grand Tetons National Park where they have a great Urgent Care. Simon has strep throat so we now have a 10 day supply of Amoxicillian in the fridge.
Real life skills we have taught the kids in the last month:
How laundromats work.
How to budget.
How to make Ramen noodles into a meal with added vegetables and chicken.
How to dry dishes.
How to use a bike lock.
How to tie shoes.
How speedometers and odometers work.
The difference between gas and propane.
And most importantly, how to take a shower with very little water.
Here is the Shower Ritual:
1. Remove bag of dirty laundry that is stored in shower stall. Put on bed.
2. Remove laundry basket full of cleaning supplies, bags of potatoes, onions and apples. Put on bed.
3. Open bathroom door so it swings back for privacy from kitchen and rest of RV and gives you an extra 2 feet of room.
4. Adjust water.
5. Get wet.
6. Turn off water
7. Soap up
8. Turn on water and rinse off
9. Dry shower stall with dirty t shirt.
10. Get dressed in tiny space
11. Put stuff back.
But the shower does work. We do get clean. And at this camp ground there is a water hook up so we have as much water as we want!
Is it worth it? Well, the highs are high – like right now. It is 6:30 am. Simon is asleep. Evan and Josh just left to ride bikes in the dark to the Fishing Bridge Visitor Center to meet up with a group for a 5 hour class on Wildlife Photography. Simon – assuming he feels better – and I will have breakfast, do a little school work, work on his Junior Ranger Badge and take a bike ride through unparalleled beauty.
So while this is not a vacation, it is an adventure. Get over yourself Wendy – it is so not about the shower.
Tomorrow onwards to Devil’s Tower.
Sunday, 20 September 2009
On Being Seven Years Old
When I was seven years old I ran away from home. I was so tired of always having to fight the competition for attention. And the competition was fierce - three brothers, a big dog, a couple of cats all vying for the attention of, for all intents and purposes, a single mom. But if I ran away people would notice I was gone and boy would they be sorry. I bet they would have to call the police and everything.
I took my suitcase and packed it with the essentials - cookies I stole from the kitchen, my favorite baby doll Annie, and a pair of underpants. I put on my coat and walked out the door. 4 PM on a January afternoon in Minneapolis. Cold, icy and dark. “Bad idea, Never mind. I will just go and hide in the cleaning closet and that way I will be able to hear everyone talking about me and how worried they are,” I thought to myself.
I snuck into the closet. Not a big place, but it had an overhead light you could turn on by pulling a string. This is where all the extra rolls of paper towels, cleaning supplies, vacuum and brooms were kept. I could push things to the side and make a little nest from my coat and sit down. For the next hour I played with my doll, ate the cookies and tidied up the cleaning closet.
An hour later my mom opened up the closest and was surprised to see me. She asked what I was doing in there and I told her through my tears that I was running away and nobody even noticed I was gone.
I recently told this story to my boys as we were tooling along the vast expanse of prairie in between Rocky Mountain National Park and our next stop for the night – the Walmart in Rocky Springs, Wyoming.
Josh has asked Evan and me to tell him five small moment stories from our lives. He will be choosing one to expand upon for a writing class he is doing on line through Johns Hopkins Center for Talented Youth.
After I told this story Simon said, “Oh Mommy I am so sorry for the little girl Wendy. That is exactly how I feel. Nobody talks to me. Nobody plays games with me. Everybody ignores me.”
My heart is breaking. “Oh Simon, that isn’t right,” I reply and immediately feel guilty for pulling him away from other kids his age and think this is the issue that is going to get him onto a therapist couch at the ripe old age of ten.
We decide the next day will be Simon’s Day and we will all turn ourselves into 7 year olds for the day and play. Just play.
Monopoly, card games, read books, draw pictures and play imaginary games. He calls me Wendy and we make fun of his teacher Penelope Snodgrass and call her old Stuffy Pants, and Antelope Snotgrass. Evan makes fun of his teacher old Higgenbottom and we call him Professor HiggenBumBum. We make plans for how we will torment them in our next day of class. But then Simon says Mrs. Snodgrass brought him chocolate crepes for snack one day at that was nice,
For lunch we have a picnic in the City Park in Pineland Wyoming, where the city motto is, “All the civilization you need.” We pretend we are airplanes and ninjas and run around the pond. We climb on the big rocks, hold hands going double down the slides, swing up to the trees, and climb to the moon on the climbing frame.
We take an adventure walk and cross a bridge - but the bridge is blown up behind us so the only way we can get back across the river is to walk through the water. Simon’s croc floats away and Josh comes to the rescue and races through the water getting all wet but retrieves the croc!
We eat lunch on a picnic table -- Simon picks out and eats mac and cheese. We eat purple popsicles and watch each others tongues turn purple.
