Family adventure year - Wendy

Declaring Victory and Going Home

2010-03-15T10:45:00.002-04:00

Any good political organizer knows the importance of finding campaigns that are doable and winnable. And then there are times when you just look around for an easy win in order to give some credibility to the cause and to galvanize the troops to boost their confidence. And then there were times when you just throw in the towel, declare it a win, and go out for a beer.

After 7 months and 27,000 miles, 37 states and 2,854 gallons of gas we have decided it is time to put the Big Pig out to pasture and start planning the Victory Party. What a long, strange, wonderful, introspective, eye opening trip it has been. In these past 7 months we have slept in 33 RV Parks, 5 Wal-Mart parking lots, 22 friend’s and family’s homes, 17 hotels and 2 trains…but never at the wheel.

Back in June we were thinking we would get through the entire school year but the kids were longing to be with other kids, I was longing to be with a larger community that talks more, and Evan was longing to be with people who weren’t whining. Although Evan would much prefer to be attending Spring training in Florida and teaching math through baseball statistics than digging through our storage facility looking for computer cables so he can connect up the technology to start the job search, even he is appreciating the normalcy of living in a house that doesn’t move.

Last week we signed a 6 month lease on a 3 bedroom flat in Brookline, MA. Brookline is known throughout the state for its excellent public schools. Given our long history in Boston and numerous friends on the ground with open arms, it has been a soft landing. The kids have completed a day and a half of school and initial indications are that Headmasters Penelope Snodgrass and Reginald Higgenbothem from RV Elementary have kept them up to speed!

In the words of Simon, “Mom, our 3 bedroom apartment feels like a mansion. Our old house in London must have been a palace.” It is all about perspective. Spend 7 months in an RV and anyplace is a step up.

I have been amazed at how quickly you can put a life back together. Kind of like a blow up bed. Pull it out of the box, add some hot air and next thing you know you are sleeping comfortably. It is wild to think a mere month ago we were flying back from Hawaii and here we are getting ready for the 6th grade dance and looking at the merits of gerbils vs. hamsters for a pet.

Where is the Big Pig? Comfortably parked on our friend’s horse farm in Carlisle, MA. The same horse farm where we were married 14 years ago. We will be cleaning it up to sell in the next couple of weeks. Needless to say, if anyone is interested in having their own adventure – please be in touch for a test drive!

Over the next couple of months we are both hoping to land meaningful employment in the Boston area, and then buying a house and staying put…for awhile. As our fellow travelers can attest - once a traveler, always a traveler.

We will keep the web site up and posting blogs about our reentry, stream of consciousness writing, poems, jokes, and who knows – information about our next adventure.

Thank you all for your interest in our family’s odyssey and support along the way!

Yours in Everlasting Adventure,

Wendy

Our Own Personal Billgramage

2010-02-26T00:08:00.002-05:00

Arkansas is a place you can forget about for months (or even years) and then a whole bunch of references to Arkansas can pop up in an afternoon. For example, in discussing weird laws you might note that it is illegal to keep an alligator in your bath tub in Arkansas, but it is perfectly legal to gather road kill and eat it. As most Southerners note when you receive an invitation with an RSVP it stands for – Roasted Squirrel Very Possible. There are also a bundle of musical references when it comes to Arkansas. Just think about the great fiddle song Arkansas Traveler or, more relevantly, Kris Allen, the American Idol’s 8th season winner who is from Conway. Then, of course, there is Johnny “The Man in Black” Cash who was born in Kingsland, and Billy Bob Thornton from Hot Springs. Who knew?

Our Arkansas adventure began when we woke up in Sulphur Springs, Texas in the Highcrest RV Park. Our only agenda item was to make it to Hot Springs, Arkansas that day before the National Park closed at 4 PM. Not a far drive. We had some time. We were cruising along Route 30, crossed over the boarder into Arkansas and then there was the exit marked “Hope”. Say it with me, “I still believe in a place called Hope.” (WJC, 1992 Democratic National Convention, NYC)

We were just passing through Arkansas. We didn’t mean to have a religious experience. But I suppose most people who have religious experience never really plan them. “Hello God? I would like to book a transformative experience next Tuesday at 2:30 pm.” But since The Holy Bible is the Official State Book of Arkansas, should I be surprised?

William Jefferson Clinton put the state on the map and, as we told our kids, if Clinton hadn’t won the election, Evan and I might never have been married. And if we had never married, well…they just might want to put down their books and iPods and pay attention as we made our own personal Billgrimage.

Similar to Bill Clinton, Evan and I have our own assorted past. We first met courtesy of the Dukakis/Bentsen Presidential Campaign in 1988 (we came in second) but it was the Clinton Inaugural that cinched the deal. Don’t most couples think of their relationships in terms of Presidential Administrations and campaign cycles? Try it. Every four years take a look at your relationship, give things a shake down, re-elect the good parts, re-place the ugly and re-build on a stronger foundation. Getting married in 1995, our marriage has been our own personal bridge to the 21st Century.

I had nothing to do with the Clinton/Gore1992 winning campaign. November of 1992 I listened to the election results on a radio in a tea shop on Freak Street in Kathmandu, Nepal. Evan, however, was there. Evan had been volunteer extraordinaire for the campaign spending weekends doing wild things organizing rallies and parts of the famous bus trips and spending the final week in Little Rock helping coordinate election day operations for their boiler room.

Given his fabulous organizational and tactical skills once the campaign was over, he was asked by the Presidential Inaugural Committee to head up the Opening Ceremonies at the Lincoln Memorial. Evan took a 3 month sabbatical from his job at McKinsey and Company in NYC to move to DC for the wild ride. In January 1993 Evan hired me, freshly back from Nepal, to head up the 3000 volunteers. Talk about having Hope.

Fast forward to 2010, on I-30 in the Big Pig. We get off in Hope, AR. We find Clinton’s boyhood home. I am behind the wheel and I over-shoot the house. I slam on the breaks, Divine intervention. The traffic stops. I pull a U Turn in the midst of traffic -- hopeful I could do a three point turn in the midst of honking cars. I held up traffic for a good 5 minutes as I slowly drive by the boyhood home of the 42nd President of the United States while Evan snaps pictures. We sigh. It is a fine house -- compared to our RV it is a mansion!

We continue down the street and stop at the Super1Foods in Hope for milk and fresh produce. A bit of Manna from Hope. Evan does the shopping and the boys and I take a walk. Wow. Not a lot of hope in Hope. This is a sad town and the boys and I inadvertently found the saddest part. Walking behind the grocery store we cross over the train tracks, past the abandoned houses and into a neighborhood that looks so forgotten even the residents don’t know where they are. After 20 minutes we make our way back to the RV feeling more hopeless then hopeful.

Back on the road, we make it to Hot Springs for the night and on the next day (Sunday) we head over to Little Rock to the William J Clinton Presidential Library and Museum. Over the past 7 months we have been to Abraham Lincoln’s home and museum in Springfield, IL, Dwight Eisenhower’s boyhood home and museum in Abilene Kansas, and Lyndon Johnson’s home in Johnson City, Texas. All those places were about history. The Clinton Library was about our own memories, some shared, some separate.

There were photos of the fireworks display that Evan signed the contract with the Gucci Brothers for, video clips from the concert Evan organized, the daily schedule from July 12, 1994 when Evan and I were part of the advance team at the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin, T-shirts just like the three I have in our storage facility from AmeriCorps.

Our own Billgrimage reminded me of the incredible Hope we had in 1992 and the excitement I felt for our country. It helped to reenergize me and remind me how one person can make a difference. Yes, the 1990’s was full of naïveté and decadence but there was energy and tingles too. I think about tomorrow (I still don’t want to stop) and where our shared nation is headed and I want to be a part of it and to help raise the standard of expectations – starting with myself. I am hearing Michael Jackson singing Man in the Mirror. I am pledging myself anew.

I am an FOB, and I am proud. That is why I yell, so very loud. Alright.

Small Pleasures

2010-02-25T23:32:00.001-05:00

When you don’t have much space, everything is small. Even your pleasures.

This adventure has taught me to notice things again. When you live your life fast and have too much, you forget to see. Or maybe you don’t have the time to see.

I still remember the very first pedicure I got when I was 34 years old and very pregnant and couldn’t see my feet, let alone touch them. That pedicure was heaven. Every pedicure since has been a let down because it wasn’t as needed.

Some of the small pleasures I have let myself indulge in on the trip are:

Enjoying the lavender shampoo I bought in Hawaii. I bought the conditioner too. It felt decadent. It reminds me of Corringham Road in London and teaching Simon how to pull off the flowers, rub then between your hands and smell. Heaven. Finding the lavender farm where I bought the shampoo was unexpected and beautiful on the hills of Haleakula on the island of Maui.

Taking an extra couple of minutes in the shower at the Elvis Presley Boulevard RV Park shower room to sit in the plastic green chair and use a pumice stone.

Not waking the kids for 5 minutes so I can sit at the table and write a little bit with a cup of coffee. Coffee – it is all about the ritual. Even on the road. We have a fancy espresso maker. It feels decadent to live in an RV with a $300 coffee maker.

Closing the door to the bathroom.

Walking slowly.

Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror – really looking.

Tucking in my 8 year old baby even though he doesn’t need it. Singing him songs even though he doesn’t ask for them anymore.

Sorting through my small jewelry zipper bag of earrings and necklaces I brought with us and remembering the stories of where they all came from.

Making phone calls to friends.

Lying in the back of the RV and being joined by Josh and having him comment on my aging face, Evan, the world, what he wants to be and how exciting it is to be 12 years old and to have the whole world in front of you.

Sorting emails by name and thinking about my friends and how lucky I am.

Re-reading emails I wrote ten years ago. Laughing at my problems that today are barely memories.

Perspective.

Pieces of the Puzzle

2010-02-25T23:02:00.002-05:00

Simon had a dream the other night about a puzzle. Each of us was a different piece of the puzzle. 5 pieces in total. The RV had a piece as well. In his dream the puzzle was breaking apart. Simon’s interpretation was that we are all together now but when we finally land in a proper house we will all break apart because we will get too busy in our own individual lives to be together.

Josh thought it meant that it was the RV trip itself that is breaking us apart because we are together too much, don’t have our own lives, and are driving each other nuts.

When Evan and I discussed it later – out of ear shot of Simon - Evan saw the dream as a fear Simon has of reintegrating into society and that Simon sees we have become closer as a family and likes us all be near him and available.

I thought it meant he had eaten too close to bedtime.

The dream was a catalyst for a bigger conversation about the trip and if it has brought us closer together or further apart.

The trip has taught us how to play together, trust each other and how to disagree.

It has taught us that families are made up of individuals and individuals will disagree. But we are a family and we aren’t going any where so we need to learn how to disagree in a way that isn’t hurtful or disrespectful.

It has taught us that we are a family that loves to play board games, have parties, read books, watch the Walton’s, swim at water parks, likes stupid jokes, love and respect our national parks, support our public libraries, visit friends and family, turn the water off when we brush your teeth, and play Farkle.

We are a family that doesn’t like puzzles.

RV'ers in Paradise

2010-02-05T14:50:00.003-05:00

We made it to Hawaii. I know the locals spell it Hawai’i but I find it a bit embarrassing spelling it that way, let alone pronouncing it with a V for the W and a hiccup at the end. Like Americans who speak with fake British accents in London, do they think they are getting away with it? Here is a secret: Brits find Dick Van Dyke’s British accent in Mary Poppins a complete laugh. Posers.

Back in September, when I was freaking out about the ominous trip in front of us, I never really thought we would make it to Hawaii. I thought I would be committed long before then. But here we are, RV’ers in paradise. (Please sing this to the tune of Jimmy Buffet’s, “Cheese Burger in Paradise/Heaven on earth with an onion slice…” but substitute “heaven on earth with a room that’s nice” for the onion bit since I neither like onions nor the size of our RV bedroom)

The Big Pig is taking a vacation in Tempe, AZ parked in the lot of the Days Inn. While I thought there might be a magic button (a la Ms. Frizzle of The Magic School Bus fame) that would transform the Winnebago Itasca Impulse into a flying contraption – or at least a 29 foot raft – the secret button turned out to be a cross-over switch you push in case you run down the engine battery and need to jump it off the house battery. (Note: I actually know what that means)

So here we are in Punalu’u – actually Nehelu’u - on the Big Island of Hawaii. this truly is a paradise. And as if it needs underlining - Simon found a coconut and we spent a good four hours as a family figuring out how to open it up. Kudos to Josh who finally smashed the bugger with a well placed lava rock. A lava rock. Doesn't everyone have one hanging around on their lanai?

What I am wearing: My favorite Laura Ashley summer nightgown with the blue and green flowers my Mom got me a few years ago. 100% soft brushed cotton. Modestly (but not particularly stylishly) covered up with a light weight pink bathrobe I picked up in Holland this past spring. I have worn the bathrobe only three times in the past seven months. I finally feel justified that I brought it because I am wearing it. And my Wal*Mart (God forbid I don’t mention Wal*Mart in a blog) reading glasses.

Where I am sitting: On our lanai. You know you are in an exotic locale when people use the word lanai like it was a normal word. If you call your patio a lanai I think you get a better resale value, or the moniker of pretentious. But it is ok to call a lanai a lanai when you are close to the equator.

We have a 1 bedroom condo on a golf course right next to the only black sand beach on the island of Hawaii. There is a little framed tile hanging on the outside of the lanai next to the sliding glass door that reads, “Mahalo for removing your slippers”. Mahalo is the Hawaiian word for thank you. Slippers are the accepted word for flip flops. Flip flops are the Shoe Wear Formerly Known as Thongs. But now Thongs have an entirely new meaning.

