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!

I Think "Court Jester" is a Great Job Title

“May I ask who’s calling?” I asked in the crisp office voice I’ve cultured ever since I was reassigned from the database to Anything But the Database.

“Prince Books.” Startled, I considered asking the caller to repeat himself, but despite the improbability of receiving a call from royalty at the graduate office, I was certain of what I’d heard.

I walked to into Dr. S’s office and asked, perhaps with a bit too much pomp and circumstance, if she could take a call from Prince Books.

For a split second, she too, looked alarmed until she paused, mentally reassigning stress to the appropriate syllables. Her lips crinkled a bit at the edges, but she quickly gained command of her composure before taking the call.

This is more than I can say for myself, as I walked back down the hall, remembering exactly what we do at the graduate office—you know, things like procuring text books from publishers, and the like.

For some reason I think the word “telephone” is about to be edited from my job description.

That Which does not Kill You Makes You Flabby and Stressed

Around 4 PM on a recent Monday, I realized that I’m definitely a real college student.

It wasn’t just a sudden acknowledgement of the five pounds of free flab I received with my registration, or the blown eardrum from the concert in the gym.

It occurred to me that my activities for the previous 24-hours included nothing more than writing a paper, playing video games, and sleeping.

It’s crunch time in my semester, and my 10-day forecast calls for papers and projects, punctuated by breaks for sanity and sleep.

The upside is that I’ve found that college life has driven my hypochondria into remission. Oh, it’s not that I’m unaffiliated; on the contrary, just in the past week, I’ve exhibited symptoms of ocular and muscular tumors, heart disease, and Bell’s Palsy, in addition to the aforementioned aural trauma. However, these days, I can do little more than shrug off or shun thoughts of medical maladies, a format that has yielded surprising results. With no time or inclination to follow up on any of these grave possibilities, the symptoms usually dissipate on their own without intervention.

College life appears, then, to be my “magic bullet” against hypochondria. Now I just need something to alleviate the side effects, lest paunch and papers become the death of me.

Something to do While We're Waiting...

...for me to have time to post.

http://www.dailylit.com/home

Five minutes (each day), no cost, unlimited enjoyment!

Happy reading!

(My progress can be tracked on the left, under my profile)

Opening Day

Summer Girl returns at 7:05 PM EST

Play ball!

Tuesdays With Morrie Became Monday's Sad Story

My daughter was mistaken for a homeless person outside the Books A Million last week, and the most shocking thing about this is that I completely missed the warning.

She went to the bookstore for some type of heated, after-school debate about a group project. Her best friend gave her a ride to the bookstore, and, true to form, my daughter talked her into running through a drive through for some chicken nuggets before dropping her off. Happily clutching her nugget bag, she headed toward the store, deciding at the last minute to eat her nuggets on the sidewalk before going in.

About halfway through the bag, she was startled when a passer-by of about four years old shrieked out a gleeful request for a nugget only to receive a stern scolding from her scandalized mother. “She’s homeless, dear,” the mother said, giving my daughter a wide berth while steering her child in the opposite direction. “We don’t take food from the homeless!”

We figured the unfortunate mistake was the result of the anteater-at-a-picnic style with which the kid tends to attack a bag of nuggets. It also could have had something to do with the oversized pieces of art and the graffiti-covered gear she had in tow. I’m sure the B-B-Q sauce stains on her sleeves didn’t help.

However, it wasn’t until today that I realized that my daughter's appearance, though undoubtedly a contributing factor, may not have been the primary reason the woman assumed her to be homeless. My working theory is that she probably lives near the Books A Million and sees this kind of thing all the time. Just as the streets of Vegas are populated by those unfortunate souls who pass the time idly feeding the nickel slots, the sidewalks in front of the Books A Million are doubtless strewn with those who count their wealth soely in terms of pages turned. Proximity to the bookstore won't let this vigilant woman lose sight of a fact that I had forgotten:

Reading is addictive.

Although one seldom hears cautionary tales about the pitfalls of reading, I submit here in this forum that, as far as compulsive behaviors go, reading habits need to be regarded with the same concern as gluttony, or off-track betting.