Then I have to go through a portal to turn myself back into a stinky old adult because I need to drive. But before we go through the portal we make a plan to meet every day to be seven. Excuse me, seven and three quarters.
I took my suitcase and packed it with the essentials - cookies I stole from the kitchen, my favorite baby doll Annie, and a pair of underpants. I put on my coat and walked out the door. 4 PM on a January afternoon in Minneapolis. Cold, icy and dark. “Bad idea, Never mind. I will just go and hide in the cleaning closet and that way I will be able to hear everyone talking about me and how worried they are,” I thought to myself.
I snuck into the closet. Not a big place, but it had an overhead light you could turn on by pulling a string. This is where all the extra rolls of paper towels, cleaning supplies, vacuum and brooms were kept. I could push things to the side and make a little nest from my coat and sit down. For the next hour I played with my doll, ate the cookies and tidied up the cleaning closet.
An hour later my mom opened up the closest and was surprised to see me. She asked what I was doing in there and I told her through my tears that I was running away and nobody even noticed I was gone.
I recently told this story to my boys as we were tooling along the vast expanse of prairie in between Rocky Mountain National Park and our next stop for the night – the Walmart in Rocky Springs, Wyoming.
Josh has asked Evan and me to tell him five small moment stories from our lives. He will be choosing one to expand upon for a writing class he is doing on line through Johns Hopkins Center for Talented Youth.
After I told this story Simon said, “Oh Mommy I am so sorry for the little girl Wendy. That is exactly how I feel. Nobody talks to me. Nobody plays games with me. Everybody ignores me.”
My heart is breaking. “Oh Simon, that isn’t right,” I reply and immediately feel guilty for pulling him away from other kids his age and think this is the issue that is going to get him onto a therapist couch at the ripe old age of ten.
We decide the next day will be Simon’s Day and we will all turn ourselves into 7 year olds for the day and play. Just play.
Monopoly, card games, read books, draw pictures and play imaginary games. He calls me Wendy and we make fun of his teacher Penelope Snodgrass and call her old Stuffy Pants, and Antelope Snotgrass. Evan makes fun of his teacher old Higgenbottom and we call him Professor HiggenBumBum. We make plans for how we will torment them in our next day of class. But then Simon says Mrs. Snodgrass brought him chocolate crepes for snack one day at that was nice,
For lunch we have a picnic in the City Park in Pineland Wyoming, where the city motto is, “All the civilization you need.” We pretend we are airplanes and ninjas and run around the pond. We climb on the big rocks, hold hands going double down the slides, swing up to the trees, and climb to the moon on the climbing frame.
We take an adventure walk and cross a bridge - but the bridge is blown up behind us so the only way we can get back across the river is to walk through the water. Simon’s croc floats away and Josh comes to the rescue and races through the water getting all wet but retrieves the croc!
We eat lunch on a picnic table -- Simon picks out and eats mac and cheese. We eat purple popsicles and watch each others tongues turn purple.
Then I have to go through a portal to turn myself back into a stinky old adult because I need to drive. But before we go through the portal we make a plan to meet every day to be seven. Excuse me, seven and three quarters.
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
All wound up
We are tooling down Route 24 in Kansas, one of the big square states in the middle of America. Cawker City is in the rear view mirror, Colby is 120 miles in front of us. That is where the nearest Walmart is waiting for us to Boondock tonight. [Boon* Dock: to camp overnight for free; usually in the boon docks, a.k.a The Boonies, far away from civilization.]
Walmart is Boondocker friendly, in fact, they court us. They are hoping RV’ers will pull in and have a yearning for a new water filter, a box of Fruit Loops or a round of ammunition at 3 AM. Please note, we not staying in any old Walmart – we have standards you know. This is a Super Walmart!
We went to Cawker City, Kansas because it is the home to the world’s largest ball of twine. We planned our day around the visit.
We needed to go to Cawker City because we are going to visit the home of the world’s largest ball of string in Minnesota and we need to get the good info so we can compare and contrast.
Twine vs string.
Funny how your set of needs can change.
There was a time when I needed to go to Starbucks.
I needed to go the Parent’s Open House Night at the kid’s school.
I needed to go to meetings.
I needed to answer emails and phone calls.
I needed to go to the grocery store.
I needed to go to the dry cleaners, the bank, the shoe repair, the library, my office.
What did I need to do today?
Visit a ball of twine.
Miss my old needs? I'm a frayed knot.
Walmart is Boondocker friendly, in fact, they court us. They are hoping RV’ers will pull in and have a yearning for a new water filter, a box of Fruit Loops or a round of ammunition at 3 AM. Please note, we not staying in any old Walmart – we have standards you know. This is a Super Walmart!
We went to Cawker City, Kansas because it is the home to the world’s largest ball of twine. We planned our day around the visit.