People say the word “Mahalo” a lot to tourists in Waikiki on the Island of Oahu where 80% of the population lives, and most of the tourists visit. I think they are trying to make you feel like you are in the know because you are using a non-English word. They are letting you in on a secret.

But I have noticed now that we are on the Island of Hawaii that nobody but white people use the word.

What I am drinking: Vanilla macadamia nut coffee out of a coffee cup with the picture of a hibiscus on it.

What I am looking at: Coconut trees, palm trees, bougainvilleas shaped into bushes that separate our little yard from the gold course. The Pacific Ocean is beyond that and the sun keeps popping out from behind the clouds as I type.

What I hear: So many trilling birds that I don’t know the name of. Red capped sparrows, bright yellow/green parakeets, small mourning doves. And the crashing of the waves.

Where are the boys: Asleep.

What I am thinking: Why the hell can’t I relax? Why can’t I be one of those people who smiles when they talk and is content to savor the smell of the coffee and the warmth of the sun on her face. Sun on my face! Oh God! I haven’t put on sunscreen yet. Skin cancer here I come.

Simon has a cold. Should we really go snorkeling when he has a cold? Kayak out to Captain Cook’s Monument – a mile long kayak? Sun stroke. Sharks. Mean waves. We will flip over and be trapped underneath and drown.

I stayed up until 1 AM finishing the book Day after Night by Anita Diamant, the author of The Red Tent. Yes, another WWII historical fiction book about women and their plights that I tend to be drawn towards. Then I tossed and turned for another hour wondering why is it I am so drawn to books about WWII. Is it because I married a Jew and I want to feel closer to the tribe? Because I have had such an incredible life and I feel guilty that anyone should have such luck and this is the least I can do?

Now I am back to the Do It Yourself Lobotomy Kit idea. If I just had a small lobotomy I could turn off the constant chatter…oh never mind. I am in Hawai’i. Embrace it already. It is a beautiful day. The four of us are together and we are healthy and our biggest decision is do we teach school for a couple of hours before or after we go kayaking.

If I ever have a tile made to hang up on my lanai I want it to read: “It is better to have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.”

Mahalo for reading this.

Here I am blogging from the lanai:

The Wal*Mart Beauty Salon: A Hairy Experience or Just a Good Deal?

2010-01-30T14:10:00.002-05:00

I love oxy morons. Jumbo shrimp. Plastic silverware. Just wars. Butthead. Clogged drain. And who would have thought I would have another to add before we started the RV trip – let alone an oxy moron I could actually walk in to. Yes ladies and gentlemen, I am talking about the Wal*Mart Beauty Salon.

But first, we need to talk about hair. Let’s be real. Does anyone like their hair? Too thin, too thick, too straight, too curly, wrong color. Very few people I have met will honestly say, “Yes, I like my hair.” Certainly not me. While other girls would brush their hair for hours, I never had enough mass to keep me busy for more than a minute or two. While other girls would take a hair band and wrap it around their pony tails twice, mine would go around my thin little strands 4 times and then still fall out. Every hairdresser since I was 12 (when I first started going to hair dressers – prior to that it was a bangs cut and trim in the kitchen) acts like they are giving me new, vital, secret information by letting me know in a hushed voice, “honey, you have thin hair.” Well, at least there is one thing thin on my body.

I remember my father making a comment to me somewhere in my early teens about my hair and then making the jump to his mother…old cue ball. More fodder for future nightmares: Bald by the age of 20. Luckily, I really don’t care. And as a person who is not particularly fussy about her outward appearance and has trouble passing up a swimming opportunity, having my thin hair is, in some ways, a blessing. My hair dries really fast.

Every once in a while Evan and I have little conversations about how lucky the other one is because they married someone who comes with some obscure special skill that they didn’t realize before the vows were taken. Evan, for example, is The Coupon Guru. When ever we arrive in a new place, which is quite often in the past 7 months, he is going through the free newspapers and circulars that are at the front of the local grocery stores that everyone else walks right by. He finds all sorts of 2 for 1 restaurant deals, internet deals, and special deals for families living in RVs with red headed boys, bald husbands and thin haired wives. My added bonus that I brought to the marriage is that I don’t spend money on my looks. “Just think how much money we have saved over the past 14 years because I am low maintenance in the beauty department!”

Since we have been homeless I have had my hair cut twice. Once in Dillon, Montana in late October for $24 by a nice chatty hairdresser named Cheryl who told me way too much information about her relationship with her husband and a second time last week in Scottsdale, AZ.

We were visiting my Mom who is a new arrival to the area and has yet to find a hairdresser she likes. Mom and I had a couple of hours to kill and Mom, as only a mother can, let it be known in her most gentlest of ways, that it was time for me to get my hair cut. Yes, my 76 year old mother still mothers her 47 year old baby. I guess it never ends.

So there we were. Driving the strip malls of the Happy Valley – just north of North Scottsdale and coming up empty on the Beauty Salon front. I spy a Sally’s Beauty Supply shop which I figure might be a good place to do some reconnaissance / information gathering -- get some reliable information from people in the know. I pull up and leave the car running and jump out. There is a long line at the cash register of relatively coiffed women who I figure are locals. I decide to treat the long line of women as if they have gathered there just for me and put out the general question: “Excuse me women, I am new to the Scottsdale and looking for a place to get my hair cut, does anyone have any suggestions in the area?” A woman with jet black hair and many boxes of hair products in her basket takes the bait and says, “There is Roxy’s across at the mall or Wal*Mart next door. Roxy’s is pretty pricey and you need an appointment.”

Back in the car I lay out the options to Mom. No choice. We pull into Wal*Mart. Now, I have used Wal*Mart on and off for a lot of things over the past 7 months on the road trip. I have slept in their parking lots in Kansas, Wyoming, South Dakota and North Dakota. I have eaten their food, worn their clothes, decorated the interior of the RV for Christmas all with Wal*Mart products. And now I am about to go under the Wal*Mart knife…um, scissors. A new form of Wal*Mart Baptism. Is the next step to go to the Wal*Mart Tattoo Parlor and have their logo put upon my inner arm? Or perhaps go to City Hall and change my name to Wendy Wal*Mart? When does it end? I am thinking of the red and white barber pole in front of the barber shop at the Golder’s Green Tube station where the boys and Evan would make their pilgrimage every 6 weeks or so and how the red and white stripes represents the bloodletting that was the primary function of past barbers – the local surgeons. The white stripe was the white bandage used before the bloodletting and the red stripe for the bandage used after the bloodletting.

We enter the beauty salon portion of Wal*Mart. Yes, there are two beauticians available right now. Right next to each other. We are lucky, the woman at the front lets us know. On Saturday at 12 noon there is usually a line out the door. Mom’s beautician is male, has a wild black Mohawk and stinks of cigarettes. My beautician is a chatty Korean woman and our conversation is mostly about kimchi and how you either love it or hate it.

We emerge 30 minutes later with matching hair do’s for $17.95 a piece for a wash, cut and blow dry. The experience, like my thin hair, is less hairier then expected.

Tornados, RV parks and the City of New Orleans

2010-01-22T10:16:00.002-05:00

We are in Scottsdale, Arizona visiting my Mom who has recently moved here after 30 years in San Diego. She moved here because San Diego wasn’t hot enough for her and when you have arthritis, deep penetrating desert warmth is what you would sell your best milking cow - or your condo in San Diego - for.

(“Your best milking cow…” Where did that farm analogy come from? Clearly I have been spending a little too much time in rural areas and watching re-runs of The Walton’s.)

It has been uncharacteristically cold and rainy since we arrived in Scottsdale and tonight there is a severe weather warning with the chance of tornados. I have a new relationship with tornados now that we don’t have a root cellar to climb down into from the RV. And - let’s call it like it is – tornados have homing devices for RV’s and trailer parks. Growing up in Minnesota I am all too familiar with the sirens that ring out signaling a tornado warning and the importance of getting into the basement ASAP. When I was a kid I would consol myself knowing that we would be safe because we were in the basement and besides, the tornados would go for the trailer parks and who cared about those people anyway? I didn’t even know anyone who lived in a trailer park. Needless to say, I have a different view of the situation now.

At 10 pm tonight the tornado warning was down graded to mere Flash Floods so we felt comfortable hitting the road and packed up the three bags of clean laundry we had done at Mom’s place, along with the 14 new books we checked out from her local public library called, exotically, The Arabian Branch. We bundled Simon up in his spaceman pajamas, loaded Josh down with bags, and headed out in Mom’s car to the cheap hotel we are staying at a 20 minute drive down the freeway. We aren’t staying at an RV park because, according to Steve at the OK Corral RV Park, “We booked up months ago cause of the car show.” I was kind of waiting for him to add, “Asshole” to the end of that sentence or at least, “duh.” Like I was supposed to know about The Car Show? My question is, “What are RV drivers doing at a CAR show? Traitors.”

So here we are – 10:30 pm on a Thursday night at the Bell Motel located next to the Self Storage facility along side Highway 17 in a torrential rain storm. Mom's car is parked alongs side the Big Pig. As we walked in our room the carpet was all squishy from the rain seeping in under the door.

Simon is having trouble falling asleep because he is scared of tornados, Josh is hiding under the covers playing on his I Touch, Evan just disappeared to the hotel office in search of the free popcorn. We have been moving around so much these past 3 weeks since we left Santa Monica (Anaheim, Big Bear, Joshua Tree, Kingman, Las Vegas, Grand Canyon) I am feeling like a micro waved bag of popcorn after about two and a half minutes on high – we have been bopping around so much.

Simon has just crawled into bed with me bringing with him his three stuffed animals. A bear, a panda and a turtle. These are the mainstays. The beds change, the cities change but he still has his spaceman pajamas, his stuffed animals, and the song I sing. His song. City of New Orleans by Steve Goodman. I have sung this song to him - yes, all three verses - most every night since he was 2. He is now 8. 6 years x 365 days = 2190 times singing City of New Orleans.

I normally don’t hear the words I sing anymore. Tonight I did. Appropriately, a song about travel. 926 miles worth of travel from Chicago to New Orleans. “Mama’s with their babes asleep rocking to the gentle beat…and the rhythm of the rails is all they feel.” I suppose after 7 months on the road we do have a rhythm. Sometimes it is the tapping of the keys on the computer, sometimes it is the packing and repacking, but mostly it is the constant movement. Simon is now asleep lying against me as I type. His steady breathing is a comfort to me just as my singing the same song to him each night nomatter where we are is to him.

“Goodnight America, how are ya? Don’t ya know me; I’m your native son. I’m a train they call The City of New Orleans. I’ll have gone five hundred miles before the days done. ”

A Time Share in Vegas Anyone?

2010-01-17T11:43:00.001-05:00

Sometimes your time is worth a lot. Sometimes your time is worth diddly. While we have known the former, the later is definitely where we are now. And it was obvious here in Vegas.

We are staying in Vegas because we got a great deal on a room at the Excalibur Hotel. You know, the Knight-themed hotel next to the more luxurious Luxor and Mandalay Bay? 23 bucks a night. Half the cost of an RV park and we will more than double our hang out space, plus a full size bathroom. How could anyone say no? We are here for three nights in between Joshua Tree National Park and the Grand Canyon. We have been to over 15 national parks and monuments, 23 states, lots of friends and family – it is time to show the kids the seedy underbelly of America.

Right now I am questioning our thinking on that one.

So far we have introduced them to the gambling culture, smoke-filled casino floors, Breakfast of Champions Las Vegas-style (when the man walked past us at 7:30 am with a beer in both hands), one-armed bandits, video arcades, cheap buffets, The Mob, and sexism in a variety of ways from female escort services to scantily dressed women. If you haven’t been to Vegas lately, the strip (for those who decide to walk) is chock-a-block with groups of what appear to be newly arrived immigrants from south of the border, dressed in neon yellow shirts and matching hats all emblazoned with the same motto: Girls to your door in 20 minutes. They also hand out the matching business cards with the number to call.

In the 13 years since Evan and I had last been here, the free Pirate Show in front of Treasure Island has gone from being very Disney-esque to pole dancing, g-string wearing pirates. Thirteen years ago there was a battle between the British man o’ war and the pirate ship. Now it’s the ship of Sirens (the aforementioned scantily clad women) vs. the Pirates. To add misogynistic insult to injury, when the pirates decide to fire their canons at the Sirens (how else could the shows directors showcase all the pyrotechnic power designed for the original show), the pirates decide to bring the Sirens to submission by “attacking their closets, where it will hurt the most”. I apologized to Josh for taking him to this x-rated show. In a good natured way he replied, “This will be a good story to tell my friends -- Then there was the time my parents took me to see naked ladies in Vegas…”

Back to the story….

Evan drops the kids and me in front of the Excalibur so we can go check-in while he deals with parking the Big Pig in the back parking lot. We walk in the front doors, Josh and I with a rolling bag each and computers in our back packs, Simon is carrying two bags one filled with toiletries and the other with the mandatory stuffed animals. In order to check-in you need to take the long stinky walk through the casino. The coolest part about the Excalibur is the outside because you can pretend it is a castle. Inside it is a smoke-filled, darkly-lit, loud casino filled with sad, overweight people from all over the world blankly looking at electronic gambling machines as they keep pouring their quarters in, in hopes of what? Capturing the American dream, perhaps.

