MWF ISO Beachside Rentals and Urban Sublets

I have no idea why I remember an interview I once heard with Madonna—it could have been as long as a couple decades ago—in which she expressed a wish to have an entire lifetime to spend with each one of her many boyfriends. The impossibility of this fantasy has apparently hampered any fidelity efforts she has subsequently undertaken.

Happily married to the same wonderful man for over eighteen years, I really can’t relate to The Material Girl’s plight—at least in the arena of matrimony. However, when it comes to real estate, I think I’m destined to take the Madonna approach.

Nine days on the road concluded as they always do—with a return to the same faithful home in which I’ve lived for the vast majority of my adult life. The partnership has been safe and stable. It was love at first sight when my realtor introduced us in the mid-nineties: The textured walls! The spacious kitchen! We even weathered the difficult Remodeling Years of the early ‘00s, hammering out solutions to issues that had managed to accumulate. It’s been good, having strong beams and sturdy rafters to surround me in good times and shield me through rough winds. Lately, though, I can’t shake the feeling that I might be outgrowing the relationship—like there’s other things on which I might be missing out.

See, I keep thinking about a shameless fling I recently had with a quaint little cottage on a rocky beach. It was only a one night stand—but oh, it was so sweet. The shore breezes, the lullaby of lapping waves…it left me wanting more.

And I’ve been having other fantasies, too. Like the Manhattan brownstone I admire from afar. The glamorous nights I’d spend reveling in the fast-paced urban high life! So enticing. SO out of my league.

Then there’s the So-Cal surfer crush I have going on the west coast with a colorful bungalow on a steep cliff with an ocean view. Oh, my…the memories I want to make there!

And I just can’t shake my desire to while away the hours in the company of a distinguished Victorian with a spiral staircase, bay windows, and closets that go all the way to Narnia.

It doesn’t even stop there. There’s no telling where my roving gaze will settle next. I’ve been blatantly gawking thanks to For Sale signs, classified advertising, and various other come ons.

I love my house. I really do. We’ve been together for a long time. I’m not really sure that I want to break things off completely, but I just might have to convince my husband that it’s time to enhance our stable marriage with some experimental renting action on the side.

I'll Take the Whole Cookie

“The good parts are good,” my son said, nibbling his way around a mostly scorched peanut butter cookie. A failed campfire experiment, the cookies—or at least my son’s response to them—spoke metaphoric volumes about a long-anticipated vacation punctuated by sustained stretches of torrential rain.

Any time suitcases emerge from closets and sleeping bags pile beside doors, it is the lot of the vacation-bound traveler to be swept into an excited frenzy fueled by a heaping dose of optimism and a shot of high hopes. We recall breathtaking views from lofty summits, food from far-flung places, and the crackle of campfires that will forever burn inside our hearts.

And although we may fondly recall any number of days passed on open roads, back woods trails, and sandy beaches, there are certain trips that live large in our memories for a lifetime. Perhaps for you, it was the week the whole family went to Disney, or maybe it was that deep woods scouting adventure when you first knew you could conquer anything as long as you had the pack at your side and compass in your hand. Personally, I’m never more than a blink away from a little bed and breakfast in San Diego. And that month on the road, traveling cross country with my family? There’s not a single moment that I wouldn’t live a thousand times over.

These storied excursions develop epic reputations that tend to loom large over future travel plans. We want every trip to live up to the fabled glory, and the expectations don’t leave much margin for error. Sure, we expect complications—after all, what trip would be complete without a blown tire or a mishap or two with a map? But I must admit that none of the scenarios I imagined befalling our trip to Maine included sustained rains and accompanying fog which reduced days’ worth of trip pics into so many grey rectangles.

My sister blames herself for the soggy turn in our fortunes. After a successful first day in the wilderness of Acadia National Park, she claims that lightening and thunder punctuated her declaration of utter happiness as her head hit her pillow that night. My thought is that if you’ve experienced unmarred happiness long enough for it to become notable, then you are more fortunate than most.

The truth is that the duration of pure happiness can only be measured in moments. Perfect days are an illusion—a smoke and mirrors bit of revisionist history which softens the edges of our mental pictures into Impressionistic snapshots of the Best Moments. This is a feature of the human brain for which I’m very thankful—the airbrush treatment the mind gives to the sharp and jagged angles, leaving us with a nicely framed interpretation of What Was Good.

Our ability to remember life in terms of moments should not be underestimated. After all, fog, rain and mud are the ingredients of daily life. How often do you wake up to a day of unlimited visibility, warm, fuzzy feelings and sure footing? If your life is anything like mine, I suspect those carefree conditions are the exception to your daily forecast. And a place as far north as Maine exemplifies the reality behind the metaphor.

Maine has a reputation built solely on moments. Flawless days certainly number below 100 a year, and a large percentage of residents depend on the temperate conditions of a four-month window to earn their annual income. The vast majority of Maine days are cold, dreary affairs—but the moments in between are so sweet, the state boasts the moniker “Vacation Land” on its license plates and literature.

Our trip was capped on either end by moments that proved worthy of the title. The blueberries were ripe...



...and the flowers were lush and plentiful.



We slept under stars numbering in the hundreds of thousands on two occasions, and our last night was spent in a beachside cabin so inviting, there is a movement among our family to spend our entire vacation there next year. The “good parts” were very, very good.And the other parts weren’t so bad either. They gave me the chance to notice the beauty in rain,




understand that ships can stay afloat in less-than-perfect conditions,


and to acknowledge that these are the moments that will sustain me through all the patchy weather I’ll encounter before I hit the road again.

G.R.I.M.

Sitting around the campfire two nights ago, our family collectively worked to come up with a name for our excursion.

"GRIM," my son offered.

"Grim?" my sister questioned. "Isn't that a bit negative?"

"It stands for Great Living in Maine," he countered, sticking with the acronym even when the spelling indiscretion was brought to his attention.