We needed to go to Cawker City because we are going to visit the home of the world’s largest ball of string in Minnesota and we need to get the good info so we can compare and contrast.
Twine vs string.
Funny how your set of needs can change.
There was a time when I needed to go to Starbucks.
I needed to go the Parent’s Open House Night at the kid’s school.
I needed to go to meetings.
I needed to answer emails and phone calls.
I needed to go to the grocery store.
I needed to go to the dry cleaners, the bank, the shoe repair, the library, my office.
What did I need to do today?
Visit a ball of twine.
Miss my old needs? I'm a frayed knot.
Saturday, 12 September 2009
Birthday Projection
It is my Birthday. Very early on my birthday. The hall clock just struck 4 AM.
I am 47. All that really means is that I am 3 years from turning 50.
Josh has been fretting all week trying to figure out what to get me with no money. I keep telling him to write me a poem or a story. He could sing me a song. How about a day of Excrutiatingly Fabulous Behavior? All those ideas went over like dead balloons.
The past 6 years in London we would go to my favorite place for my birthday – Kew Gardens. And last year we took an overnight adventure and went to Dover after a wonderful birthday lunch with my girlfriends at a beautiful pub in Maida Vale.
This year we will get up early and sneek off to the Lincoln Memorial Gardens where my Grandmother’s ashes were scattered and my aunt has spent thousands of hours as a volunteer. It will be lovely.
My 20th birthday I was in Japan just starting my junior year of college and on my way to Chieng Mai University.
My 30th birthday I was on the equator in Kenya in the midst of a 6 month adventure around the world.
My 40th birthday I had little babies and was living in Georgia.
Projection:
My 50th birthday I will have been living in an RV for the previous 3 years. My uncut hair will be to my waist; Evan’s beard will be to his. Our 10 and 15 year old boys will be wearing clothes we fashioned from an assortment of indigenous materials we found here in Peru where the RV broke down and we have put it up on blocks. I will have changed my name to Meriwether and the whiskey will be long gone.
I am 47. All that really means is that I am 3 years from turning 50.
Josh has been fretting all week trying to figure out what to get me with no money. I keep telling him to write me a poem or a story. He could sing me a song. How about a day of Excrutiatingly Fabulous Behavior? All those ideas went over like dead balloons.
The past 6 years in London we would go to my favorite place for my birthday – Kew Gardens. And last year we took an overnight adventure and went to Dover after a wonderful birthday lunch with my girlfriends at a beautiful pub in Maida Vale.
This year we will get up early and sneek off to the Lincoln Memorial Gardens where my Grandmother’s ashes were scattered and my aunt has spent thousands of hours as a volunteer. It will be lovely.
My 20th birthday I was in Japan just starting my junior year of college and on my way to Chieng Mai University.
My 30th birthday I was on the equator in Kenya in the midst of a 6 month adventure around the world.
My 40th birthday I had little babies and was living in Georgia.
Projection:
My 50th birthday I will have been living in an RV for the previous 3 years. My uncut hair will be to my waist; Evan’s beard will be to his. Our 10 and 15 year old boys will be wearing clothes we fashioned from an assortment of indigenous materials we found here in Peru where the RV broke down and we have put it up on blocks. I will have changed my name to Meriwether and the whiskey will be long gone.
Major League Freak Out #3
Here I am again. 2:45 am. Awake. No, I don’t think it is menopause, nor a panic attack. I think I am just nervous about heading out. For the past 1.5 weeks we have been lounging around my aunt and uncles beautiful home. We are spread out over the dining room table, the kitchen table, the sun porch, the laundry room, the bathrooms, the bedrooms – heck, our bikes and helmets are all in the garage. We have moved in.
The boys have ridden around the park and know a variety of ways to get to the playground. We have been to family night at Baskin Robbins two times, the public library on 7th street once. All three guys got their haircut at the same barber shop my grandfather use to go to. 12 bucks a head. The CFO was not happy. I have been to Schnucks (the grocery store) so many times I know my way around and even have a Loyalty Card.
We were in Peoria at the Minor League Baseball game Wednesday night watching the Cedar Rapid (that is in Iowa, folks) Kernels play the Peoria Chiefs. Words I am amazed I heard out of my 12 year old mouth, “Dad, can we please, please, please go to Cedar Rapids to watch the next game?”
And tonight we were at a Bluegrass Festival in New Salem with my other Aunt and Uncle on a perfect late summer evening night. Bluegrass Gospel. Who knew there were so many songs about Calvery and The Old Cross? Jesus is everywhere here in the US of A.
And now we are leaving. Again.
I feel like a truck driver.