We make our way along the beer-stained carpet following the overhead signs to Registration. Before we make it there we are stopped by a smiling woman who asks how long we are here for and are we planning on seeing a show. Not for $70 a person we aren’t. Well, what about for $50 for the 4 of you to see The Tournament of Kings (produced by Peter Jackson, the New Zealander who also did Lord of the Rings)? Now you are talking. What is the catch? A TIME SHARE PRESENTATION!

Take me back…Minneapolis 1984. My first job out of college, well, actually my second. My first job was doing exterior painting for Low Cost Student Painters until a wind storm on a third floor ladder and I had a mishap with a bucket of stain. Second job – I called people out of the phone book for Quadna Mountain Vacation Resort in beautiful Hill City, Minnesota. “Mrs. Svensgaard? You the winner of a 5 piece set of luggage. All you have to do is go to a presentation for Quadna Mountain and the luggage is all yours. Free of charge!” I would say in my cheeriest voice. The fact it was called Quadna MOUNTAIN in one of the flattest states in the union should have been a warning.

Las Vegas 2010. Time share have changed a little in the ensuing 26 years. No longer are perky 23 year-olds calling people out of the phone book from basements for $5 an hour. They are now accosting families as they walk into Vegas hotels and offering cheap show tickets. The Grandview is a huge time share multiplex about 2 miles past the end of the strip. All we needed to do was attend the two- to three-hour presentation and fork over $50 cash now and the tickets would be ours. Dinner and theater for $12.50 each. The catch is both Evan and I have to attend. 6 hours of our combined time. In the old days when we use to think in billable hours, that time was worth a lot. Now we see our time as an opportunity to save money. We sign up.

We meet the bus at 9:30. We meet our assigned sales man Rodney at 10:15 am. The pitch starts. Wow. He is good. He tells us his story of growing up with a young single mother and his worst day of school every year was the first day when all the kids would stand up and talk about where they went on their summer vacations. Who knew so many kids from Hot Springs, Arkansas had Hawaiian vacations or went to Disneyland? But not Rodney and his sister. They got to know their backyard inside and out. Selling timeshares appears to be about appealing to people’s need to ensure that they never have bad vacations again (and make their kids love them for it). Bottom line: a two week time share in Vegas for $39,999. No thanks.

Then we met Rick, his manager He went through the numbers with us (and offered us some better deals). Bottom line: Rick started at $30,000 for two weeks (but not Christmas or New Years when they claim a lot of people want to be in Vegas) of time share with 4 bonus weeks thrown in. Rick ends at $15,000 for one week. No thanks, we are here for the tickets.

Then we are sent to the Gift Desk (for our tickets) and met with Robin. She is from Hawaii and gave us some tips for when we are there in a few weeks. She wasn’t really the Ticket Woman. She tried for a third time to sell to us. Bottom line: Every third year for $600. No thanks; Tickets please.

Then we met with Dora. She gave us the tickets.

Back to the hotel room by 1 pm with tickets in hand.

The show was great. The boys wanted us to sit through another presentation to see it again the following night.

No thanks. Some things you just won’t do. Even for your kids.

Profound observations of the absurdly obvious…

2010-01-12T10:36:00.003-05:00

...or is it absurd observations for the profoundly obvious? From time to time a light bulb will go off in my head and a truism will hit me hard. I have been having these profound/absurd observations since my early 20’s and they go like this:

Inherited wealth. This means someone in your family bequeaths you money. This implies someone from your family has money. Usually old money. I will never come from inherited wealth.

The Olympics. Every four years (yes, I know the winter Olympics comes in the off years, but it just isn’t the same as the Summer Olympics…) I drag this one out. I will never be in the Olympics. Why this surprises me every four years I have no idea. It is not like I have ever been a competitive athlete, but nevertheless I am surprised. Curling. Perhaps curling is in my future.

Travelling. When I was 20 years old I attended Chiang Mai University and lived with a Thai Buddhist family. I had two weeks off from school and decided to fly to Nepal. My family thought I was insane. “Why would you go to Nepal, we have everything you need in Chiang Mai,” they said. It dawned on me, I was the adventurer. They had never been to Bangkok. By having me live with them, I was their adventure.

Uhuru. For our honeymoon Evan and I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro. It was the most unromantic honeymoon you can imagine filled with altitude sickness and shared smelly bunkrooms, but an adventure I wouldn’t trade. I was lying on a thin cot in Kibo Hut pretending to sleep in anticipation of getting up at midnight for the final assent in order to see the first rays of sun as they hit the continent. I was a little delirious but then it came to me. Uhuru is the Swahili word for Freedom. It is also the name of the tallest peak of Kilimanjaro. And then there is Lieutenant Uhuru, the black woman on the original Star Trek! Who incidentally was half of the first inter-racial kiss on television. The other half of course being Captain Kirk.

Cashmere and Kashmir. Beautiful cashmere scarves come from Kashmir India. Or do they?

If you tell people something, they will know it. If you don’t tell someone something, they won’t. And the lesson: You don’t have to tell everybody everything.

And today…Las Vegas is in the middle of a desert. The Mohave desert. There is no water in the Mohave Desert. Las Vegas is unsustainable and will eventually dry up and flake away.

Look What's Hangin' In the RV

2010-01-12T10:33:00.000-05:00

Wall space is limited. Knobs act as picture hooks. Choices continually need to be made about what stays and what goes. Christmas was a tricky one -- we ended up mailing a big box of lovely, but non-essential, gifts we received to my in-laws to hold for us until we have a more permanent domicile.

But we couldn’t say goodbye to Simon’s 298-piece Thornitus V9. For those of you not in the know, a Thornitus V9 is a Bionicle. If that doesn’t help, Bionicles are made by Lego and are interlocking pieces of molded plastic that when put together (after the 43 steps) make any assortment of absolutely frightening robots, usually graced with axes, swords, javelins, shields, and bows. For a family that bans guns (real or pretend) for some reason we have pardoned hand-to-hand combat weapons. Their names are as frightening as their piercing eyes and absurd number of plastic parts – Makuta, The Dark Hunters, and Scopio XV1. The Thornitus V9 made the cut and it is now in the plastic crate under the couch of the RV.

And then there are our walls. Whatever space Evan and I have shared, from our first apartment together in Cambridge, MA to the three homes we have owned in Massachusetts, Georgia and London, and the countless rentals in between, we have put up art work almost immediately. Even here in our rolling home we have things hanging from the knobs and taped onto the walls. They remind us of friends and family and help make our little house a bit more like a home.

Now presenting: The RV Collection. I like to think of these objects as amulets that are helping us on our journey.

Hanging from a knob in the kitchen is a white felt Guardian Angel made by Anna. This is our Safety and Good Parking Spaces Amulet. Anna and I met back in London at Clown School. Clowns was the name of the nursery and our 3-year olds were in the same class. No, they did not teach the children proper techniques for landing should they find themselves being shot out of a cannon – it was just a regular old North London nursery with a funny name. Anna and I would cross paths twice a day for drop-off and pick-up. Being new to the London Preschool Scene I had no idea I wasn’t suppose to talk to anyone. And Anna, a wonderful, chatty, brilliant, radiant woman from Brazil didn’t either, and so started a friendship that went beyond our sons. She joined our book group and even after their big move out of London and up to Kings Langley she still made it down once a month for our Book Group/Pub Crawls where we discussed just about anything under the sun and sometimes the book.

Anna has not only ground flour to make her own bread, she has made the bricks to build the oven she has cooked the bread in. Yes, she made the felt that she sewed into the angel. When I am whining that I have dirt under my fingernails from three states ago, I think of Anna and how I bet she would think that is cool.

In the cockpit hanging from the rear view mirror is the Obama Rama Odor Eater presented to us by Mary. This is our Good Smells Amulet that ensures burnt dinners, rotting pieces of lost cheese, and other unmentionable smells that come from sharing small spaces with 3 members of the male sex are quickly eradicated. Mary was my former neighbor and friend in London. A fellow ex-patriot our kids went to the same school and we worked together as rebel rousers shaking things up in the school and on our street. During the 2008 elections she, I and a number of other women ping-ponged so many emails – way too many, but all too funny not to pass on, about Sarah – we experienced withdrawal once the election was over. Whenever I look in the rearview mirror as I am backing up my 14,000 pound home on wheels I think about Mary, Obama and how I may have taken this whole “Yes We Can” manifesto a little too personally.

On the knob of the cupboard holding Josh’s clothes, directly above the couch, are wind chimes given to Josh by his cousin Dow who currently lives in Manila. I think of this semi-melodious light tinkling as our Spirituality Good Omen. I heard them as we were driving through the LA traffic along the 405, on the wild turns through the Grand Tetons, and they were chiming out of control today as we hit the dirt roads in Joshua Tree National Park. While they were a gift to Josh for his birthday they are a reminder to me of my brother and sister-in-law -- Dow’s parents -- who met when they were in the Peace Corps in Mali, West Africa. Throughout their life together they have lived in San Francisco, Hong Kong, Portland OR, Washington DC, Niger, London and now Manila. They make Evan and I look like amateurs at this moving thing. They may look like wanderers on the outside, but they are the most together and grounded couple/family I know and hearing the lovely lilt reminds me to take a breath.

And then there is the Tangerine rind mobile from my lovely niece Amy that hangs from an electrical knob in our tiny bedroom in the back of the RV. I think of this as our Whimsical Amulet. She made it for us for Christmas knowing we had limited space. She is a fabulous artist (as well as a yoga instructor and graduate student). She tore the tangerine peels to look like flowers and sewed them with fishing wire interspersed with clear crystal cut beads on to a piece of wood covered with twine. Amy is the kind of woman that questions the world and enjoys the process of finding the answers. She reminds me to look at things with an eye towards possibilities. Why not drive the extra ten miles to take that family photo with the Giant Artichoke in Castroville, CA? Why not take a flash light hike to experience the desert at nighttime?

The other things that are taped to the walls include Simon’s point chart, showing our dedication to education and discipline through bribery, as well as various score cards from Miniature Golf games played across the nation representing our aspiring commitment to athleticism.

All these amulets remind us that we do have a community of friends and family that are travelling with us.

Wild Animals, Excitement and Equipment for Your Bed

2010-01-06T00:50:00.002-05:00

Last month when we were in Seattle, Simon and I went to the Woodland Park Zoo. A most excellent day by all accounts. It was just the two of us so we could really focus on the animals Simon wanted to see and not be distracted by the sibling rivalry that seems to be popping up more and more lately.

We were staying at our friend’s house in North Seattle and two busses were involved to get to the zoo. We walked out the door from their house, crossed the street and presto the first bus pulled up right on time. A 10 minute ride to the transfer station. It was one of those cold but bright and sunny days that makes for beautiful crisp skies and as we looked between the streets as we went whipping by on the bus, we could see Mount Rainer peaking through. The second bus ride was much longer. Enough time to take off our hats and mittens and read a couple of chapters in the books we brought with us.

After 30 minutes or so we got to the zoo and went right up to the admissions booth. One of the cool things about home schooling in the winter is we can go to places that might normally be wild and crazy on the weekend or in the summer but on a Tuesday morning at 10 am in early December – we have the place all to ourselves. The zoo was one of those places. There was a wonderful indoor play space called the Zoomasium with a tree to climb up into and take the slide down, a climbing structure that looked like something out of the Swiss Family Robinson, and a stage for live animal demonstrations. Um, no thanks. Not interested in touching the snake.

But we weren’t there for the climbing structure really, we were on safari to find: the sloth bears, the sun bears, the elephants – both Asian and African, the red pandas, the hippos, the flamingos, hawks, snakes, birds, penguins, giraffes and reindeer.

After a day well spent it was time to head to the much anticipated gift shop. I reminded Simon that with just 2 weeks until his birthday and 3 weeks until Christmas he was not allowed to buy anything for himself. Plus, he had limited funds and a long list of family members to shop for. For a good half hour we were up and down the aisles of the deserted gift shop touching everything, expanding wish lists for Santa Claus, and remarking, “ahh, I have this same stuffed snake in a storage box somewhere”.

At one point Simon asked if it was alright if he got Evan and me a combined gift for Christmas, “Would we be sad to share a present?” I assured him Dad and I were use to sharing but all we really wanted was a poem he wrote, or a song he made up or better yet, a certificate to use at a later date for good behavior in a museum. He assured me that he had found the perfect gift and needed to take a $7.00 with drawl from the Mommy Wallet where he keeps a running total of his allowance. But the entire process was really to be top secret. He needed the cash but he needed me to keep well away. “No problem, I will be over in the plastic animal section reclassifying the dinosaurs,” I said.

Once the secret purchase was made and shoved discretely into the bottom of the backpack hidden in the Woodland Park Zoo recyclable brown paper bag Simon turned to me and asked, “Can I tell you what it is?”

“No! Absolutely not! I love surprises and as an adult you don’t get many so, no I don’t want to know,” I replied, louder than I should have.

“Oh, but it is really perfect. I bet you want to know,” Simon retorted.

This went on for the 15 minute walk back through the park to the exit nearest the bus stop. Finally I relented. “Alright, you can give me one small clue.”

“Well,” said Simon, “it is a piece of equipment for your bed.”

I laughed out loud imagining things that couldn’t possibly have been sold at the Seattle Zoo Gift Shop that my 7 year old son could buy with seven bucks. Had Simon noticed that Evan and I lacked some essential equipment in the queen size bed in the RV?

“A pillow case?” I suggested, to a peal of laughter.

“Nope, you will just have to wait. But it is definitely something that is missing from your bed.”