Not that I’m a stranger to reading—-indeed, books are a part of my daily life. It’s just that in recent years, I have managed to convince myself that I don’t have much time to read for pleasure.

I’m not sure how it happened. I grew up consuming Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden on a book-a-day basis. I absorbed Michael Bond and CS Lewis, their British influences infusing my own speech and writing with phrases like “Crikey!” and “there was a row in the queue,” and the tendency to use the favoured spelling of the Monarchy.

It’s just that responsible adult life isn’t designed to accommodate addictive behavior. Even when it masquerades as a wholesome, educational pursuit.

Ironically, my love for literature was rekindled when I got desperately behind on some in-class reading and my husband got me hooked on listening to CD books on my commutes. Eventually, I became so adept at employing CD literature that I got ahead in my reading, and discovered that I had time to listen to other books, too, just for fun.

But I got greedy, which is how I came to find myself crouched in the nonfiction aisle of the Books A Million, sucking up chapters of Tuesdays With Morrie like my daughter on a bag of chicken nuggets.

Remembering the triple digit page count I faced in the form of weekend reading homework, I prudently slid the book back on the shelf when my daughter was ready to go home.

But when I woke up in the morning, Morrie was still with me. I had know what happened, how his talks about life, and love, and death progressed, and how many of Mitch’s questions would be answered before Morrie’s Final Chapter.

I went to the library, ostensibly to pick up a book for school, which I forgot, and left with Morrie, who is far more interesting than linguistics, Chaucer, or that horrible book I have to read for my multicultural literature class. Morrie slam-dunks anything in my sociology book (although, he was, ironically, a sociology professor). Needless to say, Morrie trumps laundry, and dusting, and, to be honest, I read him behind my own booth at the Virginia Festival of the Book on Saturday.

I stayed with Morrie clear through to the end, and all I have to say is that it’s a good thing Morrie’s account wasn’t contained in a lengthier tome.

It’s also fortunate that my husband has a good job, because although my daughter was mistaken for a homeless person, I'd otherwise be in danger of becoming one, especially since my daughter's group is meeting at the Books A Million again tomorrow and I have to pick her up. The truth is, I could come home with anything, and be well on my way to a downward spiral. Indeed, I could even now, be in the final chapters of Responsible Living.

Come to think of it, I think I’ll just wait for her on the sidewalk outside the store and eat a snack.

Brownies, Bunny Cake, and Brewed Coffee (Grounds)

This a quick little post about Monday baked goods and an update for those concerned about the much-maligned New York Capri Pants.

Last week’s photo shoot was a wonderful success. The photographer followed the girls through the entire brownie process: licking the batter, sliding the pan into the oven, eating the proceeds before they cooled. He even sat though our lesson while the brownies baked. My editor sent the final layout to me yesterday, and the piece looks great. She even added an editor’s note, with links to my new website and books.

My son volunteered to take pictures so all of you could join in the fun. I’m sure these images will make you feel like you were right here with us.





Don’t you just feel like you were sitting right here?

This week, I decided to bake bunny cakes instead of brownies. I’m sure you’ll understand why I’m relieved that not only were no reporters on site, no one else showed up, either:



And the word on the Capri pants is that they emerged from beneath the grounds unscathed. If any staining did occur, the overall brown patina of the fabric rendered any defects invisible to the naked eye, a merit not enjoyed by all baked goods.

Resurrection

On this Easter Sunday, I would be remiss not to make mention of two facts of note. The first is an update on the ill-fated New York Capri Pants . Evidently, a concerned bystander pulled them from the trash, although I have yet to visually verify this fact, and there is no word yet on how they fared amidst the coffee grounds.

The second is that answers came to clarifycertain uncertainties with which I've been struggling.

New life has been breathed into some stagnant dreams. Isn't redemption a wonderful thing?

Stay tuned.

Lessons of the Pants

For several consecutive Spring Breaks—I’d guess four—I’d fallen into the habit of reading whatever one of the Traveling Pants books was hottest from the presses.

Having read the final installment in the account of the globetrotting jeans last year, this spring left me with no choice but to reflect upon Pants mishaps of my own design.

I’m sad to report that the New York Capri Pants didn’t make it. They were last seen mingling with the coffee grounds in the bottom of my trash can.

