Booty

River booty. I am river rafting down the Salmon River. The perfect trip. My husband, three of my four children, solitude, nature and someone else cooking the meals. One of the river guides is a muscular, handsome sixteen year old whom my six year old daughter has attached her self to. When given the chance, she snatches from his head a wonderful faded, khaki, safari hat. Perfectly worn, the combination of sun, water and wear, I understand why she goes for the hat. Or is it really theboy? Last day of the trip, we are docked, unloading and saying good-bye. My six year old is wearing the worn khaki safari hat. "Hey," I say, "give that back to John." John hears me but he wants her to have it. I insist that he take it back, but off he paddles, "It's river booty."

Beach booty. There is a long stretch of isolated California beach between two points of civilization, high-priced condominiums and a campground. One morning, a patch of turquoise blue catches my eye while running the beach. I turn around and pick up the sand encrusted bag. I wipe it off and find a soft suede pouch that reads Tiffanys. No way. Savoring the possibility of its contents, I keep running as fast as my imagination. Is it a large diamond, an emerald studded bracelet? A scorned lover's note is inside; she has reclaimed her independence by tossing his gift into the sea. There's a beautiful bracelet inside but the real jewel is the note.

Road booty. One morning I am home with a project of stapling six hundred pages. I don't have time for this but it has to be done. My first whack at the stapler and the staple emerges crooked and weak and the stapler is jammed. I pry it open to discover there are no staples. Still in my pajamas, 7:45 in themorning, I am driving my daughter to school. I pass in the road a shiny object that looks like a…no it couldn't be. I back up and closer to the shiny object, open the car door and lift with awe and reverence an office quality, brand new stapler full of staples. It's hard to imagine how a stapler landed here this morning; someone will miss it but if I leave it in the street it will be smashed unusable to anyone.

Give-Back Booty-Another beach walk, another day. I find a cap, dirty, filled with sand, Cayman Islands is embroidered on the front. I lovingly wash the sand out. It fits my head perfectly and has been worn to perfect softness. It is my favorite hat for years. One day, on a boat ride off the coast of Belize, the boat unexpectedly picks up speed and the hat is whipped from my head. I watch it fade into the wake. Easy come--easy go; hopefully, someone is feeling lucky.

The Discovery Channel--Live!

As we left the overly-abundant opulence of Hearst Castle, we made an unexpected discovery. There are no advertisements, no discount tickets, just a fascinating brush with nature. On Pacific Coast Highway 1, just 7.7 miles from San Simeon is a small stretch of beach named the Piedras Blancas Seal Rookery. It is a year round home to California’s enormous, Dr. Seuss looking, elephant seals.

Our arrival was mid-July; my husband and I were drawn to the northern California coast to drop our daughter off at EFY Santa Barbara, do some ocean kayaking and visit friends in Santa Cruz.

We pulled off the highway, enticed by a small sign announcing the rookery. Would we really be able to see, in their natural environment, a herd of elephant seals? We were joyously greeted with the sight and smell of hundreds of these sometimes-5000 pound beasts.

The Northern Elephant Seal or Mirounga angustirostris migrates thousands of miles twice a year to this small stretch of protected beach. Yet, there is year round activity and like all courses of nature, there are seasons for breeding, birthing, molting and even a male-dominance contest season. Our mid-July discovery was molting season, yet there were seals of all sizes including pups. We witnessed several sea battles though they seemed to be practice sessions.

Unless you are a die hard, wild animal-nature lover, the Piedras Blancas is not a Disneyland, a fabulous beach destination,-- nor a drawing card of its own. But it is one part of several that make a great vacation. Next: Santa Cruz Island or Channel Islands National Park.

Honestly, everytime I open up a well packaged box and find foam and cardboard used to protect the merchandise, I get a thrill.
My thoughts are, "This would make a great Barbie bathtub!" Look at the photo above: it looks like a faux stone barbie garden bench. The photo below would make a great hot tub!

Every Man Is Still A Little Boy

Little Thoughts on a Sunday Morning

Sunday morning on NPR there was an interview with evangelist Jim Wallis. I was moved by his quote, "hope is believing when there is no evidence and watching the evidence change." (It may be paraphrased). I am thankful for thoughts that provoke my contemplation. I realized that the evidence may not be what changes but our perception or our mind and heart's willingness to accept the previous unacceptable.

As I drove down the hill Sunday morning, I remembered the snowstorm the day before when my car couldn't make it up the hill. I didn't have the necessary 4-wheel drive to make it. My life is like climbing hills and my lack of 4-wheel drive was a moment of clarity that made me want to always have the right tools to climb the steep hills. Some of those tools are: prayer, scripture reading, love, humility...

A Donkey In The Kitchen Cupboard

My generous mother and father had the woodcarver make this nativity set. The last few years it has sat on the living room coffee table. My two and then three year old grandson would go into the living room and play with the pieces. I emphasized that he needed to be gentle with the woodcarvings and his nature was to comply. The set is so large that I wouldn't have noticed if a piece was missing, but weeks after my grandson played with the set, I opened a kitchen cupboard and found the donkey. I giggled and giggled and told everyone about it. What was his little mind thinking?
It's been two years and besides being a beautiful work of art, the nativity set has tremendous value because, 1) it is a treasured gift from my parents and 2) my continual delight from the memory of my grandson putting the donkey in the kitchen cupboard.
Only once or twice, but admitted with shame, I tried to clean up the clutter in a daughter's bedroom without her. I was indiscriminate as to what had to go and what stayed. I didn't take into account what objects had value because of my daughter's experience with the object: where or whom it came from, or how it came into her possession. When I tackled clutter with my daughters, I was always surprised what was allowed to stay or go.
This came full circle when I visited an aquantance's new home. The woman has a beautiful new home that she has decorated with objects that are old, worthless and distracting from the decor of the home. But it was what she values-neither I nor any visitor to her home understands the story behind the plaque or the dime-store painting. I finally understood that beauty is indeed in the eye and the heart of the beholder.

