I just want to say
That watching the Olympic Archery competitions
Is making me very happy.
It makes me want to go into my backyard
Go into Forest Park
And shoot my bow.
It is invigorating me.
I am getting stuff done around the house
I watch, I pause, I watch again.
My cats are happy on my lap filled with knitting
My bow waits in the dining room
Perhaps tomorrow I will play.
But not just play.
I want to beat someone.
Perhaps my daughter and her friends.
That would be fair.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
New
Billy, as you probably know, has an increasingly mild form of apraxia. When he was first diagnosed, it was "moderate to severe" and as of this last session of summer, it is "mild/moderate". It is also switched from apraxia to Childhood Apraxia of Speech, which is more a developmental thing than a life sentence kind of thing. But he's been in speech and language therapy for a whole year now and has at least two more in front of him (at which point, kindergarten will start at the public school where my girls attend...where speech and language would be free...and so he'll probably be done!).
The first semester was focused simply on imitation, which he never ever did before last November or so. Second semester focused on some speech goals, like s-blends, with language goals taking a bit of a back seat. His average length of utterance increased from 2 to 3 that semester, and this summer got up to 4, as long as it was on topics he liked (transportation, essentially). The professor we work with is a national expert in apraxia and has assured me that this is doable, that it can be overcome, and that she doesn't see anything else alarming (autism spectrum, developmental disabilities beyond speech, etc).
All this is great news. I still see the apraxic (is that a word) speech when he's trying to convey something beyond his favorite topics (transportation). He can go on and on quite fluently about Thomas the Tank Engine or his tricycle or our car. But if he wants me to open the attic door so he can go play with more transportation, I can see and hear the hesitation. "I want...open door..play trains...please." Many sentences are sing-songy, too, which is adorable at age three but we need to put an end to it soon. Everything is kind of a question?
But I'm happy with his progress, and I like taking him to SLU, where Sophia did speech therapy as well. Close by, we get a break because we're alums, etc. It's very comfortable there and he has gotten to like the students he works with, enough that this summer when he met the new student, he turned and said, "No...I want...Janey!"
Anyway. Adjectives are kind of a new thing for Billy. It's been a verb-noun world up until the past few months, when awesome, fast, slow, quiet, loud, big, small, and so forth entered his vocabulary. And now his favorite new adjective is "new".
"We going in our new car?" he'll ask. I'll remind him that our car isn't new. He is undeterred.
"I ride mine new bike?" And I just say yes. It also is not new but oh well.
"I play mine new trains?" I have to admit like like the German-influence on the possessive. Mein neuer Zug.
So it's all new. Mine new milk. Our new kitchen. The new pool.
And it's all very cute until we left the mechanic this morning and he asked me, "Where mine new daddy?"
When I reminded him that his father was not new, but the same father he'd had since the beginning, he just laughed. "Oh, yeah," he conceded. And then on the way home asked again, "Mine new daddy working?"
It's getting old.
The first semester was focused simply on imitation, which he never ever did before last November or so. Second semester focused on some speech goals, like s-blends, with language goals taking a bit of a back seat. His average length of utterance increased from 2 to 3 that semester, and this summer got up to 4, as long as it was on topics he liked (transportation, essentially). The professor we work with is a national expert in apraxia and has assured me that this is doable, that it can be overcome, and that she doesn't see anything else alarming (autism spectrum, developmental disabilities beyond speech, etc).
All this is great news. I still see the apraxic (is that a word) speech when he's trying to convey something beyond his favorite topics (transportation). He can go on and on quite fluently about Thomas the Tank Engine or his tricycle or our car. But if he wants me to open the attic door so he can go play with more transportation, I can see and hear the hesitation. "I want...open door..play trains...please." Many sentences are sing-songy, too, which is adorable at age three but we need to put an end to it soon. Everything is kind of a question?
But I'm happy with his progress, and I like taking him to SLU, where Sophia did speech therapy as well. Close by, we get a break because we're alums, etc. It's very comfortable there and he has gotten to like the students he works with, enough that this summer when he met the new student, he turned and said, "No...I want...Janey!"
Anyway. Adjectives are kind of a new thing for Billy. It's been a verb-noun world up until the past few months, when awesome, fast, slow, quiet, loud, big, small, and so forth entered his vocabulary. And now his favorite new adjective is "new".
"We going in our new car?" he'll ask. I'll remind him that our car isn't new. He is undeterred.
"I ride mine new bike?" And I just say yes. It also is not new but oh well.
"I play mine new trains?" I have to admit like like the German-influence on the possessive. Mein neuer Zug.
So it's all new. Mine new milk. Our new kitchen. The new pool.
And it's all very cute until we left the mechanic this morning and he asked me, "Where mine new daddy?"
When I reminded him that his father was not new, but the same father he'd had since the beginning, he just laughed. "Oh, yeah," he conceded. And then on the way home asked again, "Mine new daddy working?"