Evan has been making soups and freezing them in anticipation of the remote national parks we will be in and the lack of reasonably priced groceries. Tomorrow I have some pumpkin breads to make. I know this is ridiculous but after having read Stephen Ambrose’s Undaunted Courage and seeing the first half of Ken Burn’s Lewis and Clark it seems like we are preparing our 30’ flat bottom boat for our own trip. I gotta remember to load on the barrel of whiskey to make sure we can give all our men their daily ration of 1 dram a piece. Maybe that is what I need to get back to sleep.
Sunday we drop mom at the airport in St Louis and head to Topeka, then on to Boulder then to Wyoming.
That is it!
I am freaking out because we are going to Wyoming.
The name sounds like what it is. Far away. Wind swept. Whyyyy? Ohhhhhh! Miiiing! Lonesome. I know in my rational state that all will be well. We will be in the RV for the next 2 weeks solid and then be in Minneapolis again staying with friends.
That is another cause of my angst. It isn’t just the thought of Wyoming it is knowing we will be in the RV for two weeks straight. Will I have to actually use the toilet in the RV this time? So far I have been able to avoid it.
Relax Wendy. All will be well. Yoga breath.
Nope, that didn’t work.
Maybe a few more yoga breaths.
Fill the lungs. Slowly release the breath.
A quiet mind.
That is what I need.
How do you get a quiet mind at 3:08 in the morning?
Is it possible to freak out about your inability to quiet your mind?
Sometimes I fantasize about a partial lobotomy to remove my anxiety lobe. Maybe there is a kit I can get somewhere on line. A DIY Lobotomy Kit availble on Ebay.
Did Meriwether Lewis ever freak out? With a goofy first name like that, I am sure he did. The Lewis and Clark scholars say he was also bi-polar which would account for the number of lapses in his journal. But he was driven. And now I am thinking, “I am just having a Meriwether moment.”
I need to head back to bed and think about transferring all my anxieties to little puffy white clouds and have them float away.
Yoga Breaths. Shots of whiskey. A partial lobotomy. Puffy clouds.
Goodnight Meriwether.
The boys have ridden around the park and know a variety of ways to get to the playground. We have been to family night at Baskin Robbins two times, the public library on 7th street once. All three guys got their haircut at the same barber shop my grandfather use to go to. 12 bucks a head. The CFO was not happy. I have been to Schnucks (the grocery store) so many times I know my way around and even have a Loyalty Card.
We were in Peoria at the Minor League Baseball game Wednesday night watching the Cedar Rapid (that is in Iowa, folks) Kernels play the Peoria Chiefs. Words I am amazed I heard out of my 12 year old mouth, “Dad, can we please, please, please go to Cedar Rapids to watch the next game?”
And tonight we were at a Bluegrass Festival in New Salem with my other Aunt and Uncle on a perfect late summer evening night. Bluegrass Gospel. Who knew there were so many songs about Calvery and The Old Cross? Jesus is everywhere here in the US of A.
And now we are leaving. Again.
I feel like a truck driver.
Evan has been making soups and freezing them in anticipation of the remote national parks we will be in and the lack of reasonably priced groceries. Tomorrow I have some pumpkin breads to make. I know this is ridiculous but after having read Stephen Ambrose’s Undaunted Courage and seeing the first half of Ken Burn’s Lewis and Clark it seems like we are preparing our 30’ flat bottom boat for our own trip. I gotta remember to load on the barrel of whiskey to make sure we can give all our men their daily ration of 1 dram a piece. Maybe that is what I need to get back to sleep.
Sunday we drop mom at the airport in St Louis and head to Topeka, then on to Boulder then to Wyoming.
That is it!
I am freaking out because we are going to Wyoming.
The name sounds like what it is. Far away. Wind swept. Whyyyy? Ohhhhhh! Miiiing! Lonesome. I know in my rational state that all will be well. We will be in the RV for the next 2 weeks solid and then be in Minneapolis again staying with friends.
That is another cause of my angst. It isn’t just the thought of Wyoming it is knowing we will be in the RV for two weeks straight. Will I have to actually use the toilet in the RV this time? So far I have been able to avoid it.
Relax Wendy. All will be well. Yoga breath.
Nope, that didn’t work.
Maybe a few more yoga breaths.
Fill the lungs. Slowly release the breath.
A quiet mind.
That is what I need.
How do you get a quiet mind at 3:08 in the morning?
Is it possible to freak out about your inability to quiet your mind?
Sometimes I fantasize about a partial lobotomy to remove my anxiety lobe. Maybe there is a kit I can get somewhere on line. A DIY Lobotomy Kit availble on Ebay.
Did Meriwether Lewis ever freak out? With a goofy first name like that, I am sure he did. The Lewis and Clark scholars say he was also bi-polar which would account for the number of lapses in his journal. But he was driven. And now I am thinking, “I am just having a Meriwether moment.”