3 weeks, the Olympic Peninsula and Oregon Coast later, the brown Woodland Park Zoo bag appeared under the tree at my brother and sister in laws house in Palo Alto with a bow on it. Evan and I opened the gift together. Simon was absolutely right. How could we have lived for so long with out this most essential piece of equipment – a stuffed panda! After 14 years our marital bed is finally fully equipped.

First Freak Out of the New Year

2010-01-04T06:53:00.002-05:00

It is 2:34 AM in Santa Monica, CA. Never a good time to wake up and think about your life. You will never find the things you like about your life at 2:34 AM.

We head out in the RV again tomorrow after basically three weeks of indulging our collective selves in all things Christmas, family and friends. We have been staying in my brother and sister in laws lovely house on Palo Alto and now my friend Janet’s wonderful home in Santa Monica. We have been showering in proper bathrooms and have laundry facilities at our beck and call. We have been cooking in proper kitchens. We have friends and family to talk to who love us and remind us that we had lives prior to the RV. Friends and family to play board games with, learn from, share stories with and plan meals together.

Yesterday Janet, whom I have known since I was seven, and I spent the day at a Korean Message Palace in downtown LA soaking in hot bathes filled with detoxifying tea prior to the all over body lufa and head to toe message. For an hour and a half an elderly Korean woman rubbed me clean of 7 months of road warrior knots and calluses and washed my hair with eucalyptus. We never spoke, although she did ask me to turn over once.

The past three weeks have been a much appreciated vacation from our adventure.

But our 29’ reality is sitting parked in front of the house. I realize I have indulged myself these past few weeks in to thinking of the RV as a huge piece of luggage we can drive rather than a home, a lifestyle choice, my reality.

Oh shit. Here we go again. Back into the Big Pig. But these last two months on the road will be different because it is just that. Only two more months. “After 7 months of being homeless, 2 months is a piece of cake,” I tell myself. But at 2:34 in the morning it is my neurotic self that takes over.

A list! If I write a list of my issues then it will be written down and I can tackle it all in a systematic way. Virgos love lists. Very organized.

Problem: I drink too much. Solution: Stop drinking.
Problem: I am fat. Solution: Stop eating
Problem: My kids don’t eat right. Solution: Give them healthy foods.
Problem: My husband doesn’t eat right. Solution: Yell at him.
Problem: Nobody is sleeping enough. Solution: Sleep more.
Problem: We all sleep too much. Solution: Set an alarm.
Problem: We need to find a place to live. Solution: Internet
Problem: We need to find jobs. Solution: Start looking.

This freak out is different from the one in September when I was staring at 7 months of vast expanses of prairie looming in front of me. I can start to feel my freak outs as slipping back in to being more pedestrian. More like everyone else’s. Finding jobs, looking for work, fitting into my clothes. Oh brother. Now I am freaking out that my freak outs aren’t as unique anymore.

A whole new level of Freak Out. Too absurd.

Gentle Reader, may I leave you with a thought for the new year…
may 2010 be filled with something to laugh about everyday. Even if is it the ridiculousness of your own freak outs at 2:34 AM...make that 2:53 AM.

Good night.

The Kindness of Strangers

2009-12-31T00:55:00.005-05:00

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.

Flying Alone With A Walking Stick

2009-12-22T10:59:00.001-05:00

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.”

Christmas in the RV Park

2009-12-10T12:04:00.001-05:00

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!

Penelope Snodgrass’s School for Boy(s)

2009-12-10T11:56:00.002-05:00

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.

Shut Up and Listen

2009-12-01T11:52:00.003-05:00

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.

In Praise of Libraries

2009-11-27T15:42:00.002-05:00

“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.

The Present

2009-11-19T11:00:00.003-05:00

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.

Semi Affluent Homeless Person?

2009-11-16T01:21:00.003-05:00

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.

Hemingway's Grave

2009-11-11T11:30:00.002-05:00

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.

Two Timing My Loyalty Cards

2009-11-06T09:10:00.002-05:00

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…

Pajama Talk

2009-10-29T17:56:00.001-04:00

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.

Schadenfreude

2009-10-22T15:36:00.003-04:00

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.

Churchill Manitoba - Worth The Schlep

2009-10-13T14:21:00.001-04:00

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.

Notes from a Moronic Hippie

2009-10-08T17:36:00.000-04:00

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!

Coming to Grips with my Minnesota Nice

2009-10-07T19:42:00.003-04:00

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.

Does My Butt Look Big In This RV?

2009-09-29T14:11:00.002-04:00

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.

A Typical Day

2009-09-23T21:18:00.002-04:00

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

This is So Not a Vacation

2009-09-23T21:14:00.002-04:00

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.

On Being Seven Years Old

2009-09-20T14:56:00.002-04:00

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.

All wound up

2009-09-15T01:11:00.003-04:00

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.

Birthday Projection

2009-09-12T05:19:00.006-04:00

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.

Major League Freak Out #3

2009-09-12T05:03:00.003-04:00

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.

RV Elementary - Opening Day

2009-09-09T12:07:00.002-04:00

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

Springfield, IL

2009-09-09T08:55:00.004-04:00

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.
.

Small Women and Big Rigs

2009-09-04T08:46:00.002-04:00

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.

San Diego, September 1st, 6 AM

2009-09-04T08:38:00.002-04:00

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.

FAQ's

2009-08-29T18:23:00.002-04:00

In the 7 months of planning …and not planning, and procrastinating, and assembling, and researching, and talking with friends, neighbors, relatives, friends and neighbors of relatives, and people we have met in the grocery store check out line…the three questions that people pose to me (note: not Evan) the most are:

1. How many pairs of shoes do you bring in the RV?

2. How are you going to keep from going nuts in the RV?

3. How do you have sex in the RV?

I shall address these in order of importance.

1. How many pairs of shoes do you bring in the RV?

While I have never thought of myself as a materialistic fashion hound (today’s outfit is a 3 year old wrap around dress from Target, a pair of 4 year old Cole Hahn black flip flop sandals, cubic zirconium earrings bought for 20 quid at the school auction, and a silver Tiffanies heart necklace that was a gift from Evan’s last company’s boondoggle) I have a weakness for shoes. Not that I spend much money on each pair of shoes. I am more of a variety and style gal rather than a name brand type.

I blame it on Southwest Junior High School in Minneapolis. 1974. 7th grade. Adidas. I had to have a pair. Anybody who was anybody wore Adidas. If you had money to burn, you had the green striped. Middle of the road, you went for the blue. Strapped for cash meant you had the red. The red ones were 26 dollars at the Footlocker at Southdale Shopping Mall in Edina.

I made 50 cents an hour babysitting. I needed the last 5 bucks to get me over the top so I could buy that red pair of entry level Adidas. New Years Eve was coming up, excellent babysitting potential.

December 31st found me on the couch of the Andersons watching over their 3 kids all under the age of 5. I was 12 years old. I was responsible. My mother was a nurse and she would be home and we lived down the street. I was their gal and they needed me from 6 PM until 3 AM. Score. Got the kids to bed by 7:30, and I settled in with a bowl of ice cream in front of the TV to watch Invasion of the Body Snatchers with the fabulous feeling that I would go home with enough money to put me over the edge so I could afford my red Adidas.

Who cared if it snowed 2 feet the day before school started up again in January. I wore my Adidas through the snow drifts in the bitter cold knowing that my position in the pecking order would be established through my shoes.

Today I dream about my box of shoes in the storage facility in Framingham, Massachusetts. My aubergine boots I bought at La Samaritaine in Paris with my sister in law Bonnie, my black lace up low heeled boots from Rome, the 9 West purple pumps with the fake jewel.

Here is what made it into the black milk crate under the couch in the RV (where the entire family stores its shoes). 1. Aforementioned black Cole Hahn sandals; 2. similar brown Timberland flip flops; 3. rubber-soled really comfortable waterproof Keens: and 4. UK blue running/hiking shoes. I will be adding a pair of brown boots once it gets colder, if the budget allows.

2. How are you going to keep from going nuts in the RV?

Party line: It helps that we all like our own time reading, writing, hiking. While yes, this is an intense amount of family time, we also are trying to respect each others time as individuals.

The truth: We drive each other nuts. Simon is the only one that is consistently in fine form. Josh the pre-adolescent and me the peri menopausal are at odds every other day for a bit. Evan and I are both alpha control types and in our life prior to the RV he had his fiefdom and I had mine. We respect each others strengths and try to complement each others where we can. After almost 14 years of marriage and 16 years together this has worked relatively well.

And then there was yesterday…

We are staying at my cousin’s house for a few nights in the Dogtown section of St. Louis just south of Forest Park. Fabulous location. We can walk to the zoo and the free museums in the park. All is well. The RV is parked out front. We are hoping not to drive it for a few days – stupid to drive it around the city. Evan and I leave the boys in charge of each other while we ride our bicycles to Schnucks Grocery Store. Adorable. We are like college age coed’s with our back packs on and we head out on this 95 degree day in 97% humidity. It is less than a mile. I know the way to go. Evan googlemaps it and finds a better way to go on secondary roads. Fine. Oops, construction. Road is closed. Back to original way. Nope, Evan needs to make his own, new, way. I know where I am. I know where we need to go. But he has his Blackberry with the map. I have my eyes and my sense of direction!

We both got there and we both got home. Albeit we got home our separate but equal ways. We both have trouble following. But we both trust and respect each other enough and have faith in each others abilities to get to the same place – sometimes by different routes.

3. How do you have sex in the RV?

Nope. Enough said. Can’t go there. And please no more jokes about the bumper sticker: If it’s rockin, don’t bother knockin’.

The Dreaded Question

2009-08-29T18:18:00.001-04:00

The worse part about the plane ride to San Diego was when the man sitting next to me asked, “So, where do you call home?”

This is probably one of the easiest, most non threatening questions you can ask a stranger.

But all I can think is:

I wish I was back in the UK where people don’t talk to each other.

I wish I could have an answer that would be brief.

I wish that when he asked me that question it would bring up a mental image of a comfortable house with all our pretty things, linens nicely folded, a fire burning, laughing children, friends gathered around our table.

Instead an image of the storage facility in Framingham comes to mind.

Instead an image of the RV parked on the street in St Louis pops up.

Instead I felt horrible that we don’t have home for our kids

But that is not what we tell Josh and Simon. We tell them that home is wherever the 4 of us are. Walls don’t matter. It is about the feeling we create and the love and strength we provide for each other. We have our own family traditions that follow us around, regardless of where we are.

Whose idea is it that “home” has to be a set place?

I feel amazed when I think of the number of places I have called home.

On my bad days I feel like I am a riff raff. A wonderer. Someone not to be trusted because I am a traveler and just passing through. Shifty.

On my good days I feel like an adventurer, a wonder lust, a person who has places to go, people to meet.

I told the man on the plane, “Vermont” and I smiled nicely and went back to reading my book.

We Interrupt This RV Trip

2009-08-27T23:19:00.002-04:00

…to bring you a slice of reality. Mom is moving from San Diego to Phoenix, so I am flying away and leaving Evan in charge of the RV and the boys in St. Louis so I can help my mom pack ‘em up and move ‘em out.

Now that I have these incredible skills on packing boxes I really want to use them as much as possible so I don’t forget.

Tips on moving:

Sharpie pens. Love them. Use them on each box you are packing to write the contents.
Details. Write down the details. Not just “Books” but “Wendy’s books from graduate school that are completely obsolete since the advent of the internet and she should have given them to Goodwill years ago but now that she has carted them around for the last 7 moves, why bother.”
Use clear tape. That way you can read the notes you just wrote on the box
Pack in small boxes. Easier to move and store. Especially if they are books.
Moving takes as much time as you give it. If you have to move in a week – you will. If you have 6 months to move you will use all 6 months.
It all comes down to the last 4 days. And those days suck.
Sleep somewhere else. Your house will be anything but a haven for relaxation – it will be messy, dirty, chaotic and distressing. Find a friends house – or a hotel – near by so you can be at the house quickly.
Have a pack last/open first few boxes. Linens for the beds. Coffee maker. Bath towels. Things you need up until the time you leave and will need quickly upon arrival.

I have to say it is weird leaving the RV trip for 5 nights. Does this mean I am abandoning ship? I am quite conflicted. It is a great feeling to finally be close enough to be helpful to my mom. And Evan is there so I don’t need to arrange babysitters and the like. But still…5 nights away…do I get a per diem so I can eat? Do I have to submit my receipt for the cup of coffee I will pick up at the airport to Josh? Do I get reimbursed? By my son? With my own money?

Which reminds me a an esoteric conversation Josh and I got into regarding Simon and his wiggly tooth and the inevitable Tooth Fairy. How do we budget for the Tooth Fairy? A seperate line item called "Magic"? or is it under "Dental"?

Mom and I fly back to St. Louis on Wednesday to be met by Ev and the boys in the RV. Mom is coming in the RV! At least for the 1.5 hour drive to but yet another Springfield...Illinois!

From Niagara to an Oasis to another Springfield

2009-08-25T21:36:00.003-04:00

The first three nights on the road were a bit of a learning experience. Here is what we do when we get into camp:

Back up our 30 foot, 15,000 pounds home into the proper spot.
Set the emergency brake.
Make sure the area is clear for the slide out.
Plug in the shore line to juice up the electric.
Attach the water connection.
Pull out the awning / porch cover.
Unlock and pull off the bicycles.
Put the table cloth on the picnic table.
Find some flowers for the table and set with the fine china…or plastic plates from Tesco.