It's getting old.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Friday, July 27, 2012
Baden-Powell Service Association
Through a complicated internetsy route, I have made a connection to the Baden-Powell Service Association, which is a traditional scouting program and a member of the World Federation of Independent Scouts (or some such). It's British in origin, like all scouting programs, and stresses outdoor skills, self-sufficiency, and service. Like all scouting programs. Sort of. Except the Girl Scouts USA of course.
I've been searching for alternatives to GSUSA for some time, but my options were limited to:
1. Completely cheesy "mind open so far your brains fall out" pseudo-scouting programs
2. 4-H, which is a laudable program but not as applicable in the city
3. The BSA Venturing program, which I wrote to in order to learn more about how my troop, once old enough, could join, and the response was absolutely insipid. Less helpful and useful than even the least helpful or useful person at my local GS council.
4. The Heritage Girls, which is, well, I won't even really get into it here because it will just irritate me.
5. Several overseas organizations that assumed I would speak German or French before joining. and maybe a little more paramilitary than I was wanting.
What I want is:
1. Meaty badgework. No self-esteem badges (GSUSA) or Disneyworld badges (Heritage Girls).
2. Less to buy/low-cost. The number one reason we never did a journey was because they cost money. The number two through infinity reasons had to do with the program not being so great actually...
3. Opportunities for adventure. I get this through Girl Scouts, with camps and off-property trips like to the Smokies. What I would want is for that to not be lessened if I changed organizations or did a dual membership. I would get this in Venturing, too.
4. Independence. I am not fond of my local council leaning into my program, and I didn't want to join a new group that was even more top-heavy and controlling.
Baden-Powell Service Association meets my list. Now, my older girls just bridged to Cadettes and we're going to stay with the Girl Scouts for now--earn the silver award, go to camp, etc. But I am going to propose that we do a dual membership in the future. In the end, my older girls may not ever see a need to make a switch, especially since my coleader and I are creative and good at our jobs. Right now we can make Girl Scouting work for us.
But that brings me to Daisy's troop. My coleader for that troop moved. My back up coleader's daughter dropped out. The idea of going through two more years of brownies before we can do anything "meaty" with these girls is eating away at my enthusiasm. BPSA, however, is co-ed. And that lit a lightbulb in my brain.
Our school does not have a boy scout troop because we're hippies. I mean that in the best ways for the most part. We strive to be inclusive and accepting and the BSA would not fit for many of our families. Not really at all, in fact. But the BPSA doesn't have restrictions to their membership based on religion or sexual orientation. It's more like the Girl Scouts that way--none of that has anything to do with the point of scouting, not from the beginning, not at the heart of what scouting is. The BPSA goes back to the documents written by Baden-Powell before the sea-change of the 60s followed by the influx of the Mormons more recently.
So I emailed the administrator who is in charge of after-school programming and asked him what he thought. He jumped in with both feet--he'd been a boy scout but felt as though he couldn't have his sons join. But the BPSA means they can. And his son is in Daisy's class. So, voila, I can have a co-leader again.
Getting it set up this year means that when Billy reaches kindergarten there will already be an Otter Raft established. Dues are $35 per year for the entire chartered group (ages 5-adult)--no individual dues to go to a large bloated council or national organization. It is volunteer run. It is small. The national organizer lives an hour away from me. The manuals are free pdfs. The little kid uniforms are simple and easy (the Pathfinders, which is ages 11-17, get more complicated, but I'll just have to see when I get there).
It doesn't have a bunch of camps that make it easy to start camping. It doesn't have archery equipment I can borrow. No free canoes on a lake with a lifeguard. It makes some things more complicated--and there's no built in fundraiser like cookies. So there are things to figure out.
But I'm jumping in. I don't think I'll jump ship--especially for my older troop--but at our school, for Daisy and Billy, they're going to be Timberwolves and Otters this fall.
I've been searching for alternatives to GSUSA for some time, but my options were limited to:
1. Completely cheesy "mind open so far your brains fall out" pseudo-scouting programs
2. 4-H, which is a laudable program but not as applicable in the city
3. The BSA Venturing program, which I wrote to in order to learn more about how my troop, once old enough, could join, and the response was absolutely insipid. Less helpful and useful than even the least helpful or useful person at my local GS council.
4. The Heritage Girls, which is, well, I won't even really get into it here because it will just irritate me.
5. Several overseas organizations that assumed I would speak German or French before joining. and maybe a little more paramilitary than I was wanting.
What I want is:
1. Meaty badgework. No self-esteem badges (GSUSA) or Disneyworld badges (Heritage Girls).
2. Less to buy/low-cost. The number one reason we never did a journey was because they cost money. The number two through infinity reasons had to do with the program not being so great actually...
3. Opportunities for adventure. I get this through Girl Scouts, with camps and off-property trips like to the Smokies. What I would want is for that to not be lessened if I changed organizations or did a dual membership. I would get this in Venturing, too.