There are reasons for the extreme fate of The Pants. For starters, who knew that lugging two layers of shimmery fabric around your waist could be a workout? I should have donated them to NASA for astronauts to use during zero gravity experiments. As far as Earth-bound applications, I suppose you could use them as a paperweight, but my next point will illustrate why you wouldn’t want to.

They’re enormous. The pattern size I measured for was more than double the size stamped on clothes I buy off the rack. “Sewing sizes are different, mother,” my daughter kept insisting. All I know is that the New York Capri Pants could provide shade and shelter over a large portion of Central Park.

Then there’s the fact that every line I tried to sew kept moving—slipping and sliding all over the place, until the midsection looked more like a licorice whip than a waistband.

But the writer in me isn’t content to just let the unfortunate events rest unexamined. No, the ill-fated Pants must be infused with some sort of Greater Meaning, they must inspire, instruct and inform. They must have Purpose.

I wouldn’t blame you for asking why, but the reason is quite simple. It’s the only way I can cope with the personal failure, waste of expensive fabric, and loss of many hours that could have been invested in more productive pursuits.

What then, can the Pants teach us from their gritty grave?

My husband would say that, too, is simple: I can’t sew.

I say it’s a little of that, and a lot of I don’t know when to quit. I don’t know when quitting is good, or when quitting is bad. It seems that there are times for both, but just like a little kid who hasn’t figured out what strangers are OK to talk to (Policemen? The hairdresser? That creepy guy who drives the ice cream truck?) I’m still learning the rules.

That’s what I learned from the Pants. That, and I can’t sew.

Tomorrow Comes Early Every Monday

Every Monday at 6:30 PM, it suddenly becomes Tuesday at my house.

The smell of baking brownies and sounds of canine excitement signal the weekly time warp. Tails wag as teen girls, hungry for a combined spiritual and sugar rush, file through the front door. This weekly ritual played out every Tuesday night for ten years until I started my Masters program. After Tuesday evening classes forced a move to Mondays, everyone cheerfully adjusted to the time change, but not a name change. We’re still the Tuesday Night Bible Study. We just happen to meet on Monday.

What’s different about tonight is that instead of making the brownies ahead of time, I’m waiting for the girls to arrive so we can bake them together. The format change is for the benefit of a photographer who is coming to take pictures for a story about our group which will run in a local women’s’ magazine and, apparently, the newspaper as well. The brownie making angle is a concession to the fact that, for photography purposes, taking pictures of us baking would be more interesting than pictures of us sitting around on couches eating the brownies, which is what we usually do.

I won’t have the pictures to post, but, as I happened to write the article, I’d be happy to give you a sneak peek at it.

It goes something like this:

Who knew when I sat down in my living room one late spring evening with two teen girls, a pan of double chocolate brownies and a Bible that my life was about to change? Sure, I was excited about building relationships with some of the girls at church, but I had no idea I was beginning a chapter of my life that would be peopled by dozens of teenagers who would bring me not only encouragement and joy, but also inspiration in the pursuit of a lifelong dream.

But that’s exactly what happened. Our weekly living room sessions around the brownie pan are now eleven years strong. Over the years, I’ve been in two weddings, and another
two marriages exist because of friendships that formed in Tuesday Night Bible Study.

Along the way, we’ve prayed together over lost loves, sick pets, and plummeting grades. We once sat and cried together at a funeral, too. Sometimes the older girls come back from college or married life and get to know the new girls. It’s a continuous thread.

I was a late bloomer, of sorts. A caution-to-the-wind kind of gal with a flair for the dramatic and a penchant for impulsive road trips during school hours. Having managed to survive into my twenties, I felt a responsibility to extend a map of sorts to my younger sisters—a guide marking the best stepping stones around the tough neighborhoods.

But even my husband, who has been a constant source of encouragement in endeavors ranging from international travel to the ill-advised adoptions of numerous strays, was skeptical.

“It’s a great idea,” he said. “But I’m not sure if you’ll get them to come. I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

But come they did—sometimes in trickles, others in droves. And our group quickly expanded as the girls brought their friends. Soon girls from all over the community began showing up at my door each week for a dose of scripture, a listening ear, and, of course, a brownie.