As fate would have, his moniker has proven sadly apt.

It is my duty to report that the clouds in Maine are not pink.

They are, um...dark. And plentiful.

It's a bit wet. And somewhat...grim.

Ice Cream, Sandwich, and a Chorus of Voices

“I don’t think this is the fastest route to anywhere,” my husband said.

Creeping up a winding hill at 25 mph, he furrowed his brow, contemplating the latest instructions our newly-acquired Global Positioning System was dispensing.

It’s July, and somehow it just feels right to be packed solid in our Saturn Relay, headed to parts unknown. Although this year’s adventure—a camping trip to Maine—shares some commonalties with last summer’s excursion-- such as time of year and visiting new states--there are really more differences than similarities between the two trips. We’re spending time with friends and family, for one thing, rather than braving it alone in the wild. We actually know where we’re planning to sleep each night. We’ll be gone just over a week, instead of a month. And there’s a lot more people in our car.

This summer, our additional passengers include Yoda, Big John the DJ, Max the Low-Talker, and any number of generic British blokes. These voices emerge periodically from our GPS, giving instructions such as “In 800 yards, right you will turn,” or “bear left and join the Speedway.” Often, these voices offer a wealth of information and guidance. Other times—such as this morning's slow and winding route to the Speedway, or an oversight by Yoda yesterday, which dumped us unceremoniously onto random busy roadway—we just aren’t sure.

I was hoping we could count upon this cast of advisors to direct us on a detour into Vermont, based on a news item I recalled hearing last week involving some Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream which is apparently available only this month, and only in Vermont. After all, how can I show my face back in Virginia next week having gone to New England without eating exclusive New England ice cream? And with such a vast team to guide me—-finding a Ben and Jerry’s location is as simple as a typed request into the GPS device—-there really seemed no excuse.

However, unlike the objects in my rearview mirror, Vermont evidently isn’t as close as it appears, and my exclusive ice cream junket is about to be deleted from the itinerary—a fate that almost befell the last detour I requested to Cape Cod. These stalwart guides—-bent on realism—-offer frequent, shockingly accurate, and often grim time estimates on what a detour looks like from a time perspective. Once on the Cape, they really didn’t advise going beyond the seaside hamlet of Sandwich, where our hungry crew enjoyed a dinner of -–what else—-sandwiches, although we were alarmed to note that they only served them in halves that wouldn’t make much of a showing if they ever find themselves stacked against the sandwich I ate in Nags Head a couple weeks ago.

Still, I can’t complain—we ate sandwiches in Sandwich, and in the words of my son, “it doesn’t get any more sandwich than that.”

At the Intersection of Moose and Books

I’m looking forward to seeing a lot of moose crossing signs over the next few days. Better yet, I’m hoping to see them in use by the clientele they’re posted to serve.
Whether that happens remains to be seen—in the meantime, I’m having fun with another kind of Crossing:Book Crossing. I’m traveling with three sets of my books in tow, and I’m looking for just the right places to “release” these tagged copies, in the hopes that local “book crossers” will find them, read them, love them to pieces, and share them via another “release.” Best of all, I get to track all this activity online.

So I’m scoping out just the right places to leave them—and that’s a little trickier than it may seem. You want to leave the books where they’ll actually be found—a place that’s busy, but not too busy. A place where people travel, but maybe not where people are traveling, what with security guards not really being keen on people dropping off foreign items. You want to pick a place where booklovers go, but not necessarily a place where books already are. A place where people stop and smell the roses…but probably not a place where roses actually grow—what with the uncertainty of weather, and all.

So, while I’m hunting for moose, I’ll also be hunting for places to “make the drop.” But I think I’ll keep the two activities separate. Stay tuned.

The Maine Thing

Remember the old Calgon bubble bath commercial where a houseful of kids and muddy pets drive a young mother to plead for said bubble bath to come and “take her away?”
The last we see of the woman, her placid face is bobbing just above suds level, and we’re left to assume that the children and animals have conquered the home. Although I certainly enjoy taking a dip in my Jacuzzi tub at the end of a long day, I get much faster relaxation results in my living room, simply by transporting myself, via wall print, to a mythical location I refer to as “the Maine house.”

Much in the way that Jill and Eustace entered Narnia through a picture on the bedroom wall in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, I can enter the tranquil lakeside cottage depicted on my wall with nothing more than a steady gaze. Oh, the wonders of the Maine house! The lake, the rustic row boats, the cozy cottage…and the parties I’ve thrown there—you really should stop by sometime. Simple wine and cheese affairs on cool evenings, private book readings, coffee and blueberry cobbler on the lake. Artsy people talk literature, music, and mixing brilliant shades of cerulean and fuchsia late into still nights under starry skies. And the romantic picnics! Fresh berries and simple sandwiches on a worn quilt at sunset to a soundtrack of smooth jazz.

Bouquets of wildflowers, bountiful produce, and secret woodland trails (moose use them all the time) are all part of daily life at the Maine house. Mornings play out on the water, and evenings on the shore….but the afternoons are for writing, or, failing that, painting …all serious art that always sells.

See, I have this thing about Maine, and I’ve passed at least some of it on to my kids. First of all, it’s one of the few states they haven’t visited—and I only barely did, as a kid in the 80’s. Best I remember, we stayed at a resort of the same ilk as the one in Dirty Dancing. I seem to remember tuxedoed waiters, a formal dining hall, and lots of shuffle board. But then, pre-adolescent angst probably warped my impressions of much of the trip.

So I don’t really feel like I’ve experienced Maine yet—at least not the Maine I see in all the pictures, the land with the pink clouds that seem to perpetually hover over everything, the Maine with the blueberries, and moose. I’m off to discover that Maine this week.