I need to head back to bed and think about transferring all my anxieties to little puffy white clouds and have them float away.
Yoga Breaths. Shots of whiskey. A partial lobotomy. Puffy clouds.
Goodnight Meriwether.
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
RV Elementary - Opening Day
Dear Interested Parties at the Vermont Department of Education and Elsewhere,
We are glad to report that we held our Orientation Session on Sunday morning from 10 – 12 noon and all students were present.
Please find below details on what was covered.
Orientation
I. Welcome and introductions
- Reginald P. Higgenbottom, 6th Grade head Teacher
- Penelope Q. Snodgrass, 2nd grade Head Teacher
II. Goals of School
III. School Rules
IV. Schedule
V. Getting to know each other
VI. Refreshments
VII. Break Out Sessions
Goals
• Keep up with 2nd and 6th grade curriculum (maybe beyond) so next year students slip easily into 3rd and 7th grade.
• Encourage students to be creative and flexible.
• Encourage lively and friendly debate.
• Make learning fun by having fun,
School Motto
• CARPE DIEM
School Rules
• Respect each other and all teachers
• Be prepared
• Cannot ask teachers where supplies are
• Wear seatbelts when school is moving
• Only comfortable clothing allowed
Schedule
Date Time Place
Sunday 9/6 10 – 12 Springfield – Dining Room Table (DRT)
Monday 9/7 9 -11 Springfield - DRT
Tuesday 9/8 9-11 Springfield – DRT and Park for Bike Race
Wednesday 9/9 9-11 Springfield – DRT and Peoria
Thursday 9/10 9-11 Springfield – DRT and Library
Friday 9/11 MAMA JO DAY
Saturday 9/12 National Holiday
Sunday 9/13 Drive Day To Topeka, KS
Monday 9/14 9 – 12 RV Table - Drive to Boulder, CO
Tuesday 9/15 9 – 12 RV Table - Drive to Wyoming
Wednesday 9/16 9 – 12 RV Table
Respectfully submitted by,
Reginald P. Higgenbottom, 6th Grade head Teacher
Penelope Q. Snodgrass, 2nd grade Head Teacher
We are glad to report that we held our Orientation Session on Sunday morning from 10 – 12 noon and all students were present.
Please find below details on what was covered.
Orientation
I. Welcome and introductions
- Reginald P. Higgenbottom, 6th Grade head Teacher
- Penelope Q. Snodgrass, 2nd grade Head Teacher
II. Goals of School
III. School Rules
IV. Schedule
V. Getting to know each other
VI. Refreshments
VII. Break Out Sessions
Goals
• Keep up with 2nd and 6th grade curriculum (maybe beyond) so next year students slip easily into 3rd and 7th grade.
• Encourage students to be creative and flexible.
• Encourage lively and friendly debate.
• Make learning fun by having fun,
School Motto
• CARPE DIEM
School Rules
• Respect each other and all teachers
• Be prepared
• Cannot ask teachers where supplies are
• Wear seatbelts when school is moving
• Only comfortable clothing allowed
Schedule
Date Time Place
Sunday 9/6 10 – 12 Springfield – Dining Room Table (DRT)
Monday 9/7 9 -11 Springfield - DRT
Tuesday 9/8 9-11 Springfield – DRT and Park for Bike Race
Wednesday 9/9 9-11 Springfield – DRT and Peoria
Thursday 9/10 9-11 Springfield – DRT and Library
Friday 9/11 MAMA JO DAY
Saturday 9/12 National Holiday
Sunday 9/13 Drive Day To Topeka, KS
Monday 9/14 9 – 12 RV Table - Drive to Boulder, CO
Tuesday 9/15 9 – 12 RV Table - Drive to Wyoming
Wednesday 9/16 9 – 12 RV Table
Respectfully submitted by,
Reginald P. Higgenbottom, 6th Grade head Teacher
Penelope Q. Snodgrass, 2nd grade Head Teacher
Springfield, IL
September 9, 2009
Springfield, IL
Mom is moved out of her condo, all her things are in storage, and we made it back to join Evan and the boys here in Springfield, Illinois. Whew.
Where am I?
I never lived in Springfield but I have been coming back here since I was a baby. My mom was born and raised here along with her 2 sisters and her brother. All Springfield High School graduates. My great grandfather and great grandmother lived down on 4th and Allen Street. Maybe you know them – Minnie and Ace? My grandmother, Evelyn Adele Mama and her husband,Poppa Al, lived over on Douglas Street for the last 10 years. Mama Dell died last spring at 97 years old. Now there was a woman who knew how to have a good time. She would put a hat on and walk around the block and call it a party.
My wonderful aunt and uncle live in a big house down from Washington Park and they have embraced the addition of our RV to their driveway. They were with us for a few days before they took off for a few weeks to Italy so we are house sitting along with my Mom.