After Cooperstown we were up at Niagara Falls. Hmmm. After all was said and done – this committee says: Yes! Keep Niagara it on the list of places to go. Just don’t stay at Jellystone RV Park…way too depressing. Why I thought I should trust Yogi Bear – an animated character known for stealing picnic baskets in the 1960’s – over a state park is beyond me

And if you want to go to Niagara, start saving your money now because folks…Niagara Falls is a Disneyland Attraction. But some things you just have to do. I mean, Maid of the Mist. Say no more. Once you see the falls you want to go near them, in them, under them and the boat ride is the closest you can do it without risking your life. Why people want to keep throwing themselves down the falls in boats and barrels I don’t understand – The Maid was enough for me. They do throw in plastic recyclable rain coats with your 14.95 ticket price – which we are now saving to make a re-appearance for Halloween.

But then there was Niagara’s Fury. So get this…we had just been on Maid of the Mist. We had just walked along and then rode a boat through the real Niagara Falls. So why did we then need to pay an additional 14 bucks to go inside and watch a “4D movie “ about what was outside and we had just been in? Humans. I just don’t get us.

Side note: We were in Niagara, Ontario, Canada. We had read the views were better and the schlock not as great. Let me tell you, schlock is alive and well in Ontario. Good news: our kids never asked for anything in the gift shops. This budget thing is working. They know how much we have to spend a day and putting Josh in charge of keeping us to the daily budget was brilliant! Bad News: I have to keep to it as well. No pedicures for me ladies and gentlemen and looks like I am going natural on the hair colour as well. Those pretend natural highlights are no longer pretend, nor particularly highlightable either I might add.

And then we drove to our friend’s house outside Pittsburgh. Wow. An oasis of calm and beauty. I have known Patty for the past 4 years or so and really got to know her when we shared a room in Paris for a couple of nights. Nothing like talking in the dark before you fall asleep and going through nighttime ablutions to bond with another person.

She and her husband and 4 kids moved back to the US about 8 months ago and it was so great to spend time with friends who have been through the same issues around re-entry to the US, coming to grips with the fact we aren’t Faux Europeans anymore and all the rest. Plus, they are so fun and welcoming and gracious and engaging and have a beautiful guest room, bountiful organic garden and washer and dryer and they SHARE! Our kids basically ran out of the RV and disappeared for the next 36 hours.

Patty and I talked about writing. And the importance of when you are a writer, you need to write. Goal: 1000 words a day. This is word 654.

And now we are in Ohio. We were hoping for Indiana but got sucked into Target, the grocery store and then sidelined by an hour of road works outside of Wheeling, West Virginia. Ohio looks good. Hoping all 4 of us will do a bike ride down along the lake today. The weather is holding. Kids are still happy doing chores. Looking forward to fresh tomatos from Patty and Harris’s garden for lunch.

Tomorrow: St. Louis

Campground Etiquette

2009-08-25T21:34:00.000-04:00

Dear Gentle Readers,

I am here to tell you there is a certain unspoken etiquette that permeates camp ground life. For example, here I am at Buck Creek State Park in Springfield, Ohio (yes, another Springfield) and I rolled out of bed in the RV, put on a fleece and my sandals and walked to the camp restroom.

I shouldn’t have. Maybe the early morning sunlight that is slowly making its way up over the trees also shown through my nightgown and made it see through I don’t know but I got some strange looks from the folks I ran into.

Got that? No wearing your night gown to the public restroom at 7:23 am.

Yours sincerely,

An M. Bare Asssed Camper

Day 3 - and then...

2009-08-22T23:23:00.002-04:00

Some of the things I love about my first born is his creativity and willingness to learn. Yes, he has a sense of justice that just won’t quit and while it is incredibly tiring to be on the other side of the head butting, I admire his persistence. As Evan likes to say about his sales prospects: “It isn’t so much about winning them over as it is about wearing them down.”

So this is what we did: We kind of submitted. Josh did some research and came up with a proposal that would include a 2 hour drive, boondocking (sleeping in a Walmart Parking Lot) and an acceptable drive for the following day. I pitched it to the other family, they couldn’t do it. Hooray! A double win for the parents! Josh learned the importance of research and advanced planning and we kept on track…not that there is that much of a track to keep to.

What turned me around from my position of “not driving out of our way a single iota” to splitting the difference was that on Wednesday night he and his friend had an hour long phone conversation. Afterwards Josh and I had a chat. Another thing I love about Josh is that he is a chatter. I am trying to instill in my boys that chatting is good and to keep doing it. Cool guys chat. Chatty boys get the girls. Chatty boys have more fun.

Josh mentioned how hard it is for guys to stay in touch. He is worried that he will drift away from his friends. So am I. Friends and family are key to a persons happiness. That sense of belonging to a community. Josh is getting older. He is putting together a community of his own that I need to respect and encourage. Get over yourself Wendy….it isn’t about your schedule. And another brilliant point made by My Personal Help Desk (aka Evan) was that this trip is also about showing the kids that we can be flexible and spontaneous.

I am trying to keep up my hour a day of exercise and an hour of writing. Today I took a beautiful bike ride along County Road 31 in East Springfield, NY. Lots of farms. I biked to a state park – Glimmersglass. It was 7:30 when I biked in. Nobody was around. Who would have thought that the oldest covered bridge in the US would be there? 1867. That use to sound old to me, but now that I am an International Snob that sounds like recent history. Give me something from the roman age – now that is old.

We live in an RV. I still don’t believe it. We drive with all our stuff with us, all the time. Simon and I danced in the Big Pig this morning. There was room to do a couple of spins

We had lunch today in a rest area off the highway. Pizza bagels. Noodles. We have a budget of 130 bucks a day. Goes fast. I look at money very differently now that there is nothing coming in. Invite us to dinner and we might steal stuff out of your pantry– this is your warning.

I am now typing away as we are barreling down the New York Turnpike (or is it Thoroughfare? Or thrufare?) on our way to Buffalo and then up we go into Canada to see Niagara Falls. Bruce Springsteen is singing “Keep your eye on the prize, roll on” from his Live in Dublin album, the boys are plugged into an I Touch watching The Simpson’s Movie. Don’t worry, Evan is driving.

DAY 1 - So far so good?

2009-08-19T22:14:00.002-04:00

It is 9:50 pm. We made it a little more than 150 miles today to East Springfield, NY. Just a quick drive from Cooperstown. We are parked in a level spot. We plugged in our new home on wheels to the water and electricity at the RV park. We went for a swim, had dinner, a walk and now bed.

In truth? Up at 6 am wallowing in the details to get out of the rental house. Loading up the RV, bringing suitcases, boxes, a suitcase filled with suitcases, and books to Evan’s parents place in VT to store. Yes, all this is in addition to the 534 boxes in the official storage facility. Does that number keep getting larger and larger the more I tell it? “Did you hear about Wendy and all her boxes in storage? I heard she was up to 4328 boxes! And more than half are filled with useless plastic objects!” My version of hell? A house filled with miniature toy poodles, Chihuahuas, lima beans and useless plastic objects.

And then…the 12 hour chant by an unnamed older son telling Evan and me what useless parents we are. How we just don’t understand and that we are violating his rights and have no respect for him. Why? Because we aren’t going to drive 6 hours out of our way to see his good friend. Just because we are in New York and so is his friend, doesn’t mean he is close by. 10 months in an RV being told that I am an uncompassionate human being. We were thinking this would be a sans alcohol RV. I am beginning to reconsider that policy on the first day.

But it really is all quite cozy. Our little bedroom is comfortable. Everything works. Oh no, delete that line, don’t want to jinx anything. And if all goes well I will get up at 6 am and take that 10 hour long bike ride through the beautiful NY state countryside - yes, I will ride back to the RV.

12 Hours and Counting...not that I am counting...

2009-08-18T23:37:00.002-04:00

Is this the calm before the storm? Will there be a storm? There just was a storm - with a ton of thunder thrown in - an hour ago. Tomorrow night in the RV park. Oh god, another anxiety nightmare – we are in a tin box in a lightening storm. Cue the visual of the lightening bolt hitting the RV Toaster. 4 pieces of bread that look suspiciously like Evan, the boys and I are popping out slots at the top and we all have permed hair...

Simon was better today. During the day he decided to pitch the idea of making a cardboard box into a replica of our old house in London because he was feeling better. He drew a bundle of pictures to put up in the RV, even a picture of a Dream Eater that eats the bad dreams and puffs out beautiful dreams. I think I might need that picture above my head tonight to keep away the thoughts of lightening frying the RV.

But then this evening before dinner I found him in our bed quietly sobbing to himself saying he just couldn’t go on the trip at all. Evan overheard us chatting about his worries and suggested that after a dinner of pizza we could spend some time in the RV looking at all the cool storage boxes (always a crowd pleaser!) and then have a family meeting to discuss Simon’s feelings and to check in in general about the trip.

Simon perked right up – unsure if it was the pizza, the storage boxes, or the chance to be highlighted on the agenda. We have been holding Family Meetings pretty regularly for the past 5 years and Simon is very familiar with the format and to have your item first – with your name right on it – makes you feel special and that you are being heard. Isn’t that what we all want? To be heard? To be first on the agenda? Having your needs addressed?

Family Meeting Agenda

I. Simon’s Worries
II. Pace of the next couple of weeks
III. What we need to do before we leave tomorrow
IV. Thanksgiving Plans (Evan’s parents were over and we wanted to be sure we talked about when we would see them next, with them and the kids)

During Simon’s Worries we all discussed how overwhelming the trip is and to think about living in an RV for a year is just too long and makes us want to scream. Starting anything new can be scary and could make you want to scream. Simon and I went out on the balcony and screamed a really good long scream and felt better.

Talk calmly. Go outside and scream. Come back in and continue conversation. This is normal yes?

We then came inside and we all discussed how we were excited about the first couple of weeks.

Tomorrow we head out to Cooperstown to the Baseball Hall of Fame. Simon got all excited about seeing Babe Ruth’s bat and Grandpa told us all some stories about The Babe and Lou Gehrig.

So, we all decided that we would leave tomorrow as discussed but we will check in once we are in St. Louis next week and see how we are feeling. But then we remembered my mom, Mama Jo, is coming to meet us in Springfield and then there is the family reunion and we get to stay at Aunt Jackie and Uncle Paul’s house and they have a sneaky club house with a trap door and everything. So, we decided to just think about the trip up until then.

Phew. I like this idea too. 10 months in an RV is too long to think about. What is that old line? How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time. I have to say, I prefer a year in an RV to eating an elephant…

36 hours until departure

2009-08-17T22:43:00.005-04:00

Simon is so sad. He misses London so much. "Mommy, London is the only home I know. I miss our house. I am excited about the big adventure, but right now I am so sad."

Me too. I know this is the right thing to do and all the other intellectual self growth, chance of a life time blah blah blah along with it, but mostly I am tired of moving and we haven't even begun.

Simon took an empty cardboard box and excitedly suggested we could make a replica of our old house in the box. "That way we can take it with us all the time." Josh suggested we have a special Anniversary Day for the house so we can all tell each other things we remember.

We will do both suggestions. And look at pictures. And write letters to our friends on the street. But it still makes us sad.

I have always maintained that the kids would take their cues from Evan and me and that if we put on a brave face and make whatever trouble or trying time we are going through in to an adventure - they would rise us and all would be well.

But that leaves little room for lying in your seven year olds bed crying together.

Oops. I think I dropped my brave face.

But he is asleep now and tomorrow is another day.

My suggestion was that we need to make the RV more of a home...starting tomorrow. I can't call it the Big Pig anymore and expect that will make my kids feel like it is a nice place to call home. While it isn't really a "home" it will be the one thing that will remain constant in our lives over the upcoming 10 months.

Time to paint the walls, put up the art work, organize our blankets and stuffed animals and start thinking of the RV as our respite rather than a joke.

I guess this really is our life...for now.

Heading out letter

2009-08-17T22:39:00.003-04:00

Dear Friends and Family!

It is Saturday afternoon the 15th of August. I am writing you from the green mountains of Vermont where we are now official residents, wear tie dye everyday and flash the peace sign as we drive past folks on the dirt roads. Evan and the boys are making blueberry jam from the buckets of blueberries we picked yesterday and we are listening to an interesting combination of Green Day, Weird Al and the Simpson’s Sing the Blues. I am sorting through lists, freaking out and eating chocolate.

We have had an action packed summer cleaning out our storage facility in Roswell, Georgia, road tripping up the East Coast, playing in Vermont at the Holiday House with a ton of fabulous friends who have helped up keep our sanity and taking care of the details for our Adventure Year! We are registered to vote, have new driver’s licenses, and the home schooling curriculum we put together is all approved by the VT Dept of Education. All our stuff (over 500 boxes from both the UK and Georgia) is in a storage facility in Framingham, Massachusetts. Don’t get me started on the stuff conversation.

We are getting into the RV this Wednesday the 19th of August – 4 days behind schedule. But wait a minute! Whose schedule are we on? We just revised the schedule. Never mind.

Our new home is a 30 foot Winnebago Itasca Impulse. We will be holding a Name the RV Contest on our website with the winner receiving a jar of the previously mentioned home made jam! Right now I keep calling it the Big Pig. Simon calls it Chuck. It clearly needs some help!

If you haven’t checked out our website and all our blogs lately – do so! www.familyadventureyear.com. At this point, the Web site also has a Calendar that is reasonably up-to-date with our itinerary through the end of 2009. We plan to update the 2010 itinerary in October. Evan still has not finished the integration with Flickr (for photo sharing) or the button that lets you see where we’ve been on a map. The Web site also shows where we are at any given point in time (Evan can update it from his Blackberry, but we’re not planning to update it more than once a day).