I’m excited, but I’m also wary. First of all, I don’t even know that the scene depicted in my Magic Painting is even in Maine. The print was an art gallery cast off, and I trimmed off all the identifying information to get it into a frame. This is one work that will be permanently left to the interpretation of the viewer, and I’ve just made it into my version of what I want Maine to be. And let’s face it, the Maine house never deviates from a state of perpetual August, and one with a flawless forecast at that.

Furthermore, I’m beginning to suspect that moose don’t even really exist, that maybe they are extinct, or perhaps even mythical, like the unicorn. We traveled into several so-called moose habitat areas last summer, and didn’t catch so much as a glimpse of an antler. Church friends just returned from the same area of Maine into which we are heading, and reported a moose-less trek. My mom didn’t even see any moose as far noth as Alaska, unless you want to count a brown blob out the window of a fast-moving train that a tour guide labeled as such to pacify tourists hungry for a sighting.

In short, I’m not certain if the Maine in which I believe is real. But I suspect that even if my experience fails to deliver the Maine of my dreams, my Maine will live on in an 18’’ X 24’’ inch rectangle in my living room.

Green, Beans, and Things Not as Bad as They Seem

Racing against the bank of bruise-black clouds on the immediate horizon, I was certain of just two things: that finding my car unlocked and running on the other end of the parking lot was the best I could hope for, and that things only got grimmer from there.

Clutching my canvas bag full of over-priced cleaning supplies, I was regretting my decision to leave my cell phone in the car, in the interest of “traveling light."

I was in the check out line when I realized that I had no idea where my keys were. I’d been at the part of the transaction where you grab the receipt and gather your personal effects—purchased items, wallet, and—typically—keys…only to discover that mine were, simply, gone.

I rooted through my bag of purchased items, and seeing no keys, decided to go with the odds and just head out to the car like nothing was wrong. Chances were, I’d find my vehicle waiting for me, unlocked and running, in the parking lot—just like last time. Failing that, the keys would just be sitting on the driver’s seat of the (again unlocked) car. Just like a bunch of other times.

With the first drops of rain already falling from an ever-darkening sky, I comforted myself with the knowledge that history was on my side, squelching the voice of the self-righteous “Told You So” character who kept nagging me about how stupid it was to leave my phone behind, and the equally annoying, “You Need to be More Responsible” figure, who kept trying to analyze What Went Wrong..

At this point, I was blaming it on the canvas bag—or at least an earlier decision to go back to the car for it. See, I’ve redoubled my efforts in my struggle against the ever-present Plastic Grocery Bag—call it my own personal “surge” in the war against terrifying encounters such as the avalanche of overstuffed bags of bags that rolled from my closet like so many snowballs down an Alpine ridge.

Now before you tell me how fashionable it is to shop with re-usable cloth bags, let me tell you that this is only due to the efforts of early anti-bag pioneers who endured the scorn of store clerks and jeering family members in a Less-Green Era. I have personally been traveling with canvas bags in my car for at least two years, but confess that my efforts had been whittled down to simply reducing and refusing plastic bags, due to a combination of forgetfulness and a certain amount of buckling beneath the contempt of the Unenlightened Public. Now the same stores that used to sneer at my little Save the Earth totes are even offering discounts to shoppers who employ Green Bags emblazoned with their own logo, and will gladly fill even the plain or alternately adorned shopping bag.

At the risk of having to weather a deluge of snide comparisons to the beleaguered Al Gore, allow me to veer slightly off the linear course of this narrative to state for the record that I’ve been on the cutting edge of a lot more than just green shopping. MTV? My Barbies were doing that in my bedroom in the late 70’s. Malibu Barbie and Suntan Tuesday Taylor were the first veejays, ever. I’m not even kidding. And reality TV? During a large segment of the third grade, I was convinced that my life was being beamed to the airways, live (a la Truman), but that’s less about me being a visionary and more about me being a little weird. But I digress.

Of late, I’ve resumed my assault against The Plastic Bag, full-on. “This can’t go on,” I explained to the children, “we’re being inundated.” One of them thought I was referring to some kind of legal action, and got really freaked out. So we’re all about the bring-your-own-bag movement, except for the times we forget to grab one on the way into a store. In an effort to reinforce the BYOB concept, I’ve taken to the extreme measure of returning to the car when I forget--which brings me back to the parking lot.

I was at once saddened and relieved to discover my car in a locked and resting state, which bolstered my feeling that whatever went wrong with my keys happened during my earlier retrieval of the forgotten shopping bag. I must have set them down on the floor, or accidentally tossed them into a console—or who knew—maybe even the glove compartment. I was grasping at straws. After peering forlornly into every window and poking through my bag some more, I figured I may as well go back and, you know, retrace my path through the store. What else was I going to do? Call someone? Nooo…I was traveling light.

I wove in and out of the cleaning aisles, eyes cast downward, knowing there wasn’t any way I could have dropped the impressive collection hardware that is my key chain without knowing it—unless the sound had been muffled by the peals of thunder that were now rocking the store. I interviewed my cashier and a handful of customers before I figured I’d better turn myself in.

I fidgeted with the handle of my bag as I waited at the end of a rather slow customer service line. I didn’t really mind the wait, as I had no idea what I was going to say when I got to the counter. I suspected that it was Phone-A-Friend Time, but I really wasn’t sure who to call. My daughter would be helpful, and amused by the whole affair, but she doesn’t have a driver’s license. OnStar could unlock the car, but that’s pretty much the extent of their services. They don’t send detectives, or even beach combers with metal detectors, angling for extra cash. I asked about that last time. And as far as my husband—he was about the last person to which I wanted to tell this story.

Repositioning the rather heavy bag on my shoulder, I was suddenly poked by a hard object. I reached into the bag and withdrew my keys, immediately making a discreet exit from the line. Hopefully no one would ever know.

“Oh, you found them!” a customer yelled in excited tones. “Where were they?”