Before they left we had a family reunion in the park next to the playground. KFC, pizza, Chex mix, delicious salads and too many desserts. Heaven. Josh and Simon were astounded by the amount of delicious food and the number of second cousins who were their age – even one with red hair.
I imagine most family reunions are like this - where people gather by generation. The elders gather in a circle of lawn chairs talking about their shared memories. The great aunts and uncles that use to share memories of the Great War and life in the 1930’s and 40’s have made way for my mom’s generation talking about the 1950’s and their Capezio flats. My generation is in the bull pen waiting to be called up. What will we talk about? 70’s pop music and bell bottoms?
We have toured the new Lincoln Museum www.presidentlincoln.org (fabulous), visited with my aunt and uncle who live out in the country, ridden our bicycles through never ending corn fields and past old farm houses, visited the Frank Lloyd Wright Dana Thomas House (www.dana-thomas.org) and dreamed about fountains for our new house - where ever that may be, found the Mel-O-Cream donut factory www.mel-o-cream.com, participated in Baskin Robbins Tuesday Family Night specials, started school for the boys (no small feat!) , Josh has made two batches of heath bar crunch cookies from scratch all by himself, and we have spent lazy afternoons with my mom playing Monopoly and hearing her stories of Springfield in the 1950’s.
Today we are off in my uncles Buick for a 1.5 hour drive north to Peoria to check out a planetarium and see the Peoria Chiefs play in the minor league baseball playoff game. Tomorrow New Salem, IL is on the agenda to tour the re-enactment of life on the prairie during Lincoln’s era and for the Bluegrass festival.
Hmmm. Maybe Springfield would be a good place to settle once we are finished with the Big Adventure.
.
Springfield, IL
Mom is moved out of her condo, all her things are in storage, and we made it back to join Evan and the boys here in Springfield, Illinois. Whew.
Where am I?
I never lived in Springfield but I have been coming back here since I was a baby. My mom was born and raised here along with her 2 sisters and her brother. All Springfield High School graduates. My great grandfather and great grandmother lived down on 4th and Allen Street. Maybe you know them – Minnie and Ace? My grandmother, Evelyn Adele Mama and her husband,Poppa Al, lived over on Douglas Street for the last 10 years. Mama Dell died last spring at 97 years old. Now there was a woman who knew how to have a good time. She would put a hat on and walk around the block and call it a party.
My wonderful aunt and uncle live in a big house down from Washington Park and they have embraced the addition of our RV to their driveway. They were with us for a few days before they took off for a few weeks to Italy so we are house sitting along with my Mom.
Before they left we had a family reunion in the park next to the playground. KFC, pizza, Chex mix, delicious salads and too many desserts. Heaven. Josh and Simon were astounded by the amount of delicious food and the number of second cousins who were their age – even one with red hair.
I imagine most family reunions are like this - where people gather by generation. The elders gather in a circle of lawn chairs talking about their shared memories. The great aunts and uncles that use to share memories of the Great War and life in the 1930’s and 40’s have made way for my mom’s generation talking about the 1950’s and their Capezio flats. My generation is in the bull pen waiting to be called up. What will we talk about? 70’s pop music and bell bottoms?
We have toured the new Lincoln Museum www.presidentlincoln.org (fabulous), visited with my aunt and uncle who live out in the country, ridden our bicycles through never ending corn fields and past old farm houses, visited the Frank Lloyd Wright Dana Thomas House (www.dana-thomas.org) and dreamed about fountains for our new house - where ever that may be, found the Mel-O-Cream donut factory www.mel-o-cream.com, participated in Baskin Robbins Tuesday Family Night specials, started school for the boys (no small feat!) , Josh has made two batches of heath bar crunch cookies from scratch all by himself, and we have spent lazy afternoons with my mom playing Monopoly and hearing her stories of Springfield in the 1950’s.
Today we are off in my uncles Buick for a 1.5 hour drive north to Peoria to check out a planetarium and see the Peoria Chiefs play in the minor league baseball playoff game. Tomorrow New Salem, IL is on the agenda to tour the re-enactment of life on the prairie during Lincoln’s era and for the Bluegrass festival.
Hmmm. Maybe Springfield would be a good place to settle once we are finished with the Big Adventure.
.
Friday, 4 September 2009
Small Women and Big Rigs
I love driving the Big Pig. It makes me feel powerful. I am 5’3” - the rig is 30 feet long. When I drive I can kind of hear Evan talking to me from the shotgun seat but certainly not the kid’s conversation at the table behind me. But I can hear the Ipod playing my favorite John Denver, Carole King and James Taylor tunes, and I can hear myself singing along…sounding fabulous I might add. And I can hear and feel the roar of the mighty Ford engine.