Our hope is to send out monthly updates to our Google Group email list (you can sign up on the left-hand side of our Web site). If you know someone else who wants to sign up, go to the left side of our Web site and enter the email address and then click the “Subscribe” button. If you're having trouble, send Evan an email at evan@familyadventureyear.com and he'll sign you up for it

Here are some blog highlights:

Homeless No More and RSVP Evan’s blog about the American South and the RV –with photos!

Notes Upon Reentry and 4 New Things Wendy’s Blog about coming back to the US with too many self absorptions.

Bromley Mountain and Turkeys – Simon’s blogs about life as a 7 year old

Penguins, Summer Camp and Poet William Cowper – Josh’s blogs about life as a 12 year old.

Peace, love, admiration, adoration and clean laundry to you all!

Major League Freak Out - Update

2009-08-15T07:59:00.001-04:00

We are well on our way to solving a lot of the issues. Alright, Evan has solved a lot of the issues.

Our kids are registered as Home Schoolers for the State of Vermont. I have the official piece of paper! Why does an Official Piece of Paper make me feel so much better? Validation!

We both have VT drivers Licenses. Again, another piece of validation.

The RV is registered in VT.

We have a Vermont PO Box.

We are registered voters in VT.

I made the bed in the RV in the Target parking lot in Milbury, MA. And then took a nap…in the RV. In the Target parking lot. Strangely surreal and peaceful.

We have doctors appointments scheduled for Monday.

I have driven the Big Pig for over 200 miles. And I didn’t hit anything. Ran over a few curbs but that is to be expected. Backed it up down a long drive way. note to future self: look into changing careers to truck driver.

I have turned on the generator.

All of our guests are gone and we have 4 days to pack up and move out on to the road.

First stop: Middlesex, Vermont.

4 New Things - In One Day!

2009-08-15T07:34:00.002-04:00

At 46 years old sometimes I am reluctant to try new things.

Quite frankly, at 46 years old there are not that many new things that present themselves in the course of a day to try.

At 46 years old I know the consequences of trying new things and, while I hate to admit it, I know that my body doesn’t bounce back as quickly in case the new thing I try doesn’t turn out as expected.

An incident involving a push scooter, a bottle of wine, an unexpected pothole, and a heroic save of a certain son on a promenade in Paris that ended badly still haunts me.

But then there was Thursday.

We were at Bromley Mountain in Southern Vermont. In the winter it is a lovely place to go skiing. In the summer for the past 30 years they have put up an Alpine Slide where you take the chairlift up the mountain and then throw yourself into a small cart on wheels to plummet your way down the mountain in a graphite chute to the tune of 30 miles per hour. But I have done the Alpine Slide for years –nothing new there.

Over the past 10 years or so they keep adding new, better, faster, more exciting things to do to entice the ADD crowd.

So here is what I did:

1. Space bike. I strapped myself in, with my trusty husband at my side, to a bicycle and got whipped around upside down on a circular track. Ride time – about 3 minutes. Recovery time – about 2 hours.

2. Rock wall. Sure I have seen these all over town. My kids have been to birthday parties where this was the activity. But for me? The harnesses alone are enough to turn me off. And the answer is, yes, your butt looks enormous in the rock climbing gear. But one of the benefits of 46 is is that I don’t care anymore. I climbed the wall! There were 4 options ranging in difficulty. I started at 1. Mastered on the first go. I continued up 2. Check. I thought about 3 but no! Saved by the bell. It was time to head up to the 3rd NEW THING of the day.

3. Sun Mountain Flyer

“It cost $1,000,000 to build. It soars as high as a five-story building. It approaches speeds of 50 MPH. At one-half-mile long, it’s the longest thrill ride of its kind in New England, one of only three on the east coast, and one of only ten in the world. It’s the Sun Mountain Flyer, the Sun Mountain Adventure Park’s new double-line ZipRider®, and it’s like no ride you’ve experienced, anywhere. Prepare to meet thy zoom!” – taken from the Web Site.

What this means is that you take the chair lift up. Climb a fire tower. Strap yourself into a diaper/chair thing with lots of hooks with the help of a mostly together, however slightly disinterested, 18 year old with assorted tattoos. And then they push you out the flap of a door so you can zip down the mountain, building up speeds to 50 miles an hour. It is fast, it is beautiful overlooking the Vermont valley, and not too scary. I felt like I was flying…until the end when the swing catches on a stopper, you get whipped up and flung back and poured out onto a platform. Ride Time - about 30 seconds. Recovery time - an hour.

And then…and then…

4. The Red Fox Inn. www.redfoxinn.com This old road house has been a steady friend over the past 15 years or so. It is a beautiful 1.2 mile walk from our Holiday House and in the summer is very casual. The bar serves food and kids are welcomed and on Thursdays it is Open Mic Night.

Do you see where this is going?

Honest, we didn’t know it was Open Mic Night until we got there. We sit up next to the stage, we talk with Mike the guitarist for the house band. The drummer Adam let the kids have a go on his drum kit. My husband, friend Mary from London, and the 4 kids encouraged me, rallied me. I couldn’t ignore the growing drum beat any longer. Mike gladly relinquished his guitar. Adam gave me a back up beat and I PLAYED PUFF THE MAGIC DRAGON ON THE STAGE AT THE RED FOX INN! And the best part was that Simon did his interpretive dance as I played. Playing time – 5 minutes tops. Recovery time – 3 days and counting.

Phew. What a day.

Major League Freak Out

2009-07-30T06:46:00.005-04:00

What are we doing? We can’t possibly leave in 2 weeks.

We have yet to open up a big map. Sure sure, we have a GPS’s and a book of maps but we need a big huge map of the US to lay out on the floor and get aquainted with. Yesterday Josh asked where Cincinnati was. He thought it was in the American south. How can we possibly be ready to go if Josh doesn't know where Cincinnati is?

We need to touch the map. Walk around it. Put pins in it. Plan more than we have. Hell, we haven’t planned at all…well, maybe a little.

We have not completed the curriculum for the kids schooling. Let alone register properly with the State of Vermont so They (the government?) can register our boys on their records as home schoolers.

We have to get ourselves registered as Vermont Residents, voters, and get our driver’s licenses.

Neither the car nor the RV is registered. Where are we going to park the car for the year?

Evan and I still don’t have doctors.

The container arrives from London on Tuesday in Framingham, MA. I think I might drive the Big Pig to Framingham to get use to it. I want to drive it by myself so no one will hear me swear.

Plus there are 10 boxes of stuff for the RV we packed up in London in the container that we will need to transport. What is in those boxes? Winter clothes. Kitchen stuff. Bedding. Bicycles.

We need to completely outfit the Big Pig. Organize our stuff and make sure it all fits.

We need to make the beds.

Silverware. We don't have any silverware.

I don’t know what half the buttons are for in the Big Pig.

A name. We need a name for the Big Pig. While I kind of like Big Pig – it has a sort of negative feel. A proper name. A friend recommended Petunia. I like it. Again a pig kind of name. Then there is Wilbur of Charlotte’s Web fame. But with Swine Flu - perhaps not sensative to the times.

Is the RV a male of female? How can we live in an RV if we don’t even know if it is a boy or a girl? Simon said the RV talked to him and his name is Chuck.

Simon said only people under the age of 20 can hear the RV talk.

My son talks to RV's.

Is this RV trip supposed to be fun? Is this the scared part of the “excited and scared” combination that I use to say I was always looking for? But that was before I had kids and aging parents. I feel very irresponsible.

Am I having a conversation with myself on a blog? Am I nuts? How can an insane person be given the responsibility to drive an RV? Maybe I need to talk to Simon and see how the RV feels about having me drive it.

We can’t leave in 2 weeks. Who are we kidding?

But maybe in 3 weeks.

Whew. That makes me feel better.

Transparencies

2009-07-28T07:44:00.002-04:00

I see this trip in front of us as a map of the US with various transparencies laid on top.

The first overlay is Simon’s passions. Volcanoes, tropical fish, and panda bears.

The second is Josh’s passions. Polar bears for now.

The third is Evan’s passions. Music, technology. Probably others as well.

As I was sketching this out to a friend the other day she asked me where my Passion Transparency was. At the time I told her mine was more of an inward journey – to take and hour to write each day, to take and hour to exercise each day, to play my guitar and prepare a set to play out as a Busker in Harvard Square.

On second thought – this entire journey is my passion. To have my husband and kids all together for an entire year before the kids run away and start their own lives.

To connect the dots of the friends and family for my children.

My transparency is the one of where friends and family live. We are connecting the dots in the RV. This trip is about helping us to reconnect with people in our lives and seeing how they live. The passion of a frustrated anthropologist/sociologist. I am a busy body wanting to get into the heads of others and muck about. I like to look for ideas, inspiration, and new ways of seeing things from my friends and steal what I like to help me make sense of the world.

Back in 1992 I took 6 months and traveled staying with friends and family who were conveniently located everywhere from Mali to Germany, Uganda, India, Singapore and Australia. I realized midway through that trip that I was observing couples and how they interacted, as well as single people and their relationships with the communities and cultural differences. While this trip isn’t as exotic, I think it will have depth in terms of observation and thoughtfulness.

My passion is to teach my children the importance of connections.

Their connections to people – be they related or not.
Their connections to the US.
Their connections to the land.
Their connections to each other and Evan and me.
Their connections to situations and how they can help to change the situation and that they can be agents of change.

We are all stronger and wiser for having made connections with others – however they work out.

Thanks Lisa, for asking the questions and making me think.

Notes Upon Re-entry

2009-07-24T16:35:00.002-04:00

We are back in the US of A! Did anyone miss us? Did anybody notice we were gone? 6 years. To quote Simon, “Six years is forever when you are seven.”

So this is what is hitting me upon being back to the US, I don’t mean any of this in a judgmental way, truly just observational:

• File this one under Profound Observations of the Obsurdly Obvious but still...lots of American accents here in the USA. I am not unique or exotic anymore.

• Checks. Places still accept checks for payment. It seems so provincial – a harkening back to a time of trust. I am having trouble remembering how to fill in a check.

• Did I get skinny or did Americans get really fat? The ploy I introduced back in 1987 to offer cookies and candy bars to everyone to help them get fat so I would look smaller in comparison really took off. Little did I realize McDonald's had the same strategy…and Burger King, and KFC, and Chick Fillet. I feel positively svelte. Think I will have another piece of chocolate cake.

• Drivers in this country are tough. In the past 3 weeks I have driven in NY, NJ, PA, VA, CT, SC, NC, GA, VT, DE and AZ and the M.O. seems to be “Don’t use your signals (clickers? indicators?) because that is giving the enemy information”. In the UK when someone turns on their signal showing they would like to move over a lane, the person in the next lane slows down and…lets them in! Horrors! In the US once you turn on your clicker it is a challenge for your fellow racers on the interstate – drive faster and close the gap between cars.

• Miss Wendy. They call me Miss Wendy in the American South.

• God is everywhere. Complete strangers are ready, willing and able …not to mention excited...to talk about their personnel experience with the Lord Jesus Christ. I was waiting to get the car repaired in Atlanta off Peachtree Industrial. The television was turned on to the 700 Club and a man was giving testimony to how the horrible facial rash that had plagued him for years disappeared once he found prayer.

I watched this for about 30 seconds and could hardly contain my surprise on a varity of levels: 1. There was a clean waiting room; 2. There was a working television; and 3. There was a God program playing. I was giving myself a little snicker thinking of how different this experience was to CB Motors in London under the train bridge where I use to bring our car and there was no waiting room, let alone a TV, when my fellow waiting room attendee in Atlanta brought me back to the hear and now by asking, “Ma’am do you believe?”

I am thinking to myself, “No. This guy can’t really be asking me if I believe in God? In a car dealerships waiting area?” I was wrong. And it wasn’t the Lord God he was interested in – it was the Lord God Jesus Christ. Did I have a personal relationship with the Lord Jesus Christ? I would have been happy to talk about God, how wonderful it was that he found something, but no, he didn’t want a discussion. He wanted an audience. It takes a lot to shut me down. I was shut down.

• Can we talk restrooms - I am talking public restrooms here? Clean! Even the one at the park, the gas station, Jones Beach on Long Island. Ahhh, I am back in the land of 2 ply toilet paper.

To paraphrase Lee Greenwood, “ I am proud to be an American where the public restrooms are clean.”

Jet lag, Kids and Family Traditions

2009-06-29T06:46:00.003-04:00

I am an early riser. I love that sneaky time before anyone else is up and you can imagine what life must have been like before cars. I love the freshness of the air and the promise of possibilities. The Hindu’s believe the early morning is the most sacred because it is when God is closest to earth.

When our kids were born I stopped liking the early morning so much because it wasn’t my choice anymore. After having been up half the night, 5AM was not my sneaky alone time, rather the fourth shift.

And then we moved to London and the 5 hour time difference to my in-laws, or the 8 hour time difference to my mom’s made 5 AM feel like mid day.

What do you do when you are wide awake at 3AM with a 4 year old and an 8 year old in a house of sleeping elderly parents?

The pajama adventure was born.

Our mornings went like this:

3 – 4 AM We would lie in bed and have sneaky chats in the dark about what we wanted to do that day, how excited we were to be with Grandma and Grandpa. What was happening RIGHT NOW back at home. But the rule was, stay in bed.

4 - 5 AM Small light on, quiet book reading. Sometimes a nap!