Readers, there’s a whole lot that I don’t know. The events recounted in this post are a mere sampling of my deficits. But I am certain that there is really only one thing a girl can do in the aftermath of self-inflicted trauma such as I have described. I pointed my running vehicle in the direction of the nearest coffee establishment and drowned my sorrows in a large cup of iced joe as the sky opened and rain poured down in violent torrents.

Tuesday, Squared

What could be sweeter than a group of girls huddled around a pan of double chocolate brownies? How about two groups of girls discussing the Important Things in Life around two different brownie pans on opposite ends of town?

For almost a decade, I’ve looked for ways to encourage other people to replicate what we do at my house every Tuesday. Lot of laughter and tons of love over big helpings of chocolate…why keep all the fun to myself?

When the newspaper reran a magazine article I wrote last spring, I finally got a taker—an amazing young woman who just survived her first night with a houseful of girls who were hungry for a dose of scripture and a whole lot of chocolate.

The combination is so good, you should join us so we can serve it up cubed.

Intermission

“I have the memories in my head and heart. I’m OK with going to live somewhere else.”
--woman on the local news, about city council plans to route a highway through her living room.

The first time I ever went to my friend, Lori’s, house she was bailing me out of a jam. Mere days before the birth of my son, I accidentally became the chairperson for our church’s Christmas food drive. Don’t ask me how this happened; I was as baffled as those poor saps one occasionally reads about in an Offbeat News Brief who suddenly finds themselves Mayor of some small Burg after a family member scribbled their name on a ballot on a lark. All I know is I showed up at the wrong place with my three year old and a box of crayons, and next thing I knew, there were turkeys to buy, canned goods to sort, and a perplexing list of deliveries that had to be made to unfamiliar neighborhoods. As with any trauma, the subsequent memories are hazy and dark.

The next thing I remember is being Lori’s living room, surrounded by a cast of people who may well have been wearing halos and white robes while they stuffed boxes with food and told me encouraging stories about Childbirth and Christmas Babies. I seem to remember Lori tying my shoes, which I’d taken to wearing unlaced after I became too large to see my feet. I may have handled a can or two of beans and applied my Crayola seal to a few cards before the metaphoric angels whisked everything away. A Christmas Miracle, played out on a set that would become a second home to me for the next fourteen years.

The last time I left my friend Lori’s house, I had no way of knowing it would be the Last Time. Oh, I knew the house was going up for sale, that a long-threatened move northward was inevitable. But considering today’s slumping real estate market, I figured an Actual Sale was something I wouldn’t need to worry about for a long, long, time, kind of like taking Metamucil, or collecting Social Security.

Readers, don’t allow the media to lull you into a false sense of security. A home can disappear from the market faster than two scoops of Ben and Jerry’s on a hot summer day. I’ve seen two go in less time than it’s taken me to get all my flower beds weeded. Should a for sale sign appear in the lawn of one of your loved ones, run, don’t walk to the local bakery to order your Bon Voyage Cake and Farewell Balloons.

Even after it became apparent that, against all odds, a sale was, indeed, imminent I fully anticipated making an official Final Visit. I suppose I imagined a scene not unlike a series finale of a much loved sitcom: the last shift at Cheers, the Friends gang meeting for a final round of coffee at Central Perk, M*A*S*H, post-cease-fire. However, a parade of realtors, perspective buyers, inspectors, and handy men descended upon Lori’s home over recent weeks, hampering on-site visits. But I also I detected a faint reticence in my friend’s voice whenever talk turned to a home-visit scenario: she didn’t want any help painting or packing, just some time to sit at the coffee shop and get away from it all.

It wasn’t until the Last Day that I got it.

“Don’t go over there,” Lori said. “It’s empty. Everything’s gone. I don’t want those images in your head,” she said, immediately listing some of the pictures she hopes I’ll retain: poker parties and pasta dinners, bad movies and mugs of coffee. Oh, the snapshots I can add to the slide show—the day of the Big Yard Sale to raise money for my Africa trip, the night we pulled my five year old son’s stubborn, blackened front tooth, the Thanksgiving the tablecloth caught fire. Fourteen years of birthdays, picnics, fireworks, and made up holidays. We trimmed trees, planned weddings, and dreamed up terrific adventures—some that even happened. There were special days and ordinary days, with the Very Last One thoroughly indistinguishable from all the rest.

There are the kind of goodbyes where everyone involved knows that something good is over. Other goodbyes are simply transitions. That’s not to say they’re easy; on the contrary, ever writer knows how tough it is to nail a smooth segue. But no matter how choppy a transition may prove, a finale isn’t the right response, any more than a standing ovation would be between acts of a play. So I’ve decided that I have no choice but to accept that stories move forward, and that just about any decent production involves a set change or two.

I figure that while the furniture’s being shuffled around for the new set, it would be a good time to think about what I’ve derived from the plot so far:

That life is more about people than perfection. (Who knew that you could show up at a picnic with the three deviled eggs you rescued when the rest of the platter crashed…and no one will be disappointed in you.)

That bodies are really, really awkward, and it’s OK to laugh about them.

That “I’m sending you drugs, costumes, and a man” is the most reasonable thing you can tell a friend when you’re sending your son to her house with cold medicine on Halloween.

That with the merest amount of research, you can find a legitimate reason to celebrate just about any day.

That dreams are the stuff of life, even if they don’t always come true.

That life is too short to eat bad cheese. (Lori’s response to me on her first visit to my house when I offered to make her a grilled sandwich with low-fat cheese. I never bought it again.)

That there are Givers and there are Takers, and Givers have a lot more friends.

That flexibility is a good thing. (Did you know that it’s OK to end a New Year’s Eve party for a bunch of tired moms at 9 PM because it’s midnight somewhere, and you can
pretend you’re there??)

That it’s never about the stuff.

That home is a place where you are accepted and loved, even if it takes you three hours to get there.

Lori, it’s been an amazing Act One. I can’t wait to see what happens on the set in Act Two.

Hang Time

I’m taking the world’s longest hang gliding lesson.