Imaginary Christmas Gifts

Inspired by Christmas lights this evening, I was taken back to Christmas 2004. Our gift to our family was ten days on Anini Beach, Kauai. It was understood that presents would not be exchanged.

On the eve of Christmas, we roasted hot dogs and s'mores on the beach, decorated a fallen branch and hung stockings (anklets and sports socks) around the coffee table. Each person was instructed to give each other two gifts that would be described on simple squares of paper. The first gift was something you could buy but was unlimited by cost. You could give a gift worth millions or even billions. Some of these gifts were: a fleet of airplanes for a business, unlimited travel to any and all destinations, an island, etc. The second gift could have no physical constraints and was something that could not be purchased with money: a cure for diabetes, healthy curly haired children, a gift of scripture knowledge, peace and contentedness, etc.

Were traditional gifts missed? No. Not on a Hawaiian beach. We learned what we value and what our family members value. Preeminent was that we valued each other.

Art Has A Mind of its Own

I believe that all things have two creations, a spiritual and a physical. Things are first born in our minds; they come to us as a thought, an impression or an image. To act on these whisperings completes a circle . The spiritual creation may have more power or life than we realize. You hear authors say that their character was always there, waiting for a writer to bear witness of her existence. When the author tried to change a personality trait or correct an action, the command of the character claimed otherwise.
My stained glass window, recently finished, seemed "to be." Whether it was deep in my self-conscious or really existed on a plane that I do not understand, the piece of art took its own direction and became what it was always meant to be. Michelangelo said that his sculptures already existed in the marble.

I hadn't meant the tree trunk to be a woman, but she became one. I hadn't meant for the light green sphere to be her humble, bowing head. I hadn't meant for the spheres to be the many burdens she carries on her back; but the joyful colors symbolize that her burdens are also her joys. The stained glass art has become more than glass cut and fused together; it is a creation and when we understand this we see the beauty in all creations, a business, a bridge, a life-- for we understand that art or creation has a mind of its own.

Sister Will You?

Sister,

Sister, will you? Let me be the princess, keep all my secrets safe and sound, be my best friend forever?

When I saw these words painted on the wall of a bedroom shared by sisters, my heart eclipsed my age and all the vulnerability, loyalty, trust, responsibility and dependance of being and having sisters, returned.

It was only the first 18 years of our lives that we shared intimately with each other. That is, in the same house, with the same parents, the same trips to Disneyland and Yellowstone, the same Sunday afternoon trips to Baskin-Robbins, the shared memories of Christmas presents, cousins and dachsund puppies.

It has now been 27 years that I have shared the house with my husband, the dinner table, clothes and hair brushes with my own daughters. Time spent with sisters are weekends, holidays, or milestones: mother's upcoming 7oth birthday party-- yet there is always a place in my heart for my sisters.

Expecting the Worst From the Best

My latest pursuit of seeking a teaching certificate put me smack in the middle of 7th grade. Again. And it's funner the second time.
This time I came to seventh grade with:

• zero self-conciousness,
• sure knowledge that seventh grade is a sliver in time,
  
• twenty-six years of mothering,
  
• knowledge that bad behavior doesn't mean bad, and if you get in a photograph with seventh grade boys, YOU WILL BE BUNNY EARED.

But it IS what I expected and that is why the photo is so endearing. It is the same reason that we compassionately hold babies that cry, forgive children that say "I hate you mom," and keep our cool after our sixteen-year-old's first car accident. It is what we expect and we are prepared for these moments.

Because I expected to be bunny eared I did my best to prepare. In the moment before the photo was shot, I thought I could swat away their attempts; but I only made it more fun...which leads me to conclude, expect the worst in the best, prepare the best you can, then smile and say cheese.

As a young mother I decided there were two gifts I would do everything in my power to give my children. My children would be strong swimmers and strong readers.

Consciously and unconsciously, I had seen the consequences of children who lacked these skills. I remembered friends who had to hold back because they weren’t at ease in the water and children held back because they stumbled on words.

My children are fish. My children are great readers. I discovered that two of my daughter’s speed read without even realizing their skill. All of my daughters are as comfortable in a cold ocean as a warm bath.

Their swimming skills came easy; their reading skills did not always come as easy. I’ve had two reluctant readers and two children who were frustrated by words they couldn’t easily sound out. One summer a daughter and I started over with basic vowel sounds. I am forever grateful for Grant Von Harrison’s big blue reading book.

This September I came back to school to earn my teaching certificate. In what I see as a teacher’s equivalent to a doctor’s rotation, I am currently spending three weeks in a junior high school. The two classes I help with and learn from, are Reading 180 classes. The classes are for children who fell short on their reading proficiency exams. The extra attention is to help them become better readers…and supposedly it works. But in the meantime…after two days, I am even more convinced that the greatest gift a parent can help their child acquire is the gift of proficient reading. I am seeing the insecurities and the undermining labels that kids stick on themselves. It may take extra work to help a child love reading, but every child deserves that work.

A few suggestions that originate with my own mother:

• · Take your children to the library and let them pick out any and all books.

• · Read to them before bedtime, when they are open to any delay. Not only do your children gain reading skills but important and positive reading/memory connections are made. I treasure the memory of discovering Tuck Everlasting with my daughter Jillian.

• · Give books as birthday and Christmas presents.

• · Insist that fathers read to children. Studies show children are more likely to read when fathers are an example. My husband loved reading the Chris Van Allsburg picture books to our little ones.

• · Investigate the best books for your children like you’re investigating the best price on a loan. There are a multitude of websites, columns, librarian lists, and librarians, with suggestions books for children's different tastes.