5 AM Enough already. We have bed sores and are BORED and going nuts being quiet.

Out the door, in pajamas. It started because I never had enough forsight to lay out clothes the night before But then the boys and I decided life is a whole lot more exciting if you are doing something a bit unexpected, and wearing your pajamas outside fits the bill.

Places we have been at 5 AM in pajamas:
• Playgrounds. Not much competition for the good swings.
• Beaches. Have you ever watched the steam rise from a Vermont pond at the sunrise?
• Other people’s gardens. There is a lot of wild lawn art out there. Go count the cement frogs!
• Swimming. Hotel pools usually open at 6AM
• Grounds of historical landmarks. Yes, that was us in pajamas on Abraham Lincoln's front lawn at 5:37 am
• Adventure walks. Stick the word Adventure in front of anything and it becomes a whole lot more interesting. These Adventure Walks would be around the block but who knew what you would find!

One rule: Pajama adventures always end at the local donut shop. Who else is open that early?

Tricks for Getting Kids Over Jet Lag Quickly

1. Stay awake as long as humanly possible. Go to bed at the local time.

• A well placed new toy can be worth an hour.
• Avoid television – out in five minutes, especially if a couch or comfortable chair is involved.
• A bath! Not only does it get rid of the nasty airplane feeling/smell it can change at attitude and increase energy level. Warning: do not leave a jet lagged kid alone in the bathtub, even if they are 5/6 and use to taking a bath alone. I have had a kid fall sleep in the tub!

2. Switch your watch and your conversation so it makes sense to local time.
Eat meals at the local time.
Go to bed at the local time.

3. When kids wake up too early, do quiet, boring things in the hopes they go back to sleep in the first couple of hours.

403 boxes of our lives

2009-06-29T06:37:00.004-04:00

Pickford’s Moving Company just pulled away from the curb. They were here for 4 days to pack up our lives into 403 boxes and then for one day to move them into a sea-tight metal container. The contanier will reappear at our storage facility in 4 to 6 weeks, unless the ship sinks. I wonder what – or if - I would miss much?

As I look over the 14 pages of inventory that catalogues the 403 boxes I am amazed by:

1. How quickly your life can be put in a box – or at least the stuff. The bigger question of course is how many boxes of memories have I collected over the past 6 years. Memories are a lot cheaper to move, and they don’t strain your back to move around. I can hear the truck down on the loading dock backing up, “beep beep beep, incoming pallet of memory boxes, remember, lift with your legs, not your back!”

2. I married a Jewish guy and we have 5 boxes of Christmas decorations but only half a box with menorahs, haggadah’s and a plastic Seder plate.

3. Josh at 11 years old has 18 boxes of stuff; Simon at 7 years has 6. Is there some sort of algorithm that works out an estimation of accumulation by year of life?

4. All we need for the year of our life in the RV fits in 8 suitcases - and half of that we can live without.

5. How often I salivate thinking about the ship being abducted by pirates. What is the resale value on the Somalian black market for vats of legos? Crate and Barrel dining room chairs? 47 stuffed animals?

6. How much money, time and energy are spent on the transference of stuff -- moving it from store to home to shelf to box to container to storage facility to new home, etc..

7. All of the pioneers, immigrants and refugees that have moved by either choice, fear, force, love, or war. How lucky am I to be moving by choice, with options...

But what I can’t put in a box are my friends. The walks on the Heath that seem so natural. The smell of the roses. The green grocer on the high street that sells the bags of tomatoes for 1 pound. The sneaky walkways that make getting around this city so delightful and old worldly.

More for the memory box in my mind where there is always room and there is no charge for additional weight.

Sunday Night Book Group

2009-05-31T17:57:00.004-04:00

It is Sunday night and I am off to book group
Don’t get in my way
I need to be there come what may

I am off to book group
I don’t care if the kids are sick
I don’t care if I’ve got work to do

I am off to book group...with half the book read
The kitchen is a mess
The laundry is piled high
The phone calls aren't return

But I don’t care
Book group is for me
Book group is my free therapy

I’ll drink my glass of wine and chat with my girlfriends about:
kids, husbands, in laws, work, politics, art shows, theater, movies, old boyfriends, poetry, weight loss, weight gain, restaurants, schools, memories, old letters, aging parents, childbirth, menopause, thoughts, observations, religion, morals, ethics, cultural taboos.

And on occasion...the book.

It is Sunday night and I am here at book group
Reading to my friends whom I love and treasure
Like my favorite books.

The View From My Window

2009-05-31T04:11:00.001-04:00

Getting Ready to Say Goodbye to London
I know I am suppose to brush after every meal but in reality I brush twice a day – after breakfast and before bed. I have one of those fancy Braun electric toothbrushes. 2 minutes for the whole process, not including flossing. While I brush I look out the window of my bathroom attached to our bedroom in the loft.

A loft is what Americans would call the 3rd floor – or attic. When we bought our ca. 1911 house in London the loft was a scary place accessible only through a square hole in the ceiling from the floor below by way of a ladder. It was where the previous owners who had lived here for 50 years, Mr. and Mrs. Harvey, kept their old luggage, sledges (a remnant from when snow was more predictable in London), and ancient sports equipment. It was also where the open water tank was that was a catalyst for a series of bizarre dreams of open sewers and drowning rats – but that is another story.

When we bought our house in November of 2006 we ripped off the roof and built out the attic with dormers. A matching staircase was built from the first floor (US 2nd) to the loft complete with heart shaped cut outs on the banister. Now, the loft is where the master bedroom and en suite (US ‘adjoining’) bathroom are. The views are tremendous. It is our own private tree house looking out over the Memorial Gardens of the Hoop Lane Crematorium. .

I start brushing my teeth in the bathroom looking out the small window by the sink but my view is obstructed on the left by the gables that go over the storage room. I then walk into the bedroom with toothbrush still in mouth and look out. Directly behind our garden fence are three giant poplar trees. They remind me of France and the long driveways that lead up to the chateaus in the Loire Valley that are flanked on either side by rows of poplars. Last spring all the neighbors abutting the Memorial Gardens were sent notices from the Barnet Council saying there was a petition to cut down the poplars along with a number of other trees proposed by the Garden. A neighbor started a letter writing campaign and the tree cutters were denied. A victory for the trees! The Lorax would be proud.

The previous owner’s son told me that both of his parents were cremated there and they planted some flowering azaleas near the house in the memorial garden. I have tried to find them, but so far never have.

The first fall we lived in London, 2003, while Evan was at work and Josh was at school Simon and I would explore the area in his Maclaren buggy. One of the first places we found was the Memorial Gardens. At a year and a half he would toddle all over the gardens looking at the pretty flowers and smelling anything with color to see if it smelled nice.

From the window you can watch the appearance and disappearance of nearby buildings depending on the foliage. One of the buildings is St Jude’s on the Hill, an Anglican Church in the heart of the Hampstead Garden Suburb http://www.stjudes.org.uk/. Another one of the small buildings is the Children’s Gazebo. This is where parents, families, friends, relatives go to place flowers, stuffed animals and notes to children who have died. This view I will not be sorry to say goodbye to once we move, however it helps me keep things in check and reminds me to hug my boys a little harder and to keep my life in perspective and to appreciate the moments we are together because life is so fleeting.

I also look directly down on our own garden and see: the shed we all painted one Sunday in the spring when my brother and sister-in-law and niece use to live across town; the swing set where Josh and Simon and loads of their friends have spent hours swinging, playing and talking; the beds of flowers and trees I have planted these last couple of years; and the bamboo that is growing nicely in front of the playhouse. When we were designing the garden Simon really wanted to plant bamboo to attract pandas. The bamboo also acts as a hiding place so you can’t see the playhouse too well.

From my window I see our neighbor Julie’s apple tree (Bramley’s) and it is magnificent. She shares the bounty so I can make pies and she makes her apple jelly. She has a tire swing attached to a lower branch that is so inviting. At 87 she is rarely on the swing – but it is a fine invitation to her younger friends that she often entertains. In preparation for our moving I asked her if she would be interested in anything from our garden. We decided she should have the teak bench that was Mrs. Harvey’s since the two of them had a 50 year relationship and their sons had grown up together. Julie use to see Mrs. Harvey giving her lessons to her students sitting on the bench in the garden.

Over the next year the view as I brush my teeth will be changing – sometimes from morning until night. I won’t have memories associated with these particular views but I wonder what memories they will trigger during those 2 minutes twice a day. Maybe I will start brushing after lunch as well.

The Boys and the Obamas

2009-05-19T16:17:00.002-04:00

Dear family and friends,

Back story: When Evan realized President Obama would be in London for the G20 he got in touch with his contact from the White House Office of Scheduling and Advance whom he had worked with for the Presidential Inauguration at the White House to offer his assistance. Much to his surprise, they took him up on it and for the past 10 days Evan has been working for the WH Office of Scheduling and Advance in charge of the motorcade.

He got to fly in a Chinook on Saturday on the dry run from the airport to the embassy, he got to measure the gate at Buckingham Palace to make sure the big US car that was flown over would fit through (it didn’t, so they switched cars), he brought in our fancy coffee maker to the advance office so the other staffers (mostly marines and 20 something’s who get paid nothing) could get a cup of coffee for free rather than paying 2 pounds a cup around the corner, he got tours for Josh (simon was sick) of the cool cars and the embassy and last night…well…then there was last night…..

The President was doing a meet and greet at the American School in a closed event to just Embassy staff and their families. This is protocol so he can thank his employees who are working so hard abroad. Since Evan is a temporary employee of the White House, we were invited. There were about 1000 people in the gym. The President and Mrs. Obama (she was wearing a brilliant yellow dress with black cardigan) arrived and he spoke for about 10 minutes basically thanking all the career foreign service people for doing such an incredible job, being diplomats in all their dealings, for not much pay, and then he thanked them for bringing the children. It was about 9:15 in the evening at this point. He said he and Michelle were already missing their kids. But he reminded everyone that this is why we work so hard…for our kids. And to see them making connections and having experiences – makes it all worthwhile.

We then had the incredible honor of being escorted to a private foyer to meet the President. There were also two groups of police and Military Officers who were having their photos taken as well.

Yesterday afternoon the boys and I discussed the fact there was a chance we could meet the President and if there was a chance we need to be prepared. We practiced, “Hello President Obama it is an honor to meet you.” And then we practiced questions…just in case they had an opportunity. To the best of my recollection (I am still reeling and don’t know how much I was really paying attention because mostly I was thinking, “OMG we are meeting the President. OMG we are meeting the President” Luckily the boys were much better poised) this is how it went:

Pres: (to Simon) Well hello young man.
S: Hello Mr. President it is an honor to meet you.
P: And what is your name?
S: Simon
P : And how old are you?
S: 7 and I have a question for you
P: You do?
S Do you know what the state fish of Hawaii is?
P: (Big Smile) Well, I use to know. Let me think…the humuhumu isn’t it?
S: Well…it is the Humuhumunuku-nukuapua 'a
Michelle: the what?
S: the Humuhumunuku-nukuapua 'a
M: Can you say that again?
(lots of laughter and photos from paparatzi)
P: What a smart young man you are. How do you know that?
S: We are studying the ocean in school.

Josh: Hello Mr. President I am very proud to meet you
P: Hello there and what is your name
J: Joshua Martin Swart Grossman and I am in 5th grade here at the American School
P: Nice to meet you.
J: I have a question for you as well Mr. President.
P: Yes?
J; In 5th grade here at ASL the entire class is studying Africa and my research is on conflict diamonds. I wonder if you could tell me what your position is on the conflict and any thoughts you may have?

P: (Big smile, looking through out the room….) well, nobody briefed me on this one! (Smiling at Josh and looking very thoughtful) but that deserves a thoughtful answer because it is such a horrible issue. As you know there are many countries in Africa and many of them are involved and lots of people are being exploited and hurt in the process. I believe that the countries must come together to get a hold of the situation and that people should be careful and make sure that if they are buying diamonds they are only coming from areas that are being respectful and legal in their diamond production.

At that point I made a stupid comment about only buying cubic zirconium diamonds and we all got in position for the photo attached….

I can’t even being to tell you how high we are all flying today….

Xo, wendy

Confessions of a Pick Up Artist

2009-05-15T08:25:00.004-04:00

I pick people up. I always have. An old boyfriend use to accuse me of flirting all the time. I do, but I don’t discriminate and I don’t think of it as flirting. I am harmless. I chat.

I am one of those people who chat you up as you are waiting in line at the grocery store. And I am getting bolder as I get older.

It’s hereditary. One of my earliest childhood memories is of being in the line at the Red Owl grocery store in Minneapolis waiting for my mom as she chatted with her friend. Later in the car I would ask how she knew the person whom she was talking with and she would say she didn’t. “I just met her in line. I don’t even know her name,” confessed my mom. “What! Talk to a stranger?” I would reply in horror.

Quoting Holly Hobby and the decoupage plaque on our kitchen wall, mom would say, “There is no such thing as a stranger. Just an unmet friend.”

Holly Hobby has been following me around ever since.

When we first moved to London I tried to put my chattiness on hold. Chatting people up is not what you do in the UK. The moral code is to wait until you are introduced. It might be years until you meet your neighbors. The morning and afternoon 'school runs' are ridiculous. It took a good four months of walking by the same person every single day with our kids before she would give me the ‘Acknowledgement of Your Existence’ head bob.