Eleven years, ten months, six days, and counting.

My adventure started in the mid-nineties with an early fall trek to Kitty Hawk, North Carolina with some friends. Following a brief instructional session, we hit what the Kitty Hawk folks like to reference as the “soft, forgiving” sand dunes which cushioned the fledgling efforts of none other than the legendary Wright brothers.

Our package included 5 introductory flights. I recall two things about my time on the dunes: the thrill of my running feet leaving earth as I went airborne, and an unfortunate crash and burn into said forgiving sand. I’d managed three flights before ill-winds turned the cushiony dunes against our party, reducing many of us to sand-blasted recipients of “wind checks”—a kind of extreme sport IOU—for the grounded flights.

Yesterday I attempted to cash in. See, wind checks are a pretty durable form of currency—you can cash them in, evidently by just claiming to have them (no one even asked to see mine) and they never, ever expire. So my daughter and I headed south, me clutching an aging wind check and her signed up for the same introductory lesson package I was planning to complete. The day was sunny and mild. We were set to fly. That is, until we pulled into Kitty Hawk beneath the specter of ill winds that blew a band of thunder storms just ahead of our arrival. We ran to the Flight School building through a cold sheet of rain and reviewed a range of options with the Instructor Studs, who basically delivered a lot of bad news in extremely charming fashion.

Our chances for flying that day were “abysmal.”

They were happy to troll the internet for lodging options for us, even though radar predictions for the following day weren’t appreciably better, and all the classes were full, anyway.

But they did know a great sandwich shop, in case we were hungry.

So with my hang gliding lesson back in a state of suspension, and it occurred to me that I should probably take some notes on what I’ve learned so far, just in case it takes another 12 years for me to resume it (although I’m aiming for August).

Here’s what I’ve got, just shy of mid-lesson:

That it is possible to keep track of something as small as a coupon for nearly 12 years. I find this fact fascinating. Let’s face it, I live in a home where key items such as passports, social security cards, children’s immunization records, and at least one queen sized striped sheet routinely vanish. The thought of a simple 3" x 5" piece of newsprint surviving nearly 12 years under our auspices leaves me frankly stunned. The fact that neither the document itself or even a scrap of verifying evidence was ever requested from the coupon, would admittedly be depressing had the Instructor Studs not issued me a new wind check for 5 full flights, which means I essentially redeemed the coupon for more than twice it’s worth. Not bad in today’s economy.

That my daughter is a great driver, even in the rain.



That Instructor Studs really know their sandwich shops.


(those are thin slices of sweet apples, just beneath the cheese.)

And that anticipation is a pretty cool thing. I can’t wait for August. Maybe I’ll wrap this thing up in under 12 years after all. Or perhaps the adventure will stretch out a little further, capturing even more memories to savor. I can’t wait to find out.

Finding My Story

I learned in college that the problem couldn’t be solved by not sleeping, although I certainly tried.

I knew that no matter how wee the hour was when I finally went to bed, I was missing key events.

People were heading to all night dining establishments, drinking coffee and eating pies and pastries. Others were on trains, taking late night forays into the city. Some were just on campus, having heartfelt conversations deep into the night.

And I was missing it.

So I’d get up, get dressed, and get back into the action.

After awhile, I took to wearing a comfy sort of semi-sleep wear, suitable for both late night socializing and early morning class—“instant ready,” my roommate called it. Simply put, I wore pajamas to class nearly a decade before it became fashionable.

I know now that no one can be a part of every story and that times of rest are chapters in everyone’s tale.

I’m keeping all of this in mind as I head out for four days in the Pennsylvania mountains for the Creation 2008 festival. As a registered member of the media, I will have the opportunity to participate in countless press conferences which I could potentially weave into dozens of salable articles. As a journalist woefully low on work, the possibilities are tantalizing.

But as tempted as I am to generate all of this material, I know that there is only so much I can process in a timely manner, what with all of my educational responsibilities and all. So I’m going to keep this manageable. I’m looking for one story. I don’t know yet which one I’m after, but I’ll know it when I see it. I’ll jump on it and make it sing.

That’s my goal: one stellar story. My story. Isn’t that what life is really all about?

It's a Pitcher's Game and my Bullpen's Thin

Thank goodness for Major League Baseball. Without the combined efforts of a gaggle of umpires, mangers, and team mascots focused on discovering why gifted players are requiring increasing amounts of time to deliver a finished game, I might have gone on thinking that I'm incompetent.

I now know that my situation really isn’t any different from the one perpetually plaguing the New York Yankees: I have pitching trouble.

Although the cause wasn’t clear to me at the time, I knew something was wrong when I turned into the school pick up line one day last week and realized that “What did you do today, Mom?” has officially replaced “What’s for dinner” as the Mid-Afternoon Cringer.

With my daughter’s recent interest in the culinary arts, no one in our house is really worried about going hungry these days—we have hot, tasty food popping out of the oven at all hours. What’s really got me wringing my hands is the fact that every day at 3:15 my son asks me what I’ve done all day and I end up looking like a Little Leaguer gaping at birds in left field. Now, I’m certain I’ve been busy—ever since I finally ditched Chaucer, I’ve adopted an impressive range of projects, plans, and pointless diversions—problem is, I have little to show for the four weeks I’ve supposedly been working on this stuff.

Still, I face my son’s daily query in true journalistic form, working my best material into my lead. “I was on my bike this morning,” I invariably say, highlighting the singular pursuit in which I’ve managed to make any kind of visible progress. I’ve been biking the boardwalk for a solid hour every morning, even stopping periodically to execute various crunches and dips on the seawall. And it’s working, too. I'm looking less and less like a graduate student every day.

Mmmmm. My son nods encouragingly at my report, but he’s clearly expecting more. I shift nervously in my seat. What did I do? What did I do? Is that a wren over there?