I like to pretend I am a truck driver and give a knowing wave to my fellow drivers as I pass. I think I need a hat to be taken more seriously. My 2” pony tail in the back of my head does a number on the serious factor.
I like driving 14,000 pounds of metal because I get immediate respect from all the little tin cans around me. Respect may not be the right word. Fear. They know I can do a lot more damage to them then they could ever possibly do to me. Fear because they think I don’t know what I am doing and I may go out of control and side swipe them. Fear because they don’t know for sure if I can see them cowering in the right turn lane. Those little sissies. Hee hee hee.
All of my senses are awake when I am behind the wheel. They have to be. Whenever a truck passes the sway blows the rig and I need to compensate so we don’t go over on the shoulder.
Is this love of power and heavy machinery a short person thing? If I was use to having people look up at me would I derive as much enjoyment as I do now?
Is this just another issue about respect? Isn’t life all about respect?
This morning I was talking with my incredible 23 year old niece – who also happens to be about my height. She picked me up at 6:40 AM in order to make the 7 AM Sunrise Yoga class she teaches in La Jolla. After our 75 minute session (where I got lots of personal attention to help align my arms into the proper warrior, downward dog and cobra positions) we got our Yoga approved ice coffees and walked along the ocean and talked about lots of things. Including short people and respect.
She is dating a short guy. I married a short guy. I have given birth to a couple of short guys…although the committee is still out given their ages and we are hoping to channel the Uncle Rick gene(*). We decided it is definitely harder to be a short guy than a short woman. Society. It all comes back to society. People have preconceived ideas about short people. And it is harder to be taken seriously. So that leads to a couple of options: A Napoleonic complex and the need to over compensate; and/or play the silly one and make it work for you; ignore the whole thing because it is more about who you are and the more comfortable you are in yourself the less it matters.
My best friend from college, Becky, is up there - 5’ 9” at least. I thought we were the same height. Then one night coming back from a bar in Northfield, MN making the 2 mile walk back up the hill we passed a store front that acted as a mirror. After years of friendship I finally saw it. I didn’t even come up to her shoulder. How could she have respect for someone who didn’t even come up to her shoulder? For me that would be a 9 year old kid.
I am short and I am proud. That’s why I yell so very loud. Alright.
(*) Uncle Rick is my 6’2” brother.
I like to pretend I am a truck driver and give a knowing wave to my fellow drivers as I pass. I think I need a hat to be taken more seriously. My 2” pony tail in the back of my head does a number on the serious factor.
I like driving 14,000 pounds of metal because I get immediate respect from all the little tin cans around me. Respect may not be the right word. Fear. They know I can do a lot more damage to them then they could ever possibly do to me. Fear because they think I don’t know what I am doing and I may go out of control and side swipe them. Fear because they don’t know for sure if I can see them cowering in the right turn lane. Those little sissies. Hee hee hee.
All of my senses are awake when I am behind the wheel. They have to be. Whenever a truck passes the sway blows the rig and I need to compensate so we don’t go over on the shoulder.
Is this love of power and heavy machinery a short person thing? If I was use to having people look up at me would I derive as much enjoyment as I do now?
Is this just another issue about respect? Isn’t life all about respect?
This morning I was talking with my incredible 23 year old niece – who also happens to be about my height. She picked me up at 6:40 AM in order to make the 7 AM Sunrise Yoga class she teaches in La Jolla. After our 75 minute session (where I got lots of personal attention to help align my arms into the proper warrior, downward dog and cobra positions) we got our Yoga approved ice coffees and walked along the ocean and talked about lots of things. Including short people and respect.
She is dating a short guy. I married a short guy. I have given birth to a couple of short guys…although the committee is still out given their ages and we are hoping to channel the Uncle Rick gene(*). We decided it is definitely harder to be a short guy than a short woman. Society. It all comes back to society. People have preconceived ideas about short people. And it is harder to be taken seriously. So that leads to a couple of options: A Napoleonic complex and the need to over compensate; and/or play the silly one and make it work for you; ignore the whole thing because it is more about who you are and the more comfortable you are in yourself the less it matters.
My best friend from college, Becky, is up there - 5’ 9” at least. I thought we were the same height. Then one night coming back from a bar in Northfield, MN making the 2 mile walk back up the hill we passed a store front that acted as a mirror. After years of friendship I finally saw it. I didn’t even come up to her shoulder. How could she have respect for someone who didn’t even come up to her shoulder? For me that would be a 9 year old kid.
I am short and I am proud. That’s why I yell so very loud. Alright.
(*) Uncle Rick is my 6’2” brother.
San Diego, September 1st, 6 AM
I am sitting on the bathroom floor in the hotel room at the Hyatt Hotel. I am sharing a room with my big brother and I don’t want to wake him. He is 51. I am 46. Will I always call him my Big Brother?