• · If your child is reading resistant with you, enlist the help of others. One summer my creative sister turned reading with my daughter, into an adventure. They hopped into the elevator, got off and read, got on the elevator to the next floor and read some more.

o My fifteen-year-old next door neighbor is reading two times a week with a neighbor’s son. When he finishes a book, she has a mini-candy bar for him.

• · There are alternatives to books: a friend made sure he bought car magazines for his teenage son who wouldn’t read anything else.

• · A poster board: Color the poster board like a Candy land board game. At the end of the boxes, where you have written in the titles of books read, is a reward. A big reward: cupcakes, new shoes, lunch out with mom, picnic in the canyon, a new book from the bookstore, Disneyland!

• · Support the book fairs at your school. Order from the school book orders-the prices are right and it is exciting to receive new books during school.

• · Do not be ashamed that your child is having difficulty reading—get help. There are resources galore. The earlier the intervention the better.

• · Do not depend on the school system. You are your children’s advocate!

• · Always remember: reading is one of the greatest gifts we possess. It is a lifelong needed skill. Without reading skills, a person’s life can be limited.

All I Want For Dinner Is...

My mother confesses to me one day, with only mild shame, that after dropping my father off at the airport, she headed straight to the local pie shop. Knowing that she would be home alone for the entire weekend, she purchased a fresh peach pie. She went home and had a piece for breakfast, a piece for lunch and a piece for dinner. This eating habit continued until the whole pie was gone, which happened to coincide with my father’s return.

I find my mother isn’t alone. In the coziness of a front porch on a summer’s eve, my aunt confesses similar eating habits. After years of cooking for a large family, she now lives alone and has the freedom to eat whatever she wants, whenever she wants. She doesn’t realize how envious I am and how I look forward to the time when I can eat cake for dinner and won’t have to hide the M&M’s I’m eating for breakfast. But, for now I must act like a mother, the Trojan horse responsible for my family’s well-being and health. I will continue spending endless hours washing lettuce, boiling brown rice, sautéing onions, garlic and garden tomatoes, when all I really want for dinner is cookie dough or Breyer’s Bing Cherry ice cream.

Some mother’s I learn, create a loophole that allows them to retain their healthy-eating-habits-mother status while indulging in forbidden foods. My friend complains to her mother how her own children eat all the “good food” and she never gets any. Her mother confesses to harboring a secret snack stash for years. She calls it her “cheap therapy.”

Perhaps this desire is passed from mother to daughter. One night I make a wonderful dinner of steamed broccoli, cauliflower, rice, and marinated chicken. I call the children to dinner and my youngest daughter arrives first. “What’s for dinner?” she asks with suspicious accusation. I repeat the menu of which I am quite proud. She puts her hands on her hips and declares, “But I wanted rice pudding!” Knowing just how she feels I answer, “Someday you can!”

Postscript: I know what all you health minded people are thinking-- the way I really want to eat will drastically affect my health and well being, and I will be prone to excessive lethargy; but then again-- no one will know how often I nap.

The Boomerang Principle

A long time ago, I was on a hike with a large group of young girls. There was a girl behind me, and no matter how hard I tried-- I could not get away from her. She was loud and a stream of obnoxious expressions raced from her mouth. At one point I almost said something; but I refrained. Four years later, I am teaching a class and the little girl on the hike has grown into a shy, respectful young woman. I remember her so well; thank goodness she doesn’t have a reason to remember me.

This is only one incident that illustrates a frequent occurrence in my life—what I have termed as the boomerang principle: “There is a universal rule that relationships with people, if they are amiss or awry in any way, will return to straighten themselves out.”

Another convincing case in point: I had a horrible dental experience, (the details are another story). Unfortunately, I spent too much time hating the dentist. I wanted to hang the equivalent of a Scarlet A on his office door.

A few years later we had a realtor appointment to see a home for sale because of a family split. As we walked through the house, I noticed a few family pictures and the father was sadly familiar—the dentist. After we bought the house, I learned things about the dentist’s life that allowed me to trade my anger for compassion.

Last night it happened again—but with a different twist. Two years ago, I took a friend’s English classes at the high school while she had a baby. I started the school year with what I considered my classes. There was a young man on my roll who never showed up. I wondered what to do but mostly I worried about him. I inquired into his whereabouts. One young woman explained that he wasn’t in a good place. Should I go to his house? Contact his parents? I was soon caught up with 180 students. Five short weeks later, my time was up. I didn’t have time to find the boy, but over the years I have wondered about him. Two nights ago, he showed up at my house. The name was familiar but it took me a day to realize this was the lost young man. The next time he came over, I sat him down and told him my concern for him over the last few years. No, he hadn’t been in a good place, but things had changed. And he told me, the incident meant a lot to him.

What was the message this time? Did I not follow my gut the first time? Would it have made a difference? I don’t know, will never know…but the boomerang principle brought him back, if for only a moment—to give me another chance to let the boy know that I cared.

Closing the Pool

Every spring, we open the pool: a phone call to the pool man, turn the heater on, scrub the deck and the pool cover; children so anxious for water play that they swim in Arctic temperatures.
Every fall we close the pool: call the pool man, stack the cushions and pool toys into the pool house, wash and store the beach towels. The children complain, but they are back in school and have tired of swimming.
This year the pool man came while I was gone. Later that day, I went to check if the pool was shut down for the year.
And I sat down and cried.
I remembered too clearly the past spring when we opened the pool. I remembered too clearly the children, years earlier, toddling through my life.
I grasped that if I blinked, it would be time to re-open the pool, or see another daughter's marriage, another child's high school graduation.
Matthew Arnold, the English critic/poet wrote in 1851, "Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. Sopphocles long ago Heard it on the AEgean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow..."
...of my life; only the ebb and flow (and passing) of my life is measured "by the closing of the pool."

When A Door Closes

Is it Why?