As it turns out, this sluggish, unproductive response is consistent with what the MLB task force has identified as the end result of a game lacking disciplined pitching. Valuable time is lost by pitchers who dawdle between throws or require frequent mound visits from plodding coaches. It doesn’t matter who you’ve got on the field: if your pitching is off, your game’s gonna drag. In the words of Jeff Passan of Yahoo! Sports, it’s all about having a pitching staff that's trained "to work quickly so they establish a rhythm and keep fielders from getting too spacey.”

Well, that clears things up. No wonder I’m striking out. Life was so much easier when I had professors and editors tossing out metaphoric pitches in the form of due dates and deadlines. I am bereft of both this summer, what with not being enrolled in classes and the newspaper on the blink (I anticipate any day the news that they’ve parted out all their assignments to a fifth grade creative writing class in exchange for some free pens and a classroom subscription).

Regular readers may recall that over spring break I contemplated dropping out of my Masters program. When I returned to school to discover that my scholarship had some fine print indicating that my funding would expire if I didn't abandon the “slow and steady” plan I’d hatched with my advisor in favor of an accelerated track, I figured game over.

I got more of a seventh inning stretch, instead. My quick-thinking advisor managed to waive a bunch of prerequisites and set up a couple directed studies. At the end of the semester, she sent me home with some books, the names of a couple tests I’m supposed to take and instructions to email her every now and then, in lieu of the intense, summer-long marathon of coursework perscribed in the normal program. As far as traditional schooling, I'm pretty much done until the fall. I was pleased with the innovative plan, although all I initially gleaned was the part about not showing up for four months.

So, I'm pretty much expected to self-regulate, which, in baseball terms makes me a one-girl team. It's no wonder, then, that I'm a month in and riddled with guilt over my lack of accomplishments. Here I was, figuring I’m a lazy embarrassment to society who happens to bike on the beach every day, when I find out that my game’s just stalled because I've got no relief pitching.

With no one but me to keep things rolling, I’ve gone spacey. And as comforting as it is to know that my problems are in the same league as those of the Bronx Bombers, it's clear that I'm choking on the mound. Someone really needs to call the bullpen soon.

A Stitch in Time

“It’s just like circular knitting, Mom,” my daughter explained to me when I got teary the night before her thirteenth birthday.

She was at the height of her knitting phase—back when she was going to design and market an entire line of knitwear under the moniker “United Moose”—and she’d just learned how to use specially designed knitting needles connected by a translucent cord to create long, tubular styles. With circular knitting you can’t tell where one row ends and the next begins. “Tomorrow’s just another stitch,” she said, giving me a hug before heading up to bed.

My daughter turns seventeen tomorrow and although she was right--no single day brought a sudden change or clear distinction from one phase to the next--it’s clear now that all those stitches have nearly completed the part of the pattern we know as “childhood.” It seems that the design is beginning to shift into a new and unfamiliar arrangement.

Watching my daughter grow has been the most exciting, rewarding, and painful experience of my life. On one hand, I know the goal is for her to become an independent, vibrant woman, and but the journey has been so sweet I find that I'm in no hurry to reach that happy destination.

How many more times will she climb those 13 familiar steps to sleep under my roof? When was the last time she played with her brother in the clubhouse they built in the back yard? When did they stop taking bubble baths? Milestones happen every day, and in the busyness of life they too often pass unnoticed. I want to capture the moments, but end up chasing ghosts of things that were right here just a moment ago but have now vaporized.

How can I spend every day with my daughter and still miss her?

I miss the toddler who followed the happenings on Sesame Street like a day trader on Wall Street.



I miss the pipsqueak whose affection for goats earned her a stern reprimand from a vigilant keeper at a petting zoo…



….but I’m thankful that some things never change.



I miss the little girl who loved dress up clothes almost as much as puppies.



I miss the middle schooler who rescued the class parakeet from school bullies and brought her home to “love like a sister.”


I miss the year-round Halloween costumes, the piano recitals, the Easter dresses and the endless stacks of hand scrawled pictures. I couldn’t tell you what I miss the most, because I’ve thought of my daughter as pretty near perfect at every age she’s ever been (minus a bad patch at 14 that we’d all rather forget). And you know what? Tomorrow will be no exception. I can’t wait to share laughter, gifts and meals with this beautiful child who is becoming my grown-up friend.

Tomorrow may be just another stitch, but I know it represents the first one in the final row of a pattern that’s permanently imprinted on my heart.

All I can do is notice--and, in noticing, celebrate the moments of life as morph into an amazing new design.

Happy Birthday, Allison.

The World on a String

It was made to fly.

From the moment I hit the beach with my new kite, it struggled against my efforts to keep it grounded while I tied the string and secured the connections. When I finally released my grip, the aerodynamic array of crayons caught the wind and soared, tugging for more line, eager to ascend heights far beyond what my string would allow. My muscles strained against the upward pull, part of me afraid that I’d be swept off my feet, and all the rest hoping that I would.

To fly a kite is to experience the tension between freedom and control; letting go enough for it to fly while still managing to keep it in your grasp.

This is what it means to have the world on a string: to release something beautiful and watch, spellbound, as it takes flight-- never certain of the outcome, but exhilarated by a connection to something soaring beyond the limits of normal reach.

Conditions weren’t as favorable on my next kite-flying foray. Ill-winds buffeted my craft, sending it on frequent nosedives. One particularly nasty blast threw my kite into the clutches of the beach’s singular tree where it dangled just beyond my grasp.

Holding the limp string while my husband extracted the kite from the tangle of twigs and branches served as a grim reminder of life’s darker side: the days when we wish our ideas would take off but we end up hanging on to our dreams by nothing more than a frayed thread.