I keep a few trophies—but not the kind you have to polish. My favorite is a little Ziploc baggie full of “contraband” a couple of girls unexpectedly gave me one night at the end of a study. Not even 24’s Jack Bauer could get me to divulge the contents of the bag, but I promise you, it was worth way more than every chocolate chip I’ve ever had to buy and every hour that stretched beyond our usual two.

And that lifelong dream I mentioned? My experiences with the girls actually gave me the nudge I needed to jumpstart my frustrated writing ambitions! It began as a chapter-a-week online saga featuring a protagonist who, as one girl put it, “is a little bit of all of us.” The experiment grew into two young adult novels that have opened doors for me to talk with girls who would never have the opportunity to walk through my door on a Tuesday night.

Those who come usually hit the door with a single question: “Are there brownies tonight?” They claim my super-chocolaty recipe has “ruined” ordinary brownies for them.

I understand. A brownie isn’t just a brownie for me anymore, either. It’s a warm, gooey celebration of enduring friendship and the unexpected joys of giving.

Cynthia Davis is pursuing an MAT in English at Christopher Newport University. To contact her or learn more about her work, visit http://www.runningwithletters.com

Maybe you'd like the brownie recipe?

Bible Study Brownies (Nestle Double Chocolate Brownies)
This is the recipe for the authentic Tuesday night brownies!
3/4 cup unsifted flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/3 cup butter
3/4 cup sugar
2 tablespoons water
1 package Nestle semi-sweet morsels
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 eggs
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. In small bowl combine flour, baking soda, and salt--set aside. In small saucepan, combine butter, sugar, and water. Bring just to a boil, then remove from heat. Add 1/2 package of morsels and vanilla. Stir until morsels melt and mixture is smooth. Transfer to large bowl. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Gradually blend in flour mixture. Stir in remaining morsels. Spread into greased 9 inch pan. Bake 30-35 minutes.

Enjoy!

Knowing When to Say "When"

“Don’t end up at Barnes and Noble,” my daughter pleaded at the end of a cell phone conversation right before my husband came home from work on Friday.

We were going out on a date—spring break item #7, for those who are counting—and if history was any indication, about one troubled meal and ninety minutes away from aimless aisle wandering and a video on the couch.

My husband had given this date a pretty good trailer, though, so I’d looked forward to it with some anticipation. I’d categorized it in the “mystery” genre, as I had next to nothing to go on, but when he came through the door carrying a slender manila folder, I started thinking along the lines of James Bond, or Mission Impossible.

Inside the folder were three columns of numbered sticky notes with the headlines “Dinner,” “Shopping,” and “Film.” The rules, he said, were simple. Once an option was uncovered, I had to decide to accept it or move on, but the catch was, I couldn’t go back.

Twelve possibilities for dinner, seven for shopping—each with varying funds I could spend—and nine potential movies—what fun! I quickly removed the starting options in each category—obvious throw-aways (McDonalds, Wal-Mart, and a movie called “Jumper,” which may be a perfectly fine film, but not one with which I was familiar.)

I kept going.

The options got better—a nice Mexican restaurant, a decent Target allowance, a fun romantic comedy. But all those uncovered options...what might I miss?

I continued peeling Post-its.

From bar and grill fare, Barnes and Nobel (“I can’t go home and tell our daughter I ended up at Barnes and Nobel”) and a well-reviewed drama, I wound up with: “Bag Lunch—PBJ,” “$25 at K-Mart” and some really scary sounding flick called “Welcome Home Roscoe Jenkins.”

There was nothing I could do but keep peeling.

It’s a good thing my husband knows me well, that he’s no stranger to my “grass must be greener” urges. Because brown-bagging it in K-Mart duds at a B-movie is what people like me typically come to in the end. By the time I’d reached a tidy, three digit sum at Macy’s and WAS STILL THINKING my date had tuned into “Deal or No Deal” and I was the contestant poised to reject a massive payday and go home with a penny.

But my husband knows I can’t stand the unknown. That I have to know “what could have been,” that I struggle with understanding that the best things are the ones that you have.