Today I stood before a class of high school sophomores teaching from author Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451. We were discussing the elements of a timeless book and the reasons for reading a book written in 1953. "Could it be, in part, that Bradbury accurately saw the future?" I asked. Together we read this passage from page 73:

We've started and won two atomic wars since 1990! Is it because we're having so much fun at home we've forgotten the world? Is it because we're so rich and the rest of the world's so poor and we just don't care if they are? I've heard rumors; the world is starving, but we're well fed. Is it true, the world works hard and we play? Is that why we're hated so much?"

I then asked the students how many of them knew about Darfur Sudan? Three of the twenty-nine students raised their hand. Even I was surprised.

The Yin and Yang of Marriage or The Before and After

My phone is out, so I walk up the hill to borrow my neighbor’s phone. While I am there, she shows me the finishing touches of a twelve month remodel that left their home in chaos. But today she is putting it back together and it looks lovely. “Yes, she comments, I’m even ready to forgive my husband.” This is funny because I can relate. Less than a year ago we finished with our nine month kitchen remodel that should have taken two months. When it was all done and absolutely beautiful, my husband said, “Thank-you, I’m really glad we did this, it’s beautiful.” I should have said, “your welcome, but inside I seethed with resentment. From the beginning concept until the day we finished, he was the Thomas, the black cloud to creativity and vision. But he probably is the reason we finally finished; and the reason we are not tearing the wall out of the laundry room and redoing the master bath. My neighbor points out that she is like my husband and I am like hers; or he is the yin and I am the yang: the balance that brings some kind of normalcy to a house remodeling job, or a marriage.

Our conversation continues on the importance of this balance. “Because, “I point out, “you know the couple who don’t have the yin and yang and their house is in perpetual disarray. There is always a project, an improvement and there isn’t a partner who screams “stop.”

“And,” she adds, “you know the couple who never makes any changes, you can walk into their home and say, “1970’s.”

I walk back down the hill that day aware the yin and yang in marriage, and the need for balance, or the right balance. After all, balance is what makes a teeter-totter ride so fun and a tug of war that never ends.

Before: The brown and dark kitchen, After: The white and bright kitchen.

A Vivid Dream

This morning I was awoken by the gentle nudge of my daughter. It took a moment to realize my ride over the ocean had abruptly ended.

I exclaimed with joy when describing the magical dream to my daughter: "I was holding on to the end of a flying carpet with my parents and a sister sitting in front of me. The ocean and coastline were alive with people engaged in playful activity. We flew past an airplane structure with a man in old-fashioned flying goggles and scarf. A gust of wind took my cowboy hat made of stiff white lace. My sister chided me for not holding onto my hat. I watched the hat swirl with the wind until it landed perfectly on the head of a child walking in the surf." This is where the dream was interrupted.

"Everything was so vivid and real," I continued my explanation, "It was more real than the Flight of the Condor at California Adventure/Disneyland."

"Perhaps," my daughter suggested, "you had a glimpse of heaven."

When you lose your (tennis) life, you find it.

Outwardly, I tried to appear happy when my 14 year old daughter told me she was going to take up tennis with the intent of making the high school junior varsity team.

She had been a good soccer player but was consistently injured while playing the game. The day came when we had to consider the long-term effect of these injuries. I loved watching her play and I enjoyed being with her and her peers while driving them to soccer games. I was as disappointed as she was when she quit the team.

I was rooting for volleyball to be her new sport. The opponents were safely on the other side of the net. I could sit in the consistent climatic comfort of a gym. No more huddling in a down blanket in October.

I wasn't happy about tennis because I knew what it would mean for me: playing tennis again.

The day before she made her tennis announcement I had decided that I hated tennis and would never play again. I had spent my youth playing tennis; tournaments, invitationals, a ranking in my home state, tennis teams, teaching tennis, a tennis life.. So why was I hating tennis? I was used to a certain level of tennis playing. Over the years I played less and less and got worse and worse. Tennis was no longer fun, and my husband was starting to beat me.

But...my daughter means more to me than my own life. I kept my anti-tennis resolution to myself and agreed to work hard with her in her tennis pursuits.

We spent hours on the court, sometimes twice a day; but it wasn't playing tennis, it was helping my daughter.

I analyzed and critiqued; I picked up balls while she practiced her serve or hit on the ball machine. I modeled footwork and strokes. As I transferred my knowledge to her, as her game improved, without intention or realization I was improving my own game.

In the week before tryouts, she started to play with friends who were anxious to make the tennis team too. Four days passed after playing twice a day matches, when she didn't have anyone to play with. "Mom, can we go play tennis?"

My opponent stood across the net. She hit her first ball. It came at me fast; I sent it back. I got my racket back sooner, stood on my toes ready for the return. It came, it went back. With a four day hiatus I came back to the court with fresh eyes. My daughter had dramatically improved, but so had I. We had become worthy opponents and we were having fun. It crossed my mind that maybe I liked tennis again.

The Need For Beauty

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For almost ten years we have lived in a home with a beautiful view from four stories including the lower-level pool. For ten years I have been trying to imagine something beautiful for our concrete wall. I finally imagined a possibility for beauty. The desire for beauty drove me to scoop shells and carry them back in overweight suitcases. It took me weeks to clean and dry the shells, all the while, my ideas were percolating. And then, like a driven artist, I smeared outdoor tile mud and created a mosaic of beauty. The satisfaction was exhilerating-- I believe, in part, because creation is a God-like endeavor. He is the creator of universe and life and when we create, even in the smallest way, we are given a glimpse into the satisfaction of a God-like attribute.

In the Land of Pomme Frites and Chocolat

I am awakened by the clip clop of a horse drawn carriage on the cobblestones below. When I pull back the red velvet curtain, my eyes delight in architecture that economic decline preserved for four centuries. If imagination could magically transport, I would be in sixteenth century Belgium.

We could have stayed at a modern hotel but we carefully chose a place consistent in character with the ancient Brugge. From internet pictures and descriptions, we picked the Hotel Rolais, a five hundred year old building with a canal view, admirable wood floors and picturesque windows. The cab who drops us off at the hotel confirms, “You’re staying at the best place in Brugge.”