I’ve always viewed these kind of days as wasted time: sure, I might have learned a thing or two, but if I was on my “A” game, I’d already be airborne. Like many people, I’ve always viewed life as a journey. But I’m beginning to realize that despite being well-packed and eager, I’ve spent the past couple decades a bit fuzzy on the trip itinerary. I’ve skipped along under the assumption that, at least for earthly purposes, life was a one-way ticket toward some type of goal—after which, one lived like a kite on a stiff zephyr—reveling in the experience of living your purpose. Oh, of course there’d be trouble—even I’m not naive enough to doubt that—but it would all come to some sort of meaningful conclusion, not unlike that nasty flap between George Bailey and the bank examiner in It’s a Wonderful Life.


Last week, I realized that my cumulative thoughts concerning some TV viewing, a high school play and a funeral signaled a shift in the way I’m learning to view life.

Like the rest of America, I watched last week as newly-crowned American Idol David Cook sang “The Time of My Life.” A big Cook fan, I cheered along with the rest of his armchair supporters, all the time wondering just how many of us even recognize the time of our life when it happens. Chances are slim that any of us will have our defining moments documented live on national television amidst shower of confetti and thunderous applause.

Most of us can better relate to the fictional residents of Grover’s Corners, who some of my former students brought to life in a recent production of Our Town, which concerns the rather mundane comings and goings of small town life in the early 20th century. An omniscient stage manager makes it his business to keep the audience abreast of the town’s trivia, making endless wry observations along the way. “Once in a thousand times, it's interesting,” he observes at the end of the wedding scene, after giving a blow-by-blow of the humdrum minutiae Emily and George would likely weather: domestic challenges, bills, aging, and the like. When Emily later dies in childbirth--I suppose I should have issued an alert about the plot spoiler--she wistfully remembers the commonplace details of life--coffee, sunflowers, hot baths and ticking clocks—as she delivers the play’s key line: “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it–every, every minute?”

Which brings me to the funeral. It was for our music minister—just 6 years my senior—who died unexpectedly in his sleep. He had a family, a lot of talent, and so much left to contribute to our church. Everything about his death seemed wrong. Everything but—as our senior minister ironically observed—the timing. Harmonious relationships, professional responsibilities humming along at full speed ….this man left earth with all the Important Stuff in tune. His life wasn’t defined by a single moment but by countless choices he made to touch the lives of others while seeking God’s purpose for his own. He lived in the same place as most of us: in a personal Grover’s Corners, drinking coffee, enjoying nature, and composing his own lyrics against the rhythm of the ticking clock.

It’s hard to say what will happen the next time I go kite flying. I have more string now, so maybe my kite will reach unexplored heights. It’s equally possible that I’m simply giving it more thread from which to precariously hang. Rise or fall, the story is still all about flight. Just like our lives. Whether we’ve got the world by a string or life seems to be hanging by a thread, we’re all just testing our wings against some pretty stiff wind. Fortunately, our lives aren’t measured by whether we reach the clouds or bite the dust, but by what we do with all the moments we spend on the launch pad.

We were made to fly.

Welcome to the time of your life.

A Pilgrim's Progress

“Almost there!” the old man enthused.

Palms slapping the water and legs kicking madly, my 12-year old self rallied for the final push to the Styrofoam finish line.

I filled my lungs with air and squeezed shut my eyes, expecting my fingers to make contact with the bobbing white flotation device at any second.

“You’ve got it!”

Slap. Slap. Gasp. Kick.

“Keep going!”

Seeking the encouraging sight of my fingers about to touch wet Styrofoam, I tentatively opened an eye.

Whoa. I stopped kicking and planted my feet in the lake muck. Discovering that I hadn’t spanned the anticipated gap between myself and the flotation-goal would have been grim enough. But even with my admittedly fuzzy vision-- forced as I was to swim without glasses in my pre-contact lens era—it was clear that the goal was more distant than it had ever been before.

“Oh, that Father Bill,” my aunt said of her visiting relation.

“What kind of tricks are you playing on that child?” another lake visitor demanded of the sheepish priest.

“I’m just trying to help build her stamina,” he shrugged innocently.

I have thought of this childhood anecdote from my aunt’s lakeside cottage on many occasions over the past few weeks as I gasped toward the finish line of what I long ago dubbed as “the semester that just won’t end.”

With over 50 pages worth of written material due in the span of a single week, I paced myself by assigning undo significance to a series of inconsequential milestones: the final bibliography, the last page of reading, the capstone assignment for this or that course. Constantly laboring under a premature sense of completion eventually took its toll: I was seeking an endpoint that just kept moving further from my grasp.

But despite setbacks such as the meltdown I had after a particularly gruesome 3 hour bibliography reading (one instructor's idea of a fitting final class), the end finally came—or so I thought. With classes finished and final exams complete, it seemed safe to assume that Spring ’08 was a wrap.

Until I pulled my final grades up online.

Even with my contact-lens enhanced 20/20 vision I had to blink several times, hoping some pesky floaters were responsible for what I took to be the second letter of the alphabet hanging out at the end of a perfect formation of uniform Alphas.

How could this, well, be?

With a perfect average in the bank, I’d turned in a project on The Canterbury Tales that would have made Chaucer cry. It was stamped all over with professor approval. I think she just about kissed my final draft. Really. I know I’m fuzzy with numbers, but this equation hardly seemed mathematically viable.

Without belaboring some very sketchy details, let it suffice to say that somehow this project ended up in a non-approved format, and that in order to improve my lot, I needed to buck up for a return visit to Canterbury.

The goal-shifting priest’s sneaky techniques may have been effective for building physical stamina, but let me assure you, the experience doesn’t translate to the academic realm. On the heels of my mental rigors, I currently have the attention span of a middle school boy at a poetry reading.

I’ll admit to exhibiting signs of a weak psychological fortitude at the prospect of revisiting Canterbury. But then I realized that life is full of many “finish lines” that are really arbitrary at best. Is it more important to “finish” by a certain date, or to appreciate the opportunity to reach a little further for a personal best? Where is this “end” that we’re always striving toward, and what happens once we’re there?