4. Independence. I am not fond of my local council leaning into my program, and I didn't want to join a new group that was even more top-heavy and controlling.
Baden-Powell Service Association meets my list. Now, my older girls just bridged to Cadettes and we're going to stay with the Girl Scouts for now--earn the silver award, go to camp, etc. But I am going to propose that we do a dual membership in the future. In the end, my older girls may not ever see a need to make a switch, especially since my coleader and I are creative and good at our jobs. Right now we can make Girl Scouting work for us.
But that brings me to Daisy's troop. My coleader for that troop moved. My back up coleader's daughter dropped out. The idea of going through two more years of brownies before we can do anything "meaty" with these girls is eating away at my enthusiasm. BPSA, however, is co-ed. And that lit a lightbulb in my brain.
Our school does not have a boy scout troop because we're hippies. I mean that in the best ways for the most part. We strive to be inclusive and accepting and the BSA would not fit for many of our families. Not really at all, in fact. But the BPSA doesn't have restrictions to their membership based on religion or sexual orientation. It's more like the Girl Scouts that way--none of that has anything to do with the point of scouting, not from the beginning, not at the heart of what scouting is. The BPSA goes back to the documents written by Baden-Powell before the sea-change of the 60s followed by the influx of the Mormons more recently.
So I emailed the administrator who is in charge of after-school programming and asked him what he thought. He jumped in with both feet--he'd been a boy scout but felt as though he couldn't have his sons join. But the BPSA means they can. And his son is in Daisy's class. So, voila, I can have a co-leader again.
Getting it set up this year means that when Billy reaches kindergarten there will already be an Otter Raft established. Dues are $35 per year for the entire chartered group (ages 5-adult)--no individual dues to go to a large bloated council or national organization. It is volunteer run. It is small. The national organizer lives an hour away from me. The manuals are free pdfs. The little kid uniforms are simple and easy (the Pathfinders, which is ages 11-17, get more complicated, but I'll just have to see when I get there).
It doesn't have a bunch of camps that make it easy to start camping. It doesn't have archery equipment I can borrow. No free canoes on a lake with a lifeguard. It makes some things more complicated--and there's no built in fundraiser like cookies. So there are things to figure out.
But I'm jumping in. I don't think I'll jump ship--especially for my older troop--but at our school, for Daisy and Billy, they're going to be Timberwolves and Otters this fall.
Hot
It is really hot here. Hot and dry.
The clouds built up yesterday, with promise of rain, but the front was south of us. My in-laws got rain. I didn't.
My garden is ok--water is a flat rate in the city so I do water the garden--but the grass in back is crispy. The kids' rooms, on the 3rd floor, even with window units, is too hot to sleep in.
Temperatures I've never seen except in the desert of southern California: 106, 107, 109...at least it's a dry heat, right?
And it is dry. Have I mentioned the drought? My whole state is under a state of emergency. They keep comparing it to other epic drought years: 1988, 1956, The Dust Bowl. There are grass fires on the highway embankments. There was a huge warehouse fire about 5 blocks south of us, knocked power out for several blocks, total loss, collapsed into the alley, etc. Firefighters who arrived on the scene at 3 in the morning were overcome by heat. I think they meant from the fire. But I'm not sure. It's hot.
You know it's hot when there's a day it only gets to 99 and it feels refreshing.
We are going nowhere and doing nothing. I don't care that the kids are playing video games. I might play some later. We are grilling and using the crock pot. Turning on the oven sounds ridiculous. I bring clothes in off the line and they smell like hot. If hot had a smell all its own, it would be my clean laundry.
Last summer was hot. This summer is ridiculous.
Going to go enjoy an iced coffee in my kitchen while I negotiate a crustless ricotta cheesecake. It will involve baking unfortunately. But I have two ovens, and one is very small, just wide enough for a 9 inch springform pan. Happy Birthday Fiona....
The clouds built up yesterday, with promise of rain, but the front was south of us. My in-laws got rain. I didn't.
My garden is ok--water is a flat rate in the city so I do water the garden--but the grass in back is crispy. The kids' rooms, on the 3rd floor, even with window units, is too hot to sleep in.
Temperatures I've never seen except in the desert of southern California: 106, 107, 109...at least it's a dry heat, right?
And it is dry. Have I mentioned the drought? My whole state is under a state of emergency. They keep comparing it to other epic drought years: 1988, 1956, The Dust Bowl. There are grass fires on the highway embankments. There was a huge warehouse fire about 5 blocks south of us, knocked power out for several blocks, total loss, collapsed into the alley, etc. Firefighters who arrived on the scene at 3 in the morning were overcome by heat. I think they meant from the fire. But I'm not sure. It's hot.
You know it's hot when there's a day it only gets to 99 and it feels refreshing.