Most people come to Brugge Belgium for one or two night’s stay. We have come for three—ample time to experience every secret place, every chocolatier and every french fry (pomme frite) stand throughout the city. By our second day, we have learned that it is foolish to dine on anything but chocolate and French fries, because we will never taste any that are better. We stay relatively healthy by our transportation of bikes and eating a healthy breakfast: Yoghurt, which has always been superior to America’s, topped with muesli and fresh fruit.

Our favorite fry stand is located in the Market Square. You can never get lost in Brugge because all roads lead back to Market Square. We order our frites with three sauces: yellow curry, ketchup curry, pepper sauce and loads of onions. Dinner’s finale is a truffle that requires the indulgent to stop and remain silent until every morsel is properly relished.

Truffles are not all that you find in chocolate shops. A recurring theme in almost every chocolate shop are the life size female breasts formed from chocolate. As we stood in line for our thrice daily dose of chocolate we listened as an English woman asked if the shop sold body chocolate paint. The saleswoman said she had never heard of it—surely a city that takes their chocolate so serious would never waste it on body painting.

I always say when traveling to Switzerland, France or any other country known for their exquisite chocolate that I will bring an extra suitcase just to bring home chocolate; but I have never indulged my extra suitcase fantasy. I think it is because European chocolate is more than a taste sensation. It is the counter woman who politely tolerates your French II language abilities, it is nibbling your truffel beside the canal on a tree lined street, it is the uniqueness of the shop’s display--it is the pure pleasure of riding your bike down an ancient street, stopping on a whim for a truffle and then doing it all over again on the next street. I have never brought the extra suitcase because certain things are exquisite because they don't last forever-meals of french fries, chocolate and bike riding on cobblestone streets, which are all hard on the human seat after three days.

Flexibility

Recently, while traveling through Northern California, we came to a standstill in Friday traffic leaving Santa Cruz. My husband suggested that since we weren't going anywhere, anyways, that we might as well stop for dinner. I looked up at the green board that listed the next three destinations, "Capitola," I cried, "I have always wanted to see Capitola." We veered off the freeway and found Capitola to be a beautiful beach community but lacking a restaurant that appealed to us from the windows of our car. By now traffic had cleared a bit and we traveled on taking a shortcut through Castroville. Castroville appeared to be the artichoke growing capital of California and appeared to have the flavor of a little town in Mexico. Hence, we stopped at Arnaldo's, for a little Mexican cuisine.--Where we discovered a delicious artichoke heart appetizer. We also rediscovered what all good travelers know---Flexibility and spontaneity are the keys to a joyful travel experience.

Which led me back to this visual image that I keep in my favorite photo brain file.

The girl in the tan pants with a purple belt, Breanne, exudes the idea of flexibility, both literally and figuratively. The photo is a peak through the fence slat at girl's camp: a five day retreat into the wilderness--cabins, campfires, canoeing. The girls are competing in a fire building competition and they won.

Breanne is a dancer which gives her the flexibility to bend over the fire ring. But her position is only the fruit of her enthusiastic engagement.

So, when I think of flexibility: traveling, motherhood, relationships, life in general; I think of Breanne in her fire ring plie.( Can't figure how to add the French accent on plie, but of course you don't mind because you too are inspired by her position to be flexible).

Annika and the Book

In the corner of the family room is a roomy chaise with crawl-on-access for a one-year-old. A big picture window backlights the chaise. When I walk into the room, the chaise whispers, “have a seat.” To the side of the chaise is a bookshelf and a cupboard filled with children’s books. When I sit on the chaise, I am immediately dog piled by two adorable children who see my physical presence on the green chaise as an invitation to read. Because I am their grandma with an agenda that only includes them, I sit down to read.

This love of books is not limited to the green chaise. When sixteen-month-old Annika goes about her business, it is usually with a book. Out of the chaise, up the stairs, out the back door, onto the deck, into the yard—all these movements are made holding a book. She is a version of Harold and the Purple Crayon: Annika and the book. From a book loving woman, whose mother was a book loving woman, whose daughter is a lover of books--to watch my granddaughter carry her books around with the importance of a purse, brings joy and laughter.

At least once a month for the last thirty-five years, my mother, aka, Annika’s great grandmother, has received a book in the mail from her Book of the Month Club. When I was a child, she would perch herself at the edge of the snack bar, indulging her joy but still readily available to her children. I always received a book or two for Christmas and birthdays. My mother bought books and took us to the library, a legacy that continues with my grandchildren: books from the library, books from book fairs, books from the bookstore, books for birthdays, books for fun, books galore for everyone!

You can never spoil a child with books; you only spoil them when they are not surrounded by books.

Fight the Beetles( not a rock group)

Almost every year for the last twenty years, I have had the joy of attending Camp MIA Shalom with a group of 12-18 year old girls. Like its name suggests, it is a place of peace. It is a place of towering pines and spruce, aspen families, wild flowers and patches of early summer snow on the north facing slopes. It is the place where we race canoes, sing around the campfire, and learn how to build fires. On a ridge overlooking the camp is where we hiked with bags of concrete and a wheelbarrow of water to place a plaque commemorating the life and death of a young woman who once reveled in the joy and peace of Camp Shalom.

Last year, the caretakers of the camp warned us about the absence of trees that were cut in an attempt to curtail the destruction caused by a native bark beetle. The trees, weakened by drought were left vunerable to the beetle invasion. It wasn’t so bad because we were still surrounded by life and its color of green. But this year, the destruction was so prevalent, the colors of gray and brown, I could hardly look at the surroundings without a feeling of deep remorse.

Camp Shalom rests in the Fairview Canyon Mountains in Utah. Utah’s forests have been hard hit by this bark beetle. When pondering the investment of a cabin, a friend warned us to buy in the Aspen forests and not the pines because of their probable destruction.