Knowing it would likely get to that point, my husband saved some sweet options for the end, allowing me to enjoy a piping hot pot pie, a shopping spree at the mall (variety!) and the same romantic comedy I reluctantly passed by in the number four spot.

He says it won’t go down this way next time. He says I need to learn when to embrace what’s before me and stop second guessing my choices.

Otherwise, next time I’ll be wiping peanut butter off my Wal-Mart T-shirt as I trudge into the video store.

Singed Finger Stymies Blogger

Readers,

I had a post planned for tonight, but getting ready to settle in to type, I made some tea, severly burning a finger in the process. You wouldn't believe how long it is taking me just to post this simple announcement: pauses to cool the digit on a cube of ice, repeated backspacing to correct myriad typos--I should have just left them as testament to the scope of my infirmity.

If I don't make it back tonight, I hope you'll stop by to check in on me tomorrow.

Need ice...

...But What Can I Get for the Thousand Words?

It's not a good writing week. On the heels of yesterday's Upset with The Editor , The Antiques Roadshow series came to a screeching halt when the subject ended up with a broken foot. Although my editor--not the one who thinks it's "wierd" to pay for assigned work--still wants the stories when the subject is back on both feet, early projections are that the coverage will fall when I'm wallowing ankle-deep in school work. My relationship with the paper could, if fact, be on its last leg.

In the aftermath of all the literary trouble, I decided it was the perfect time to focus on list item #10:

http://athousandwordstospare.blogspot.com/

Enjoy!

Tension at the Seams

I cringed as a sunbeam cut through the roughly-hewn piece of cloth I held in front of me. "Do you think this might be a little see-though?" I asked my daughter, hoping she couldn't see me behind the cloth sheath.

She could, right down to my frown of disappointment.

And, just like that, I discovered another way I’d like to imitate Jesus. According to the Gospel of John, (19:23, to be exact) he wore clothes without seams.

While my fascination with this fact may not speak to some of the more crucial ways I need to emulate Christ, it was this detail upon which I found myself fixated as I struggled with my efforts toward eleven eleven list item #1, finish sewing the New York Capri pants.

I’d like to report that the hours of cutting, sewing, and pinning resulted in a happy, stylish conclusion. I’d like to post a photo of the finished product, or better yet, of me looking sharp modeling the finished product, but really, all I have to offer is a sad tale punctuated by events like the shattering of my glass button jar across the tile floor, and an emergency trip to the fabric store when the sunny conditions of my working environment revealed the transparent nature of the smooth, flowing fabric and I realized that some type of liner would need to be fashioned.

Now, common sense will tell you that if I’m struggling with implementing the basic pattern, the skills required to improvise a liner are way off my map. Furthermore, a liner for a smooth, slick garment must be cut from fabric that mirrors those qualities in order to retain the free-flowing characteristics of the piece.

Sewing pieces of slippery material together is even harder than cutting slippery material, which, I can assure you, is no job for a stay-within-the lines perfectionist.

Further complicating my attempts at the harmonious fusing of fabric was the fact that I was coming unglued by events unfolding outside the perimeter of frayed threads in which I’d been hemmed.

Seems that a new editor with whom I’d been excited to work found my request for payment for assigned work to be “weird.” (This is not the Antiques Roadshow series, referenced earlier, but, rather, even more promising work that apparently will not transpire.)

Pondering what led to this unsettling turn, I realized that my difficulty with seams extends way beyond the ten pieces of fabric with which I was wrestling. I don’t know how—or if—school fits into my life. The penny-pinching turbulence at the newspaper is evidently worse than I realized (I’ve been called weird before, but it’s usually for something like organizing the wares of store shelves into ROY G BIV order while I shop, but never for collecting a paycheck). I don’t know where to focus my future writing efforts.

It should really come as no surprise that seams are troublesome. Why else would we use the phrase “seamless” in admiration of work strangely free of flaws? Seams are where things come together, the intersection of incongruous elements, and are, therefore, inherently challenging.

If seams were simple, we wouldn’t talk about things “coming apart" at them, and “popping a seam” wouldn’t be viewed as a problem. Sewing kits wouldn’t come stocked with forked tools known as “seam rippers.”