Besides, Chaucer’s pilgrims never even made it to Canterbury, but they still had a good time along the way—spinning yarns and swapping tales, all the while angling for a tasty free lunch.

As for me, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed sharing this story with you, and if you have a tale, just throw a comment my way. I’d love to read it. In the meantime, my daughter is up in the kitchen fixing some homemade tortellini that I’m about to smother in tomatoes and garden-fresh herbs. Like Chaucer’s pilgrims, I’m going to revel in the simple pleasures of tall tales and shared meals, and not worry too much about the rest. After all, Canterbury’s nothing but a short stop on an amazing journey I hope I’m on for a long, long time.


What’s Afoot?
…an update on yesterday’s mishap

“It’s kind of like a preview of when you’re old,” my daughter said, as we pulled out of the Walgreens yesterday, clutching a bag containing first aid tape, ibuprofen, and crayon band-aids (I’m employing the red ones as a sort of alert, to keep a sort of safety buffer around my toe. The rest are for cheer.)

I was fumbling through my change, puzzling over some particulars of the transaction. “Why?” I asked, startled.

“You’re confused, you’re hobbling,” her voice trailed off. “I’ve decided you’ll be quite a handful.”

My daughter had spent the better part of the afternoon shuttling me to Dr. M’s office and then to the hospital for some x-rays. It seems that my toe, although fractured, will be just fine in a week or so. Toes, evidently, are “very forgiving,” according to Dr. M.

And all that nonsense about not running? What a waste of time when I own 21-speed, yellowy-orange mountain bike with great shocks and stellar tires, a package my daughter describes as “pretty intense.” Despite being thrilled to receive it as a gift a couple Christmases ago, it boasts surprisingly little road wear. That’s about to change.

Besides, the running really hasn’t been doing that much for me. It’s time for a little shake up in the routine.

Footloose

Smack.

I was flitting about the house, busily investing my new-found freedom in happy home pursuits when my forward-moving toes contacted the door frame with an ominous force. I'd been en route to the front door to investigate the source of widespread canine excitement but never made it past the kitchen where I remained crumpled in a sad little heap of pain and remorse.

I don't manage my toes well. It's as if those 10 little appendages don't really operate in concert with the rest of my body. As a result, I have built an impressive resume of stubbings, cuts, bruises and breaks--most of which eerily afflict the three center toes of my right foot.

The current carnage bears a shocking resemblance to the results of a particularly nasty accident in '03, a late May affair taking three toes--you know which ones--out of commission for the inaugural weeks of summer.

Ironically, my checkered podiatry history is not reflected in the thick chart I've amassed at my General Practitioner's office. As a hypochondriac, I'm all over a wide range of medical anomalies--vague symptoms suggestive of long term impairment or grave outcome, ocular and aural irregularities, ticks masquerading as melonomas--virtually nothing escapes my vigilance. But--pun aside--I have to admit that I find toe injuries thoroughly pedestrian. I mean, really, I know what happened, and I'm reasonably certain that, in time, I'll return to the ranks of the sure-footed.

But, nonetheless, my daughter insists that the bruised digit jutting awkwardly from my right foot needs to be "checked out" this morning.

This is bad news on several fronts. First, I'd already made a personal committment to a summer free of medical drama. Blowing it in May really seems pansy.

Secondly, I've been on a strict regimen of daily running. I figure, minus doctor involvement, I could hit the pavement again in a few days, a la Johnny Damon during the 2007 baseball season. Once doctors get involved, it's a crap shoot.

Finally, it seems a waste of a day, as illustrated by the fact that, despite not feeling really finished with this post, my daughter is jangling the keys and telling me to get in the car.

Links to Pass the Time

I'm coming back. Really. I'll post witty observations, funny stories, and inspirational tidbits. I've been saving them up. Letting them distill, culture, age like fine wine.

In the meantime, you can visit me here:

http://www.dailypress.com/features/custom/mytime/dp-mytime-cookies2,0,830621.story

and here:

http://www.dailypress.com/features/custom/mytime/dp-mytime-cookies,0,5864275.story

I'll be back soon. I promise.

Shedding

Just like my two big Labradors, I'm shedding winter bulk in the form of fuzzy assignments and hairy class requirments. I'll return to a more frequent posting schedule within the next few days.

Weighty Matters

Awhile back, I had a conversation with a woman who had managed to gain an improbable 200 pounds while pursuing some sort of advanced academic degree. Ironically, she was the first person to seriously sell me on the idea that I, too, should foray into the postgraduate realm, although it’s now clear that I didn’t connect some of the more, shall we say, ample dots in sales pitch.

This week, I realized that I am over half of the way to packing on a 5th of this woman’s impressive poundage, and I came to the grim conclusion that I need to stop acting as though academic “crunch time” means opening bags of study snacks. I realize we’re still dealing with single-digit numbers here, but we hypochondriacs don’t like leaving anything to chance when it comes to potentially debilitating physical conditions.

I began with the admittedly “soft” approach of taking on Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods as my travel-time audio book, as though I expected to become vicariously slim by way of an audio tag-along down the Appalachian Trail.

When that didn’t work, I began building a resume of modest physical accomplishments. A handful of circuits around the neighborhood. A few minutes I appropriated on the track circling my son’s soccer field while waiting for his practice to conclude. An impressively sweaty 40 minute stint on the treadmill.

In truth, this type of activity is really my normal routine. It’s just that—wouldn’t you know—graduate school seems to have me sitting on my butt way more than I think the AMA would recommend. I find it seriously hilarious that an impressive scope of organizations ranging from literacy advocacy groups to health institutions blame television for the rampant snacking and staggering obesity figures in younger Americans while promoting—get this—reading as a solution to this grave cycle of wanton inactivity.

Unlike a graduate student waddling into a library, the theory just doesn’t hold its weight.

Visit me Elsewhere Today

My interview with the Ninjas at Invictus Verbum

http://www.invictusverbum.com/blog/?p=12

Enjoy!