In the Brianhead ski resort, my sister-in-law owns a cabin that sits peacefully in a grove of skyscraper fir trees. But her cabin is the exception. The previous owner paid to have her cabin property sprayed with insecticide and the trees were saved.

Beetles have not been content to only ravage our forests. The Japanese beetle a non-native species, was recently cited in the center of my small city, Orem Utah. I read of its arrival in the bill that I receive for my water and garbage charge. An intense pesticide spraying is planned in the next month. “Ok,” I thought, “they’ll spray and all will be well,” but the information was followed by the consequences. Fruits and vegetables in the infested area could not be harvested for 3 years.

I learned today that my friend who lives twenty minutes away in Sundance (film festival and of Robert Redford fame), is part of an effort to place pheromone traps among the trees that for now, deceive the dastardly beetles. She prompted me and my neighbors to contact the forest service and project a plan for next spring to protect our priceless trees, the raspberries I pick every morning, the grass I so enjoy beneath my bare feet.

I am unsure of the right way to fight an insect invasion. I fear the use of pesticides but I fear the loss of forests, trees and landscapes. I believe that awareness is a key to preservation and my thoughts are a small but crucial contribution to awareness.

Here's To Good Sons-In-Law

I didn’t raise them; I didn’t choose them. I knew they would eventually enter my life, but imagining their existence, was as impossible as grasping old age when you're a twenty-year-old. Unlike hindsight which holds memories, hope and experiences for future application, foresight is imagined images and what-ifs that flutter in and out like a butterfly through the yard.