Seams aren’t simple because they represent transitions, and if you’ve written as much as a high school essay, you know how elusive it can be to craft a smooth shift.

Seams are the creaky joints where the frayed edges of our lives converge. We jockey, we pin; tentatively at first, testing to see how the fit squares with the pattern we’re aiming to craft from the bits and pieces with which we have to work. Opportunities, ambitions, longings and hopes—these are the elements we must reconcile with the resources available: our skills, time, and tools. It’s arduous work, and success is never guaranteed.

Today, I need to spend some time contemplating my patterns—-the one printed on newsprint to guide me through the transitions of trousers, and the other to write upon my heart as I seek to become more Seamless.

Documenting my Wanderlust

I’ve always had it—it’s what ignited my ill-fated bid to summer in Cabrini Green when I was 13. It’s why I’ve never been able to hold down a job involving attendance in the mid-calendar months. It was behind the urges that led me to Africa and Mexico. It’s the force whispering into my ear even now, taunting and tempting me into the unknown.

Wanderlust is a powerful mixture of idealism, curiosity, and passion for life. It’s an urge that’s satisfied only through acts that leave your hands dirty and feet sore. It’s never safe, usually risky, and always deeply fulfilling. At its best it’s spiritual, at its worst, it is self-destructive, even fatal.

I’ve been listening to the CD book Into the Wild, Jon Krakauer’s account of the early 1990s explorations of Christopher McCandless, a young wanderer whose quest to quench his internal cravings led to a grim conclusion in the Alaskan bush. At times, excerpts from his journal read eerily like my own; his yearning for “unfiltered experience,” his belief that there’s “more” out there than most people allow themselves to discover.

My current efforts toward fulfillment of eleven eleven list item #3—start cross country scrapbook—have turned my thoughts toward open spaces. Not just in the “go west” sense, but in the direction of self examination, of understanding the role and purpose of dreams, longings, and cravings, and what to do with mine.

Recent educational developments have caused me to reconsider the path on which I’ve embarked with my masters program. I had to drop the in-depth-examination-of-a-middle-school “lab”class—unexpected field work requirements in my other classes left me with no time to even start the time consuming project. Dropping that led to a realistic look at my remaining course requirements, and two important discoveries: that I definitely have to extend the program, and I’m not sure how much I want to. There’s a lot more field work, for one. More importantly, the field work I have done has led to the conclusion that as nice as a little part-time, private school teaching gig can be, Being a Teacher isn’t something I’m all that jazzed about. Perhaps the biggest doubts have originated from some professors I’ve consulted who have questioned the compatibility of my personal goals with this particular program.

In short, I can build a convincing case for staying, and an equally convincing one for cutting my losses. However, another semester will take me past the point of no return, and I have just a couple weeks to decide: is this just wanderlust, luring me away from the conventions of society? It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve run from confinement at the first sign of longer days and warmer climes.

Or is the voice I hear the weak gasp of an author and journalist crushed beneath the weight of assignments I’ve turned down and projects I can’t pursue due to the demands of academia?

Oh, and did I mention that my old, very part-time job as a private school art teacher is available once again?

Abandoning free education—I’m studying on a full-ride scholarship— with the ideation of major success in print somehow doesn’t make me feel much wiser than McCandless. Armed with meager provisions and no charted course, he was last seen heading into the unknown, blissfully happy but thoroughly deluded.
The story of my own temptation to embark Deep Into the Literary Wild—and the results thereof— will unfold here, soon enough. If I don’t make it, just tell the authorities you last saw me with a pair of scissors, some colorful Sharpies, and a stack of photos of the Grand Canyon.

Sharing Dinner

I wish you could have joined us for dinner last night. A creamy blend of three cheeses and fresh picked parsley wrapped in paper-thin crepes beneath a layer of homemade sauce…manicotti as it's meant to be enjoyed. I satisfied eleven eleven list item #5—recreate my favorite dinner for my family—with a humble attempt at manicotti in the tradition of The Little Venice.