We are going nowhere and doing nothing. I don't care that the kids are playing video games. I might play some later. We are grilling and using the crock pot. Turning on the oven sounds ridiculous. I bring clothes in off the line and they smell like hot. If hot had a smell all its own, it would be my clean laundry.
Last summer was hot. This summer is ridiculous.
Going to go enjoy an iced coffee in my kitchen while I negotiate a crustless ricotta cheesecake. It will involve baking unfortunately. But I have two ovens, and one is very small, just wide enough for a 9 inch springform pan. Happy Birthday Fiona....
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Brainwork
A lot is going on. I've been using my brain in different ways than usual lately, and it's energizing.
1. I worked Busch Stadium. That's our baseball stadium in town, home of the Cardinals, at least the home of their uniforms. It's a fundraising scheme, both in the English connotation of "plan" and the American connotation of "racket". A fundraising group sends all their volunteers to a useless 3 hour training which includes reciting, en masse, policies of the concessions company, off a power point slide. Then they come back in packs to work at the concession stands. Our first attempt was actually pretty wonderful--we had an excellent stand manager who ran the show. We just made nachos and took people's money. But then this time? Huge stand that we split with a protestant church so that we would have enough people. Two stand managers and nobody was helpful. I was cash manager and so at one point I had $7000 in my apron. Insanity. Crowded, Cubs game, beautiful weather, the most beautiful weather all month. My brain was on overdrive. I was handed keys and a swipe card when I walked into the stand, and told I would be handling all voids, cash drops, refunds, spoilage, etc. Except that I WASN'T told that--it was just assumed.
And it was ok. Not nearly worth the take that our organization will get from it (our school, raising money to hire an art teacher, ahem). But I was relatively efficient and "on". I came home and the 4 ibuprofen did not take enough pain away to sleep very well. I couldn't be an employee there. Maybe that's why the employees handed me the keys and swipe card and sat in the back eating popsicles.
2. The very next morning, we moved Daisy's classroom. Our school is moving out of the small church we've been slowly taking over, and into our new building, which is an old factory we've had rehabbed beautifully. The move went well--the teachers had everything packed and we had rented 26 foot trucks, one for each classroom, which I got to drive. And as we started bringing boxes out to the truck, I stood in the back and worked it all in my head. We packed that truck tight. I got to use another part of my brain--the night before was math and customer service and efficiency under pressure and heat--and the move was spatial reasoning and navigation and parallel parking a moving truck. It was good.
3. I designed a sweater. I have this dark green Aran-style cardigan that I wear from October to April. It is my little coat for running out to the car or sitting in the library working on the computer in our old drafty house. But it's wearing out and I need another. So I'm knitting one. I picked some cable patterns and made swatches. Then I washed my swatches and measured them. Took the old sweater and measured them. Developed a pattern and worked out the bits and pieces. And I began it today with a 1x1 cable rib.
4. My garden is suffering in the heat, and yet it is thriving in the heat. I've been hand-picking off cucumber beetles, I've scratched my head about the curled up leaves of my tomato plants. But I'm powering through. Lots of bell peppers. My first eggplant ever. Swiss chard. A few tomatoes--many are still green and growing. Basil. Garlic. Armenian melons (they taste like cucumbers only even crisper). The okra and sweet potatoes look happy. A few beets--I may wind up with more greens than beets, but that's ok too. It's a small crop in my backyard but I'm happy with it.
5. We divided the attic. The map over there, let me explain. The black lines are the attic walls and stairs. It is not to scale but I tried. Before last week, the black lines and a random assortment of orange rectangles (furniture) and green rectangles (beds) were what it was.
Oh, and the purple rectangles, which are built-ins, like shelves and cubbies and window seats. There are windows in those two dormers, one at the top (facing the front of the house/south) and at the bottom (facing the backyard/north).
The light blue lines indicate the closet/storage space behind the walls (Christmas, winter coats, etc).
So we added the red line (and rearranged the orange rectangles). The two horizontal red lines are half walls--I can see over them--and the slanted red line is a door. The half walls are built out of doors--we scavenged 7 solid wood 5-panel doors out of the alley (I am my grandmother's true heir this way), had them stripped, and then I finished them with a no-VOC water based stain and finish. They are so pretty. What Jake did was stack two doors horizontally on top of each other, with a wooden I-beam between them, and U-beams (imagine stained glass floating in its leading) on the sides and bottom. A 2x6 across the top to create a shelf. They. Are. Awesome. Four doors create the walls, and then a fifth becomes the actual door--we had plenty of hinges and door knobs and so forth.
So the bottom of the map (north/back of house) is Fiona's room for now. The little space in the center with the bed built into the wall is Billy's, and the big south/front/top area is Daisy's. Eventually these walls will move around and change, but for the next 3 years, here it is. They are happy.