I remember praying once (only once?) that the boys, who would someday become mine by marriage, were becoming good men. Were their mothers teaching them to be gentle, responsible and kind? Were their fathers showing them how to work, love and care? Were they learning from their mistakes? Did they think about my daughters in the abstract kind of way in which they were thought of?

~~~

In hindsight, it might have been difficult for my sons-in-law to want to be my sons-in-law. I try to see this from their point of view:"She did not raise us and we did not choose her. We fell in love with her daughters. We never even thought about a mother-in-law."
Pre-marriage, I was a little hard on them. I wanted them to marry my daughters because they couldn't imagine life without them, not because they had a great mother-in-law. My reasoning is a bit self-centered but it was important that these young men loved and married my daughters in spite of their mother.
There was one man in particular who needed a family and we were his substitute. The relationship between him and my daughter lasted longer than it should have--because he had become a part of our family. As a result, my reticence towards these sons-in-law was a test as old as the knight in shining armor who must pass through the roadside quicksand, the poisonous trees in the forest and the fire breathing dragon(me).

I just spent the weekend with my daughters and sons-in-law and I really like them —these sons-in-law. Unlike love, which is a requirement and a natural spring that flows from a good mother, like is not a requirement—it is a bonus in the familial order of things. And I like them for more reasons than the all encompassing one of treasuring my daughters. I like who they are, what they do, how they love and how they respond. I can never underestimate the value of a good son-in-law.

Sister, Will You?

Sister,

Sister, will you? Let me be the princess, keep all my secrets safe and sound, be my best friend forever?

When I saw these words painted on the wall of a bedroom shared by sisters, my heart eclipsed my age and all the vulnerability, loyalty, trust, responsibility and dependance of being and having sisters, returned.

It was only the first 18 years of our lives that we shared intimately with each other. That is, in the same house, with the same parents, the same trips to Disneyland and Yellowstone, the same Sunday afternoon trips to Baskin-Robbins, the shared memories of Christmas presents, cousins and dachsund puppies.

It has now been 27 years that I have shared the house with my husband, the dinner table, clothes and hair brushes with my own daughters. Time spent with sisters are weekends, holidays, or milestones: mother's upcoming 7oth birthday party-- yet there is always a place in my heart for my sisters.

The Quality of Mercy

The quality of mercy is not strain'd
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown'
His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings:
But mercy is above this sceptred sway,
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself,
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice

I had been memorizing this Shakespeare sonnet From The Merchant of Venice without realizing at that very moment that mercy was walking up my front porch stairs. My doorbell rang and a familiar, well loved young man stood before me. He was off again on a foreign adventure with a humanitarian side and was short of funds. Each student had been assessed an extra cost to help improve a South American school. I told him we would help but I would like our gift to be a family decision. He reacted a little uncomfortably and said that he had to have the money by tomorrow. I assured him that our family would "talk about it tonight and call him back."
My husband and I discussed our young friend's dilemma and decided how much to give. He hadn't planned well but we felt the need to extend mercy. The next day the young man returned to pick up his donation. I handed him the fraction of what he needed, but, perhaps more than he expected, and he responded without hesitation, "I love you." I was so moved that I told him to, "Give me a hug." When we embraced, "It blesseth him that give and him that takes," whispered in my mind.

Coincidence

Julie has been my friend for thirty years. When she told me she was going to remarry, I was thrilled for her and an offer to host a bridal shower sprung from the love I felt for her.

Months passed and I had spontaneously enrolled in three university classes. Shakespeare, young adult literature and a technology class had taken over my life. When the time came for Julia’s shower I knew it would be a stretch. The night before the shower, my daughter injured her foot in a competitive soccer game. She wanted to go to the emergency room but the coach encouraged us to use ice and heat alternatively and wait a few days. The next morning my daughter slept in but when she awoke, I didn’t know what condition she would be in. I didn’t know if she would be able to walk, if she would be in pain, or if I would have to take her to the hospital.

The women gathered at eleven a.m. for brunch. It was a lovely day. I had prepared all week so the event wasn’t overwhelming and everything was going smooth. When Julia arrived, she inquired about each of my children. I told her of the injured soccer foot and she quickly mentioned that her fiancée would be dropping by and he could look at it.

I had only met Bill once and had forgotten that he was a doctor. Regardless of Julia’s offer, I knew how some doctor’s feel about treating out-of-office-friend’s children. I didn’t count on Bill looking at my daughter’s foot.

At party’s end, Julia remembered and asked Bill to look at the injury. He knelt down next to her, took her foot in his hand and proceeded to ask her details about the injury. Julia sided next to me and said, “You know this is Bill’s specialty, he’s a sports injury doctor.” No, I hadn’t known.

Within a few moments Dr. Bill identified the injury and with a positive diagnosis, told us we should see our doctor if it didn’t heal within the week.

I looked at the moment, the stress, the sacrifice, and my determination to give to Julia in the days before she began her life with Bill. I felt overwhelmed by the circumstances and blessing of what she was able to give back. It was really a remarkable coincidence, but then…What is a coincidence?

Do Unto Others

We are vacationing with a group of friends. Each family is staying at their own beach house which are linked together like gems on a bracelet. Our family stops at the real estate office where we pay our balance of the rent and receive the key to our beach cottage. We are happily moving in when our friend and neighbor for the week stops by, his nerves a little on edge. He is without the key to his cottage and stops to count his money on our kitchen counter. It turns out he has forgotten his checkbook and if he uses all his cash to pay the rent he will have only a few dollars left for his family’s vacation. We, however, have our checkbook and much to our friend’s discomfort, we insist on writing a check for him. He is embarrassed and reluctant to accept even though he realizes it is his only alternative. He concedes only because he is in a bind. I want to put him at ease and so I ask him, “Would you do the same for us?” I recognize in his relief that he would be happy to help us out had we forgotten our checkbook. With this new perspective, his worry is put to rest because what we feel in our hearts is what he feels in his.

I usually pride myself on my independence and self-sufficiency. This day I have already hiked a fair distance in ski boots, carrying two sets of skis and herding two young children. When I arrive at the ticket office, I realize I have miscalculated and I am short the necessary funds to buy everyone a ski pass. Mildly in a panic, I will have to get on the shuttle, return to the car for the needed money. But then I remember I have a friend who works here and I ask her humbly for help. Without letting me finish my explanation, she hands me the lift ticket I can’t afford. To ease my embarrassment I silently ask myself if I would do the same for her. Of course I would, because what she feels in her heart is what I feel in mine.

Ski passes. Vacation homes. As much as I appreciated the help and loved giving help, I ask myself, “How out of touch can a person be?” There are people without food and homes who need my help. I guess the real question that needs to be asked is “What can I do for those who can never do for me?”

The Window I really Wanted

“Grandma Pat wants a gas tanker for her birthday.” Max, age 3

I am Grandma Pat and from Max’s point of view, who could want anything else?

I've been thinking about the things we want and the perspective from which our wants spring forth and land into someone else’s arms in the form of a present.

For my husband’s birthday one year, I commissioned a painting of our four children. I found a skilled artist who charged a reasonable price for a beautiful painting. With great anticipation, I presented the painting to my husband who was pleased but did not react in the way I had hoped. Had he asked for a painting? Only after a hard look at self, did I realize I was the one who wanted the painting.

This past September, I started working on a stained glass window for my husband’s office. It was to be his Christmas gift. I chose his favorite colors and carefully designed the Celtic knots and varying patterns of clear glass. It was finished in the usual pre-Christmas rush. With great anticipation, I presented the window to my husband who was pleased but did not react in the way I had hoped. Did he want a stained glass window? Only after a hard look at self, did I realize I was the one who wanted the window.

These two instances shine a different light on the thought that when you give, you really do give a part of yourself. Having given too much of my self, I decided I needed to give a present that I didn't want and the present had to be something I knew the receiver really wanted. So, I ordered a 1993 Exxon gas tanker in little-boy size. Max should get it in the mail by week’s end and I have asked his mother to pass on this note when it arrives, “ Hey Max, Grandma got a gas tanker for her birthday, but since I am through playing with it, I have sent it to you. Enjoy.”