Needless to say when you are at the Post Office nobody is introducing you to the person in front of you who is mailing a large parcel to West Africa. My inner brain chatter goes like this:

Mali. The African woman in front of me is mailing something to Mali. I have been to Mali. I bet nobody else in this whole post office even knows where Mali is! Should I use one of my 17 words of Bambara and say hello to her in her native tongue? She would be so surprised to have a middle aged white woman in the Jewish enclave of Golders Green speak a few words of her mother tongue. It is so cool to have stereotypes blown away. Do it Wendy. Do it. But then my cover is blown. American; the entire Post oOffice will know I am an American by my nice teeth and broad accent. Then they will blame me for George Bush and the war and British soldiers dying. They are still mad over the Revolution and our independence.

The line moves too fast and the opportunity is lost, but I was ready when I was in Sainsbury’s grocery store the next day.

I hate the Sainsbury’s at the o2 centre on Finchley Road. Big. Impersonal. Always moving the inventory around so they can frustrate the customers. Finally, I had finished my shopping. I was 2nd in line at Check Out Counter Number 2. What is that? The check out woman was singing to herself. Quietly singing, but singing never the less. I know that song, it is John Denver’s Back Home Again One of the first albums I ever owned was the John Denver Songbook. I even bought the music book with the money I saved up from babysitting so I could play my guitar with the door closed and pretend I was on stage with John.

She got to the second verse. She is faltering. She is losing it. She needs me! I stick my head around the person in front of me loading things onto the conveyor belt and offer up:

There's all the news to tell him, how'd you spend your time….

Needless to say by the time all my groceries were loaded into the shopping bags, we had made it through Annie’s Song and even a pretty good attempt at Thank God I’m A Country Boy. The other customers were amused and moving their lips to the words. I suggested we take over the PA system and be the live entertainment at Check Out Counter Number 2.

Maybe we could meet after her shift ended and we could pick up some extra cash busking at the Finchley Road Tube station.

She was Irish.

As we head out on the road this coming year one thing that worries me is of being lonely. Yes, there is Evan and the boys, but I need a good chat from time to time. But not to fear, I will just channel my inner Holly Hobby and remember I am only alone as much as I want to be. How does this sound, “So, have you ever seen the inside of an RV?”

The Morality of the RV

2009-03-28T11:15:00.002-04:00

I just looked at the photos of the tent cities that are popping up around the US. The Modern Day Hoovervilles. The New Jack Cities.

And what are we doing? We are about ready to have an adventure year and I feel as if I am rubbing our good fortune in the faces of the have not’s. There are people living in garden sheds in Sacramento for God’s sake! Who are we to go traipsing around looking for our own self absorbed spiritual enlightenment? Alright, maybe it is not as self indulgent as that but I can see the self-absorbed aspects pretty clearly.

The other question staring me in the face when I saw those photos was: Why are we considering a community service opportunity in India when there are people who need our help in the US? Is it too hard to volunteer at home? To see others in need in our own backyard? What are we running from?

When I worked for the Fund for Democratic Elections in South Africa - a US fundraising campaign based in Boston to raise money for Nelson Mandela’s election in 1994 - I worked with members of the anti-apartheid movement all over the US as well as with exiled ANC members who were living in the US. One guy, Rider, was in his late 20’s. He was an ANC youth fighter who was exiled to Zimbabwe. While in Zimbabwe he received a scholarship to study at MIT. One day we were talking about doing a literature drop to build a crowd for a rally we were having and he suggested we go to the top the tallest building in Boston, put all the leaflets in a metal trash can and explode it to send the leaflets falling all over the city. Instead we leafleted the student union, Massachusetts Avenue that runs through the MIT campus, and dorm rooms.

Rider asked me why so many white people wanted to help South African blacks when they weren’t interested in helping out the blacks in the US.

I love it when people question your motives and help you to reshape the way you look at things. Rider did, and continues to do this to me, with that one question.

My answer then still seems to hold true for me today – because it is easier. It is easier to clean other people’s houses then to clear out your own closets. You don’t have the life long memories attached to each article of clothing, each photos, and each single earring.

But our adventure in the RV can’t just be about seeing the scrubbed up, made for public consumption, gift shop and café version of the US. We need to see the truth and not just do the easy thing.

Will New Jack City and the garden sheds be on our list of things we want to see on our travels across the US? How can they not? It is the least we can do – to open our eyes, to hear the stories of the people who live there.

We need to see the reality to underscore and be aware of our good fortune and to see how we can help to be part of the movement to rebuild the US when we finally park the RV.

Flirting with Wife Swap

2009-03-16T06:08:00.002-04:00

Flirting with Wife Swap

Two years ago Evan and I received an email from the minister of our Unitarian Church. He was forwarding a request from someone whom he thought was a documentary film maker looking for families to interview regarding their beliefs and how you instilled religious values in your children and how religion is incorporated in your home.

Being the chatter, questioner and frustrated television personality that I am, I got in touch with the film maker. We had a fascinating conversation about religion in the UK, value- based decision making, how to raise children to care about others, the various cultural issues that come up raising children abroad, and how do you incorporate elements of the Jewish and Christian faith in the home. This was your basic 45 minute fun conversation with an interesting person who wanted to hear all about me and my family. I love talking about myself and my family. No wonder I loved it.

And then we got down to the nitty gritty.

She was working for a production company I had never heard of. And then I admitted I don’t watch television unless it was the children’s channels and Bob the Builder, Blue Peter, and Noddy were not on her affiliate. She told me she was a producer for Wife Swap. That meant nothing to me other than what immediately came to mind and the title was a little frightening. Was this some sort of Adult Channel? She mailed me some DVD’s of the show.

Evan and I watched Wife Swap. The kids watched Wife Swap. Evan thought we should do it. Josh, then 9, was chomping at the bit to do it, “I will be famous!” Simon, then 5, said “No way! I can’t be without you for a week.”

The concept of the show is to take two very different families and swap the mothers. The first week the family lives under the existing rules of the house as normal, the second week the New Mother can changes the rules so they are in line with her thinking. That is when the excitement starts.

Evan, my personal cheerleader, thought I would come across wonderfully and I could use my/our 15 minutes well and help show others what a fabulous job we had done as parents and how others could incorporate values into their home as well. All I could imagine was me screaming at someone on national television and people pointing out our house saying, “that is where the obnoxious Americans who did Wife Swap live.” Yes, we might be famous but it would be for all the wrong reasons.

Then the producer called back, and called back, and called again. She was so smooth, so complimentary, so interested in having us on their show. We took it to the next step. They sent a camera crew out to see how we would look on camera.

We passed the test. “You are naturals, the camera loves you!” said the Producer. Yes, we are ready for that close up.

Now the pressure was really on. The phone calls continued. Can we do it next month? If not then, when? We have the perfect (undisclosed) family for you to swap with.

Luckily we had a well timed dinner with my brother and sister-in-law who were living in London as well and some friends of theirs. Turns out the friend had worked at the same television production house and she talked sense into us. We would have no control over anything. Whatever the most controversial argument, whenever someone lost it – that would be the 5 second clip that would play over and over to get people’s interest in watching the programme. I understand. It is all about viewers and advertising. Why would I knowingly throw myself into the milieu? If we have a message we want to get out, write a book. Do it on our own terms. Write a blog!

The producer called again. This time I was ready and gave the firm, I really mean it this time, NO.

With our upcoming adventure I have thought about what it would be like to make this into a reality television show. Maybe we could sell this to someone. Maybe it would be lucrative enough so we could extend the adventure and do that Australia piece we just can’t afford. But why? Again all I can think about is all of us losing it and yelling obscenities at each other and never being able to get paid work again.

However if Good Morning America would like to do a few interviews – we are available. We have been told that the camera loves us!

Weird Al, Greg Brady, Me and my stuff.

2009-03-13T05:31:00.004-04:00

With the impending move I look at all our stuff differently. Mostly my thought process is, “how much will it cost to store this (fill in the blank with various household items) for a year?”

Do we really need “it”?

Can we eBay “it”?

When did eBaying turn into a verb?

If we sell “it” for 5 quid now on eBay, will we need to re buy some similar “it” when we eventually end up someplace?

And then there is Weird Al Yankovic's Ebay Song. My “it’s” will go along side Smurf Alarm Clocks and William Shatner’s toupee. I love Weird Al. I bet he doesn’t love me. But that is ok.

I keep hearing about Craig’s List and how you can buy some one else’s used “it” real cheap. Wouldn’t it be cool at the end of every block people could just put their things they want to get rid of in a box and other people could come and take it? I guess Craig thought the same thing.

Who Is Craig?

And then I start thinking about the Brady Bunch and then I remember his name was Greg not Craig.

Which then makes me think back to 1972 and Friday nights with Room 222, The Brady Bunch and Love American Style which was quite risque for it’s time. And then I think about London and Page 3 in the daily papers and all the exposed breasts and the British love of Fancy Dress and men in drag yet folks on the whole are quite buttoned up in terms of daily interactions.

And then I think about my wonderful friends and how it really takes a long time to have local British friends because they wonder if you are just passing through and is it really worth the investment when you will just be moving away.

And I put on a brave face and said, “But I am not moving away. I am stable. See, I plant perennials.” Oops.

Someone else will be enjoying my perennials. But that is ok. Because it still is adding enjoyment to someone. Maybe not me, not Greg Brady, nor Weird Al – but my neighbours.

And I wonder how another day has slipped by and I have still have yet to get anything done.

Out of Body Experience

2009-03-03T06:14:00.007-05:00

All I have done the last week is wander around the house putting things away in preparation for potential buyers. People come to a house wanting to imagine themselves living there and don't want to see the birthday party invitations on the fridge, the stupid postcard collection on the cork board, the book choices of the present occupiers next to the beds or god forbid their worn down toothbrushes next to the sink. We are not selling ourselves - merely the vessel we live in. Save the interesting tidbits for the dinner parties please.

But today my boys come home at 3:30 pm and then it is time for homework, haircuts and dinner - so the people coming at 5:30 and the next group at 6:00 might just have to deal with a bit of our reality. Perhaps we will save viola practice for after dinner.

It is interesting the reactions of the potential buyers. Besides the line about the Master Bedroom being too small (come on man! There is room for a queen size bed, two night stands a bookshelf - what else do people do in their bedrooms? Never mind....strike that.) many people have trouble with the fact we back up onto the WORLD FAMOUS HOOP LANE CREMATORIUM. Sigmund Freud and Anna Pavlova were cremated there for goodness sake - this is a shrine and they should be so lucky! The Memorial Gardens are beautiful and our view from our tree house bedroom is spectacular of the gardens, the poplars, the open fields. Clearly these people have issues with death.

I have also been very busy eating many little snacks of varying degree of healthiness and writing emails.

In reality, I have the attention span of a gnat. I am so overwhelmed with the Holy Trinity of Emotions -(1) profound sadness for leaving London after six years of really living; (2) terror of not knowing where we are going and where we will end up; and (3) excitement for the unknown and all the adventures that it holds in store for us.

I feel as if I am watching myself from the ceiling and man oh man, am I ever boring.

To quote Simon, "I feel like this (whole trip) isn't happening to me."

What is so weird is that when my brother Martin was tragically killed in a a horrible car accident in August of 1988 I also felt this way - like I was watching myself go through the motions from above. That summer I was living in Dallas, Texas with a lovely Democratic supporter of Mike Dukakis who had graciously donated her guest bedroom so I could live for free while I worked with the coordinated campaign led by Congressman Martin Frost's office for the election of Mike Dukaks and Lloyd Bentsen for President and Vice President.

At that point, I had been on the road for close to a year organizing various congressional districts from the corn fields of Kansas, to the beer drinking college town of Stevens Point, Wisconsin, to the dying coal town of Steubenville, Ohio. I arrived in Dallas for the general election and in August things were looking like we still might have a chance.

Barbara, my hostess, was a lawyer and a brilliant one at that, with a judgeship under her belt, a quiet yet mighty forcefulness to her voice, a dry wit, an artistic bent and her heart in the right place. Each morning she would go off to her office and I went to mine and rarely would I see her. Then one Tuesday afternoon she was in the campaign office. This wasn't all that rare and usually it meant something fun - a surprise check in or a quick bite for lunch so while I was surprised to see her, I was also excited. She was like an older sister and took her role seriously of watching over her 26 year old charge. But that Tuesday was different. She came to tell me about my brother. She hardly knew me. My mom had called her and asked her to tell me in person because my mom wanted to make sure I wasn't alone.

Poor Barbara to have to be the one to tell me.

But as soon as she told me I immediately felt a rush of noise in my ears that wouldn't go away for months. As I look back on it now I am on the ceiling watching myself on the floor looking up at Barbara, searching her face. Wondering how a woman whom I had known for less than a month could say the name of my brother whom she had never met. And now would never meet.

When Martin died at 28 he left behind his Korean wife Sang and their two children Amy was 3 and Luke was just 1. Martin was a bit of a wild man. He was the kid in high school who never wore shoes. He was smarter than his teachers and knew it. He jumped railroad cars and biked across the country more than once. He was the guy on skis that went straight down the mountain because turning was for wussies.

He wanted to be a millionaire by the time he was thirty to show my dad he could be successful without having gone to some fancy east coast college. And he did - he was only 28 and he was a millionaire when he died thanks to the highly exclusive and prestigious business of floor buffing and waxing.

Yesterday I got an email from Sang in response to our Big Announcement email. Sang wrote to say that Martin had wanted to do a trip like the one we are planning with her and Amy and Luke. Martin is going on this trip. He will be looking down at us as we are camping in the desert, protecting us as we drive over mountainous passages, and singing country western songs along with us as we listen to the radio. But he liked Merle Haggard and I prefer Hank Williams.

I guess life changing event and out of body experiences are par for the course and this means I am a mere mortal.

Time to go put away the toothbrushes.