It is moving day for Mom. Bekins Moving Company arrives between 8 and 9. We are ready for them. It is a whole different thing helping someone else move as opposed to moving yourself. Not that I have too much trouble filling up the boxes to cart off to Goodwill (or Charity Shops as we say in the UK)….but when it is someone else’s stuff, get out the pitch fork!
The things we found.
She has saved the words to songs I wrote in Thailand for a Farewell Dinner with our Chieng Mai University hosts in 1983.
She saved the medical records from my younger brother’s car crash in Yuma, Arizona in 1985 when he was driving my older brothers work truck, fell asleep behind the wheel and woke up covered in floor wax when he drove off the road.
I found the title to an insurance policy from the first house she bought by herself after she and my dad divorced in 1973.
Poems and cards written to her by children, grandchildren, friends. They were mini time capsules that transport us to another time and dimension.
I am so glad she is sitting next to me and my brother while we do this. To laugh together. To remember together. To keep the choice pieces and throw the rest in the recycle bins together.
Yesterday Mom had a open house from 1 – 3 pm so her friends could come and pick over what she was getting rid of and have a bit of her with them after she moves. I love the comments they made to me on the sly, out of earshot of my mom. “I don’t know what we are going to do without Jo Anne. She is so positive.”; “She is the one who holds us together.”; “She is so much fun and funny.” ; “She is the rock.” ; “She is the one who connects us and keeps us on track and looking forward to new things.”
That is my mom.
I am so proud of my mom. She is so accomplished. So fun and funny. So wise. She is a healer. She is a giver. So intuitive. So able to grasp any situation and find the best pieces. She is calling the retirement community in Scottsdale where she is moving her “camp”. She has lived in San Diego for 34 years but isn’t sad to be leaving. She is looking forward to making new friends and exploring a new place.
What she is sad about is that she isn’t able to help me and my brothers anymore. Maybe not physically because her arthritis is so nasty her hands have turned into claws. But she gives me so many things everyday. Mostly, her outlook.
While she is homeless for the next few months before her new place in Scottsdale is available, I am homeless, by choice, in the RV. We are both being flexible and have put ourselves into new situations and are looking forward to the adventure.
I hope I can channel my mom on my bad days to remind myself of life’s bigger adventure and that every day is a choice on how you approach it. Yes, it sounds sappy, but it works.
It is moving day for Mom. Bekins Moving Company arrives between 8 and 9. We are ready for them. It is a whole different thing helping someone else move as opposed to moving yourself. Not that I have too much trouble filling up the boxes to cart off to Goodwill (or Charity Shops as we say in the UK)….but when it is someone else’s stuff, get out the pitch fork!
The things we found.
She has saved the words to songs I wrote in Thailand for a Farewell Dinner with our Chieng Mai University hosts in 1983.
She saved the medical records from my younger brother’s car crash in Yuma, Arizona in 1985 when he was driving my older brothers work truck, fell asleep behind the wheel and woke up covered in floor wax when he drove off the road.
I found the title to an insurance policy from the first house she bought by herself after she and my dad divorced in 1973.
Poems and cards written to her by children, grandchildren, friends. They were mini time capsules that transport us to another time and dimension.
I am so glad she is sitting next to me and my brother while we do this. To laugh together. To remember together. To keep the choice pieces and throw the rest in the recycle bins together.
Yesterday Mom had a open house from 1 – 3 pm so her friends could come and pick over what she was getting rid of and have a bit of her with them after she moves. I love the comments they made to me on the sly, out of earshot of my mom. “I don’t know what we are going to do without Jo Anne. She is so positive.”; “She is the one who holds us together.”; “She is so much fun and funny.” ; “She is the rock.” ; “She is the one who connects us and keeps us on track and looking forward to new things.”
That is my mom.
I am so proud of my mom. She is so accomplished. So fun and funny. So wise. She is a healer. She is a giver. So intuitive. So able to grasp any situation and find the best pieces. She is calling the retirement community in Scottsdale where she is moving her “camp”. She has lived in San Diego for 34 years but isn’t sad to be leaving. She is looking forward to making new friends and exploring a new place.
What she is sad about is that she isn’t able to help me and my brothers anymore. Maybe not physically because her arthritis is so nasty her hands have turned into claws. But she gives me so many things everyday. Mostly, her outlook.
While she is homeless for the next few months before her new place in Scottsdale is available, I am homeless, by choice, in the RV. We are both being flexible and have put ourselves into new situations and are looking forward to the adventure.
I hope I can channel my mom on my bad days to remind myself of life’s bigger adventure and that every day is a choice on how you approach it. Yes, it sounds sappy, but it works.
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