After filling up my gas tank today, at $3.30 a gallon, I realized that Max perhaps was much more intuitive than I had originally thought. A full gas tanker would actually be a very nice present.

Portable Phones or Two Chickens In Every Pot

Once upon a time… in the late 1960’s… in the home of my childhood…there was one black rotary-dial phone on the kitchen counter. As a child, I thought my mom spent too much time on this phone, but at least I always knew where she was. In the early 1970’s this phone was updated to a blue rotary dial phone. It matched our kitchen counters and was a vast improvement in aesthetics. It was like going from corrective shoes to glass slippers.

It wasn’t long before my sister and I required our own private telephone line in our own bedroom. I still remember the number and with a twinkle of pride that it was a pink princess phone. When my sister and I graduated to separate bedrooms, her phone was a blue princess.

My husband and I have raised four daughters in the home of our middle age, where the modus operandi of phone use consists of the portable phone. The portable phone has caused untold frustration in the late 1990’s and I am guessing through the year 2011, when our youngest daughter will graduate from high school. My husband handled the problem of the constantly missing phones in the same way he handled his constantly missing combs. He bought a HUGE bag. Suddenly there was a plethora of combs, in drawers, cupboards, cars, in between the couch cushions; I even found a comb when cleaning under the fridge. My husband’s answer to the never-returned-to-the-cradle phone problem was to keep buying phones. Now there are two portable phones in every one of the five phone locations. Consequently, we just look for more phones, finding the plethora of portable phones in the same places: in between couch cushions, in the car, in drawers, but never under the fridge.

My husband gave each phone a location that prints clearly in the same screen that identifies the caller. I used to spend an inordinate amount of time replacing these phones in their proper location. In theory, it was a good idea: every phone in its place, every place with a phone. At first, it bothered my husband to find the phone that read “basement” in the location, “master bedroom.” It didn’t take long for him to feel euphoric when there was any phone in a cradle—it didn’t matter where it came from.

Last night we hit an all time low in phone management. Our 13 year old daughter decided to rearrange her bedroom. This included moving her bed. My husband, with resigned defeat, came to tell me that there were 5 phones under Paloma’s bed--and that didn’t include the one I already put back, (when I saw it hiding under her dust ruffle), (before she moved the bed), (earlier that day).

Five Weeks To Save Their Souls

I have always taken things too seriously. Thank Goodness.

There was a Matthew in every one of my six English classes. The Matthews chose to slump away from their desks and looked physically uncomfortable in their seats- a metaphor for how they felt about life. One particular Matthew would enter class, on time, hidden under the hood of his jacket, tuned out but tuned in to his Ipod. When class started I would catch his attention, smile and motion for him to take out his earphones. He always complied. When I taught, he never looked my way. His attendance was perfect though he didn’t do the assignments. He never interrupted and he never caused a problem. Once in a while, he would look at me but when I looked back he retreated like a turtle into his shell. He tried very hard to stay disconnected, but not hard enough.

One day, for no apparent reason (hindsight would clarify this), I told the class a story about a college friend of mine whose name was David. One evening, David went out to the garage where he kept his 1970 Chevy Impala. The car was a gift from his grandfather and was so valuable that David couldn’t afford the insurance. Consequently, he drove the car infrequently, only for special occasions or an occasional date. When David opened the garage where the car was stored over the summer, he was surprised to find it empty. David promptly called his friends and a brother to inquire if someone had borrowed the Impala without asking. No one had. David called the police and was told that a band of car thieves had traveled through town on a thieving rampage.

A month later, David came to French class excited to tell the rest of the story. A man employed by the BLM, found the Impala dumped on government land. It was beat up, but he asked his boss if he could have the car to fix up and see if it worked. The boss said “sure.”

The man had the car re-keyed and detailed. He bought a new battery, had the upholstery fixed, bought new hubcaps and did a few other fix-ups.

As I retold David’s story to my tenth grade English class, I noticed that Matthew was listening to and looking at me. He was engaged for the first time since class had started. I finished the story with the BLM employee going to the DMV to register his fabulous find. But, the car came up STOLEN. My friend David got his car back in better condition than when he owned it.

A few days later, Matthew looked up and asked, “Do you have any more car stories?”

“I don’t Matthew, but I’ll try to find one. You must love cars.” That day Matthew told me about the cars that he and his father had restored. He told me about the car his mother ruined. By week three, Matthew was coming early into class and putting his backpack in a chair to save his place. The hood on his sweatshirt rested on his back, he engaged in and offered insight into the discussions. He told me he didn’t need to look up the vocabulary words because he already knew what they meant. I doubted him, so we walked through the words together and he was able to give me a definition for nine of the ten words. He was revealing his intelligence. By week four, Matthew was coming early to class to finish his lunch. Matt became a friend.

The previous weeks of class were spent reading Rodman Philbrick’s Freak the Mighty. Each student was required to keep a workbook of their own making with details of the book: Chapter synopsis, main characters, settings, vocabulary, descriptions and character changes. I also asked them to keep a page or chart on themselves, three columns labeled: characteristics, experiences and changes. I explained that a component of Good literature is character change. Life is like good literature.

My fourth week of teaching, I asked the students to write a one page journal write, explaining the details of the chart they kept on themselves. It was simple, write about your characteristics and what events or experiences that made you change. Matt raised his hand and asked, “What if it’s too personal?” I wanted this to be a growing experience, so I gave students the option of showing me their work without turning it in. Matt lowered his eyes and started to write. About half-way through the fifteen minute writing exercise, he told me that he’d changed his mind and he wanted me to read his paper. By the time he’d finished he had decided that he wanted me to read his paper to the whole class because it would help them understand why he acted the way he did.

I took the papers home for the weekend. Every time I walked past my briefcase, I winced. What terrible things would Matt reveal? What would explain his laissez-faire attitude towards life? Saturday evening I bolstered the courage to read Matt’s paper. Matt wrote, When I was seven or eight years old, I was accused of molesting other children. I was almost taken out of my home and put in foster care. THIS IS WHY I HATE ALL PEOPLE. For the rest of the weekend I worried about Matt.

My final week. Matt came to class early. I handed him the letter I had written to him (enclosed), expressed my sorrow for the hurt he endured as a child, gave him my explanation for not reading his paper to the class and presented the best plan I could create for him as his English teacher. I wanted him to think about the difference between a wound and a scar. He started to explain the difference when I interrupted him and told him he was to think about it for the next two days. His next class period, I wanted him to journal write the difference between a wound and a scar. He was silent and then sweetly agreed to the task.

Last day of class. The students were writing a book review for Freak the Mighty. Matt and I acknowledged with a nod of the head that his assignment was different. Five minutes into the assignment, Matt called out to me, “You’re going to like this.”

With ten minutes left of class, the students had finished their assignment. There was a party atmosphere for my last day. Matt reminded me, “I think you’re really going to like what I’ve written.” He paused, “What should I do with my other paper? Should I burn it?”

The magnitude of what he said caused me to pause and think. And then I said, “Matt you can keep it or you can burn it, but if you burn it, make it a ritual, a letting go. Do you know what I mean?”

Matt nodded his head. “Yes, I know what you mean.”

I stayed after school that day to finish grading and recording the student’s work. I wanted to be completely finished with my five weeks. I had done my best and I didn’t want to hang on to what I was losing. I was sad that I could no longer show my enthusiasm for the beauty and power of words to high school students who stayed up too late over the weekend. I would miss the students, their original metaphors, their complaints about Huckleberry Finn, and the look in their eyes when they thought in a different way. I would miss their growth and their failures. Most of all I would miss the possibilities of change and discovery that came from thinking through and writing words. As I evaluated my objective, ‘five weeks to save their souls,’ I laughed at my crusade mentality. I couldn’t save their souls-- but I could provide an environment and some tools so hopefully, they could save themselves.