6. What else? Planning a trip to Upper Peninsula for later in the summer. Investigating alternatives to Girl and Boy Scouts, for a variety of reasons. Watched a Johnny Carson biography. Drank coffee. Cleaned. Replaced the battery in the little key fob/clicker for my car. Taught some summer art classes to neighborhood kids. Hoped and planned for next year (will they hire me? Can they hire me?). Almost potty trained Billy (almost done, I mean, not failed). Bought a 1930s feed sack sunflower pattern quilt at an antique place.
Good summer. Good thinking.
1. I worked Busch Stadium. That's our baseball stadium in town, home of the Cardinals, at least the home of their uniforms. It's a fundraising scheme, both in the English connotation of "plan" and the American connotation of "racket". A fundraising group sends all their volunteers to a useless 3 hour training which includes reciting, en masse, policies of the concessions company, off a power point slide. Then they come back in packs to work at the concession stands. Our first attempt was actually pretty wonderful--we had an excellent stand manager who ran the show. We just made nachos and took people's money. But then this time? Huge stand that we split with a protestant church so that we would have enough people. Two stand managers and nobody was helpful. I was cash manager and so at one point I had $7000 in my apron. Insanity. Crowded, Cubs game, beautiful weather, the most beautiful weather all month. My brain was on overdrive. I was handed keys and a swipe card when I walked into the stand, and told I would be handling all voids, cash drops, refunds, spoilage, etc. Except that I WASN'T told that--it was just assumed.
And it was ok. Not nearly worth the take that our organization will get from it (our school, raising money to hire an art teacher, ahem). But I was relatively efficient and "on". I came home and the 4 ibuprofen did not take enough pain away to sleep very well. I couldn't be an employee there. Maybe that's why the employees handed me the keys and swipe card and sat in the back eating popsicles.
2. The very next morning, we moved Daisy's classroom. Our school is moving out of the small church we've been slowly taking over, and into our new building, which is an old factory we've had rehabbed beautifully. The move went well--the teachers had everything packed and we had rented 26 foot trucks, one for each classroom, which I got to drive. And as we started bringing boxes out to the truck, I stood in the back and worked it all in my head. We packed that truck tight. I got to use another part of my brain--the night before was math and customer service and efficiency under pressure and heat--and the move was spatial reasoning and navigation and parallel parking a moving truck. It was good.
3. I designed a sweater. I have this dark green Aran-style cardigan that I wear from October to April. It is my little coat for running out to the car or sitting in the library working on the computer in our old drafty house. But it's wearing out and I need another. So I'm knitting one. I picked some cable patterns and made swatches. Then I washed my swatches and measured them. Took the old sweater and measured them. Developed a pattern and worked out the bits and pieces. And I began it today with a 1x1 cable rib.
4. My garden is suffering in the heat, and yet it is thriving in the heat. I've been hand-picking off cucumber beetles, I've scratched my head about the curled up leaves of my tomato plants. But I'm powering through. Lots of bell peppers. My first eggplant ever. Swiss chard. A few tomatoes--many are still green and growing. Basil. Garlic. Armenian melons (they taste like cucumbers only even crisper). The okra and sweet potatoes look happy. A few beets--I may wind up with more greens than beets, but that's ok too. It's a small crop in my backyard but I'm happy with it.
Oh, and the purple rectangles, which are built-ins, like shelves and cubbies and window seats. There are windows in those two dormers, one at the top (facing the front of the house/south) and at the bottom (facing the backyard/north).
The light blue lines indicate the closet/storage space behind the walls (Christmas, winter coats, etc).
So we added the red line (and rearranged the orange rectangles). The two horizontal red lines are half walls--I can see over them--and the slanted red line is a door. The half walls are built out of doors--we scavenged 7 solid wood 5-panel doors out of the alley (I am my grandmother's true heir this way), had them stripped, and then I finished them with a no-VOC water based stain and finish. They are so pretty. What Jake did was stack two doors horizontally on top of each other, with a wooden I-beam between them, and U-beams (imagine stained glass floating in its leading) on the sides and bottom. A 2x6 across the top to create a shelf. They. Are. Awesome. Four doors create the walls, and then a fifth becomes the actual door--we had plenty of hinges and door knobs and so forth.
So the bottom of the map (north/back of house) is Fiona's room for now. The little space in the center with the bed built into the wall is Billy's, and the big south/front/top area is Daisy's. Eventually these walls will move around and change, but for the next 3 years, here it is. They are happy.
6. What else? Planning a trip to Upper Peninsula for later in the summer. Investigating alternatives to Girl and Boy Scouts, for a variety of reasons. Watched a Johnny Carson biography. Drank coffee. Cleaned. Replaced the battery in the little key fob/clicker for my car. Taught some summer art classes to neighborhood kids. Hoped and planned for next year (will they hire me? Can they hire me?). Almost potty trained Billy (almost done, I mean, not failed). Bought a 1930s feed sack sunflower pattern quilt at an antique place.