Throughout my childhood, I looked forward to the times when the sluggish pace of a rural Saturday—monitoring motor vehicle sightings past the property, blowing a pickle-shaped Burger King piccolo to summon the neighbor boy, that sort of thing—was broken by my grandfather’s voice from the Ham radio on the kitchen counter, announcing that we were going out for dinner.

He’d pull up in front of the house with my grandmother in his Lincoln Town car, and we’d all get in—my parents, my sister and I—for the half hour ride to Binghamton. I never liked any of my grandfather’s Town cars—the ride was too smooth—but I loved the 8-tracks he’d play: John Denver, Kenny Price, and Loudon Wainwright III’s big hit, Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road.

At the restaurant, there was never any question that the food was authentic, top-notch, and plentiful. I don’t remember everything I used to order, but I know I must have had my fair share of manicotti, because no rendition of the dish has ever sufficed since. Whenever I see it on the menu at an Italian restaurant, I always ask if they make their own crepes, or use pre-fabbed tubes. It’s invariably the tubes, and it’s a shame. The extra effort for the crepes isn’t just a nice touch—I won’t even bother ordering the dish sans crepes.

The really exciting thing is that I had the opportunity to revisit Little Venice in adulthood several years back—and I can report with complete certainty that the manicotti is every bit as good as I remember it as a kid. Well worth the trip to Binghamton if you live in North America.

Recognizing that real life prevents most of us from making the pilgrimage to the land flowing with marinara sauce and manicotti, I offer the following recipe, adapted from our friends at Taste of Home magazine:

Crepes:

1 ½ cups flour
1 cup milk
3 eggs
½ t. salt

Filling:
2 lbs Ricotta Cheese
½ cup Romano
½ cup Parmesan (not the stuff in the green shaker can!)
1 egg
1-2 Tbs. fresh chopped parsley (dried will do in a pinch)
(make ahead and chill in fridge for best results)

Sauce:
I use my home made sauce that involves crushing Italian tomatoes in a food mill and adding fresh herbs (basil, oregano, etc.), a pinch of brown sugar, salt, pepper and garlic to taste. Feel free to experiment, improvise, what have you, but please don’t resort to jarred sauce. You’ve come this far—don’t skimp here.

Mix crepe ingredients in a bowl. Spoon about two tablespoons into a hot skillet. Use spoon to spread into a paper thin 5 inch circle. Do not flip or brown. Set aside on paper plate, and continue making crepes until batter runs out.

Spread sauce on bottom of 13x9 and other various pans you may need to deploy. Spoon cheese mixture into crepes and place, seam down in pan. Top with more sauce and grated cheeses. Cover with foil and bake at 350 for 20 minutes. Uncover and bake 20 minutes more or until heated through and bubbling.

Oh, and one more thing…this recipe lends itself nicely to a sweet ending I remember fondly—a tall, thin, crème de menthe parfait.

If you don’t have time to cook, feel free to stop by for leftovers. We have plenty, and they’re even better the next day.

Happy Welsh Heritage and Antique Guitar Appreciation Day

“Well, you would be headed in the right direction if we were open today,” the security guard cheerfully informed me, “but today’s a holiday.”

My random adventure with the kids was off to a shaky start. I had to think fast. Yesterday, when I posed the idea of an adventure, both children announced that there was nothing new to see in our city. When I suggested they join me in eleven eleven list item # 6—fly a kite on the beach—they scoffed, claiming kite flying doesn’t qualify as an adventure. Tough crowd.

Undaunted, I asked them, over dinner, to each write down three things about which they wanted learn more. “Oh, no, research,” one child groaned, while the other dutifully scrambled for a library card.

“Who said anything about reading,” I demanded, mentally scrapping the library from my plans.

I used the kids’ reported interests—ranging from playing the guitar to native American history—as inspiration for some local, low-cost experiences. A quick internet search revealed a free museum with impressive Native American holdings less than 2 miles from our front door. Hidden within the campus of Hampton University—an instructional institution with which we are largely unfamiliar—the museum qualified as both something new to see and a non-print source of interest. Bingo!

But here we were, turned away at the gate, victims of some holiday of which we were not privy.