Good summer. Good thinking.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Ten on Tuesday: 10 Great Things About the Farmers' Market
I go to farmers' markets. I go to a snobby one in the park by my house and I go to the large one in a permanent building, built before the Parthenon, the next neighborhood over from mine. Neither of them do I go to on a regular basis anymore, now that I have the CSA. But sometimes on Saturday mornings, it sounds like a fun idea to go to the little one in the park, and sometimes I want two bushels of bruised tomatoes to turn into sauce and I go to the large one. So my great things:
1. Personality. I could technically buy all my produce in the supermarket, but I wouldn't get to talk to Zelda's Fruit Guy or the Crabby Tomato Lady. The young man with the cap turned backwards chatting me up like he's interested in taking me out to dinner, but it's all so I can buy a box full of rutabagas. And it nearly works.
2. They speak my language. I go stand in line at the little market in the park and debate the qualities of Black Krim vs. Black from Tula tomatoes. I remember talking this way at a block party and Carter asking me what the heck I was talking about. But he didn't use that word.Gotta know your audience.
3. People watching. I took Rachel, Fiona's godmother, to the old farmer's market one time and she was thrilled to be there just to see the people shopping with us. Too many languages to keep track of. Women dressed across the spectrum of style--from full length hijab just showing her eyes to short-short cut offs and tank tops.
4. Relationship. This is one I haven't cultivated in a while, due to the CSA, but it was good while it lasted. I could come back week after week and tell Zelda's fruit guy about his nectarines or cherries. The big Texan-looking barrel chested pork farmer at the small market talking about how much fat Jake and I needed for deer processing (actually, this relationship has continued--he's no longer at the market but sells to restaurants and the CSA. And we call him in November and he knows we're the folks who want the fat).
5. Fresh, good, local food. The big market is full of produce resellers where you can get great deals. The little market is farmers and local processors (people who make stuff count, too, not just grow the stuff) and you float through the spring on greens and strawberries and green onions; then it's blueberries and early carrots and jalapenos; now it's the end of the blackberries, tomatoes, zucchini, and so forth. It's more expensive than the grocery store but it is so much better.
6. My kids, because of farmers markets and the CSA, know the following words: goat cheese; crepe; arugula; beet. They can explain in detail why turnips are ok but beets are not (I disagree but we can talk about it). they know the difference between a summer squash and a winter one. Why watermelon rinds taste like cucumber. They also see more clearly the connection between their food and where it comes from (berry picking in the summertime helped too).
7. Because of farmers markets, I eat beets now. Pickled beets. I eat jowl. I can tell the difference between passable deer sausage and sublime deer sausage (it's the quality of fat). I think about food now. I used to just consume it.
8. Going to the farmers markets, joining the CSA, cleaning up my family's food habits, all sort of began when I had septic e.coli after Fiona was born. Suddenly Big Food wasn't for me, and in fact was probably part of why she and I almost died. I started focusing on what was important. I created in my head a hierarchy of what we eat. If I can find it local and organic, it wins. If not, if I can find it local and reasonably sustainably grown, I get that (but in reality, most of the local food farmers I have relationships with at this point are not certified organic, but that's what they are). If it can't be found locally (we eat citrus after all), then organic becomes important again--and USA grown. My last resort would be overseas organic (like bananas, which we don't eat many of them since Fiona can't and I really shouldn't). Since farmers markets came into my life, I don't eat plums from Chile. And I don't eat any meat that my husband didn't shoot or didn't come from the CSA or Farmer's Market. Separate to this hierarchy is human rights issues. I don't worry about it at the family owned pork farm outside of Cape Girardeau, but I do in other cases. Coffee and chocolate especially.
9. Food is more expensive there, sometimes, but usually cheaper than domestically grown organic at the grocery store. And in the end, even with the addition of two more people, my grocery bill has not gone up considerably. It helped that I canceled home delivery of milk (sad) and now go to the little local grocery store (farmer's market for the wintertime, essentially). But when you have a fridge full of produce and a freezer full of deer, well, your kids figure out what dinner's going to be and stop whining. It took a few years.
10. It is another one of those places that makes my brain happy. I walk past bins full of rutabagas and my mind races thinking about what I would use them for. I look at the flats of tomatoes and envision the sauce for the freezer I'm going to make. Over time, I recognize who to buy from, who to avoid. Keeping things like this in my head is a good use for my brain. I like to learn things, in the end.
1. Personality. I could technically buy all my produce in the supermarket, but I wouldn't get to talk to Zelda's Fruit Guy or the Crabby Tomato Lady. The young man with the cap turned backwards chatting me up like he's interested in taking me out to dinner, but it's all so I can buy a box full of rutabagas. And it nearly works.
2. They speak my language. I go stand in line at the little market in the park and debate the qualities of Black Krim vs. Black from Tula tomatoes. I remember talking this way at a block party and Carter asking me what the heck I was talking about. But he didn't use that word.Gotta know your audience.