I was doubly surprised by the holiday angle, since I’d already scoured my mental database to identify the reason why both my kids and I were all off on the same day. In former times, those sweet days when all three of our lives included only one small school where I taught and they learned, we’d grown accustomed to having an entire week off together each spring. We’d usually tackle some project—one year we painted my daughter’s room, another year mine—and we’d scrub the kitchen floor, all the while listening to a carefully selected book on CD. In the afternoons, we’d visit parks and friends and libraries—good times that, this year, must be compressed into a single day, now that the three of us are all at different schools, each with a different spring break.

Although I’ll confess to being slightly stymied by the museum’s closure, I recovered quickly, dashing into another museum around the corner (we’re loaded with ‘em here, what with all water, European colonization, and all) arming myself with tourist brochures, all of which highlighted the merits of places the kids have already been, none offering a single new lead.

My big break came in the form of a serendipitous parking place in front of a storefront sporting a British flag. Recalling the upset that ensued last spring when the children discovered their Welsh roots, I herded them into the store in hopes of helping them connect with their newfound heritage.

I knew I struck gold when the friendly lilt of a British accent greeted us at the door. The shop owner pulled out maps, recalling tales and recounting customs. The concept of tartans, plaid patterns worn by family groups, totally captivated the children to the extent that they went home and researched theirs.


We stocked up on British junk food for the afternoon—sodas and chips of unique flavour—and continued on to our next stop, involving an elderly guitar—a weathered electric cast off abandoned by my nephew—about which there has been much recent ado. Just that morning, my son had been strumming its 5 poorly tuned strings as it hung precariously from his neck by a broken leather belt sporting several dozen bent staples.

We drove to a cluttered but well-stocked guitar shop. You know the kind—dark and a little dated, managed by a Woodstock-era hippie strumming out peace and love on a battered acoustic. He replaced the missing string, gave the old clunker a good prognosis (“might even be a collector’s item someday, if you hold onto it”), and infused the kids with a good dose of fascinated inspiration. Today, they’ve got it plugged into some old stereo equipment and were last seen with a chord chart and some slightly roughed-up fingertips.

Although a second glance at the calendar still didn’t corroborate the security guard’s holiday story, I still think I might side with him on this one. Although we may well be among the select few who knew, the day certainly proved itself worthy of special commemoration.

Eleven Eleven

For reasons that have remained unclear and largely unexamined, I have, since childhood, taken an odd delight in noticing when it’s 11:11. Identical pairs of slender neon digits lined across the display of the clock radio or dashboard, the unassuming numbers never fail (twice each day!) to remain noteworthy. Maybe it’s an aesthetic appreciation for the element of line. Perhaps I’ve come to associate the hour with lunch, or repose. I suppose there’s even the specter of psychological disorder, which would be especially concerning, as I’ve recently learned that the affectation is apparently genetic. Seems my daughter sends a text message to her best friend twice daily to alert him of the time of day, but since he actually appreciates this service, I figure the habit is less weird than it initially appears.

Clocks aside, today finds me doubly enamored with the number eleven. Tomorrow morning, I begin eleven days of spring break, and, in celebration, I’ve created a list of eleven things I want to do. The plan is to tackle one each day (although there’ll be some overlap) and post the progress here.

In no particular order, here’s what we’re dealing with:

1) Finish sewing the New York print Capri pants I started last winter, and promptly abandoned once I realized they’re supposed to have a zipper.

2) Make amends for the mosaic-wedding gift mirror I managed to ruin during the final grouting last fall (a full 16 months after said wedding) by designing and beginning a replacement.

3) Use all the stuff I bought that time I emptied the scrapbooking shelves during that sale at Target to begin the scrapbook of last summer’s cross country trip.

4) Complete an assignment for a pair of articles about the Antiques Roadshow

5) Recreate my favorite dinner for my family

6) Fly a kite on the beach

7) Attempt a real date with my husband

8) Plant flowers in my window boxes

9) Stay up late watching movies

10) Start a new photo blog

11) Take the kids on a random adventure

Perhaps by now you're a little overwhelmed. You might even think you misunderstood, that I’m taking off the entire Spring season, that I must have said eleven weeks, not days. No need to scroll back for clarification—as usual, my expectations exceed reality. I figure at the very least, it'll make for interesting reading. Stay tuned.