3. People watching. I took Rachel, Fiona's godmother, to the old farmer's market one time and she was thrilled to be there just to see the people shopping with us. Too many languages to keep track of. Women dressed across the spectrum of style--from full length hijab just showing her eyes to short-short cut offs and tank tops.
4. Relationship. This is one I haven't cultivated in a while, due to the CSA, but it was good while it lasted. I could come back week after week and tell Zelda's fruit guy about his nectarines or cherries. The big Texan-looking barrel chested pork farmer at the small market talking about how much fat Jake and I needed for deer processing (actually, this relationship has continued--he's no longer at the market but sells to restaurants and the CSA. And we call him in November and he knows we're the folks who want the fat).
5. Fresh, good, local food. The big market is full of produce resellers where you can get great deals. The little market is farmers and local processors (people who make stuff count, too, not just grow the stuff) and you float through the spring on greens and strawberries and green onions; then it's blueberries and early carrots and jalapenos; now it's the end of the blackberries, tomatoes, zucchini, and so forth. It's more expensive than the grocery store but it is so much better.
6. My kids, because of farmers markets and the CSA, know the following words: goat cheese; crepe; arugula; beet. They can explain in detail why turnips are ok but beets are not (I disagree but we can talk about it). they know the difference between a summer squash and a winter one. Why watermelon rinds taste like cucumber. They also see more clearly the connection between their food and where it comes from (berry picking in the summertime helped too).
7. Because of farmers markets, I eat beets now. Pickled beets. I eat jowl. I can tell the difference between passable deer sausage and sublime deer sausage (it's the quality of fat). I think about food now. I used to just consume it.
8. Going to the farmers markets, joining the CSA, cleaning up my family's food habits, all sort of began when I had septic e.coli after Fiona was born. Suddenly Big Food wasn't for me, and in fact was probably part of why she and I almost died. I started focusing on what was important. I created in my head a hierarchy of what we eat. If I can find it local and organic, it wins. If not, if I can find it local and reasonably sustainably grown, I get that (but in reality, most of the local food farmers I have relationships with at this point are not certified organic, but that's what they are). If it can't be found locally (we eat citrus after all), then organic becomes important again--and USA grown. My last resort would be overseas organic (like bananas, which we don't eat many of them since Fiona can't and I really shouldn't). Since farmers markets came into my life, I don't eat plums from Chile. And I don't eat any meat that my husband didn't shoot or didn't come from the CSA or Farmer's Market. Separate to this hierarchy is human rights issues. I don't worry about it at the family owned pork farm outside of Cape Girardeau, but I do in other cases. Coffee and chocolate especially.
9. Food is more expensive there, sometimes, but usually cheaper than domestically grown organic at the grocery store. And in the end, even with the addition of two more people, my grocery bill has not gone up considerably. It helped that I canceled home delivery of milk (sad) and now go to the little local grocery store (farmer's market for the wintertime, essentially). But when you have a fridge full of produce and a freezer full of deer, well, your kids figure out what dinner's going to be and stop whining. It took a few years.
10. It is another one of those places that makes my brain happy. I walk past bins full of rutabagas and my mind races thinking about what I would use them for. I look at the flats of tomatoes and envision the sauce for the freezer I'm going to make. Over time, I recognize who to buy from, who to avoid. Keeping things like this in my head is a good use for my brain. I like to learn things, in the end.
Monday, July 16, 2012
For Susan (sort of): A Drowning
Not sure if I start this from the beginning or the end, so maybe I'll start it in the middle. My mother never learned to swim. I remember seeing her in a swimsuit maybe a half dozen times, and none of them were the kinds I wear now, ones you could actually swim in.
Even I thought it was weird that my mother didn't know how to swim. She made sure all her kids learned to swim. I took lessons every summer until I demonstrated competence. I think the same is true for my siblings, although Bevin never dove into the pool (dove? Dived?). But you don't have to know how to dive to know how to swim. Later I took adult lessons to hone skills, and I love swimming. I have great stamina, although I am not fast, I can just go and go.
I am completely comfortable in the water, unless there are jellyfish, but that doesn't have to do with swimming.
I get nervous with my kids, who all take, or will take, swim lessons. My kids will swim. It's like reading. It isn't an option the way, say, Irish dance is. It is a skill. I watch them at the pool and I've pulled Billy out of the water where his big toddler pumpkin head has tipped forward and he's lost his footing--with a lifeguard sitting in his chair just a few yards away. It's my job, and I'm not irritated. I pull him up, sputtering and crying. And we move on. I get nervous at the Meramec River, a tricksy little river here in Missouri that looks like it would be an amazing swimming hole...except it kills people. Eddies and undertows and submerged material and you're down for good. We still go--but we go to the Upper Meramec and the kids wear PFDs and I stand in the water watching like an eagle after fish.
We canoe. I have canoe training from the Red Cross and I know what I'm doing in the water. And those kids whine when I click them into life jackets and I don't care. You're wearing one. You're in a boat and it's tricky and I need an extra second to get you out of the water.
My grandmother was 5, her sister was 9. A whole mess of brothers older than her sister, more than I can realistically count off on my fingers. Overton, James, John, Roy, Archibald, I know there's at least one more. My grandmother and her sister flanked another brother, Harold, who was 7.
The story goes, and remember, we see this story through a 5 year old's eyes, a couple of the older brothers found Harold. There was a creek at the bottom of the hill on the hardscrabble Ozarks farm where they lived. He could swim--but he was lifeless in the water. They carried him up to the house. My great-grandfather, who was the ne'er-do-well in a family of important lawyers and professors, had a little bit of medical training, and they laid Harold on the kitchen table, where he tried in vain to revive him.
They moved shortly after. His father couldn't bear to look down from their house down to the creek.
Harold could swim, and the creek wasn't deep. Sometimes I wonder about sinister things, about murder, but most likely, he had a seizure or some other precipitating event and swimming couldn't save him.
My grandmother didn't swim until, in high school, she wanted to earn whatever the equivalent to the Girl Scout Gold Award was called back then, and had to learn. She swam long enough to pass and didn't do it again. She kept her two kids out of the water, thinking that if they couldn't swim, they wouldn't be in danger. My uncle eventually took lessons and can swim now. My mother never got a hang of it. But we all did.
I never met Harold, obviously, and I never heard the story first-hand, only through my mother's retelling. But it sits in my heart. I watch my kids down at Clifty Creek, in the same county where Harold lived and died, when we visit every beginning of summer, and I watch them. I don't know where the family lived, I don't know where Harold drowned, where he was buried. But I see that water and I know it's fun and lovely and I know it's deadly. Seizures run in my family, on the other side. You don't have to be careless to drown. Your brain can do it for you.
I teach and I prepare, but I also watch. Watch, watch, watch. And each time we get out of the water, I'm relieved.
Even I thought it was weird that my mother didn't know how to swim. She made sure all her kids learned to swim. I took lessons every summer until I demonstrated competence. I think the same is true for my siblings, although Bevin never dove into the pool (dove? Dived?). But you don't have to know how to dive to know how to swim. Later I took adult lessons to hone skills, and I love swimming. I have great stamina, although I am not fast, I can just go and go.
I am completely comfortable in the water, unless there are jellyfish, but that doesn't have to do with swimming.
I get nervous with my kids, who all take, or will take, swim lessons. My kids will swim. It's like reading. It isn't an option the way, say, Irish dance is. It is a skill. I watch them at the pool and I've pulled Billy out of the water where his big toddler pumpkin head has tipped forward and he's lost his footing--with a lifeguard sitting in his chair just a few yards away. It's my job, and I'm not irritated. I pull him up, sputtering and crying. And we move on. I get nervous at the Meramec River, a tricksy little river here in Missouri that looks like it would be an amazing swimming hole...except it kills people. Eddies and undertows and submerged material and you're down for good. We still go--but we go to the Upper Meramec and the kids wear PFDs and I stand in the water watching like an eagle after fish.
We canoe. I have canoe training from the Red Cross and I know what I'm doing in the water. And those kids whine when I click them into life jackets and I don't care. You're wearing one. You're in a boat and it's tricky and I need an extra second to get you out of the water.
My grandmother was 5, her sister was 9. A whole mess of brothers older than her sister, more than I can realistically count off on my fingers. Overton, James, John, Roy, Archibald, I know there's at least one more. My grandmother and her sister flanked another brother, Harold, who was 7.
The story goes, and remember, we see this story through a 5 year old's eyes, a couple of the older brothers found Harold. There was a creek at the bottom of the hill on the hardscrabble Ozarks farm where they lived. He could swim--but he was lifeless in the water. They carried him up to the house. My great-grandfather, who was the ne'er-do-well in a family of important lawyers and professors, had a little bit of medical training, and they laid Harold on the kitchen table, where he tried in vain to revive him.
They moved shortly after. His father couldn't bear to look down from their house down to the creek.
Harold could swim, and the creek wasn't deep. Sometimes I wonder about sinister things, about murder, but most likely, he had a seizure or some other precipitating event and swimming couldn't save him.
My grandmother didn't swim until, in high school, she wanted to earn whatever the equivalent to the Girl Scout Gold Award was called back then, and had to learn. She swam long enough to pass and didn't do it again. She kept her two kids out of the water, thinking that if they couldn't swim, they wouldn't be in danger. My uncle eventually took lessons and can swim now. My mother never got a hang of it. But we all did.
I never met Harold, obviously, and I never heard the story first-hand, only through my mother's retelling. But it sits in my heart. I watch my kids down at Clifty Creek, in the same county where Harold lived and died, when we visit every beginning of summer, and I watch them. I don't know where the family lived, I don't know where Harold drowned, where he was buried. But I see that water and I know it's fun and lovely and I know it's deadly. Seizures run in my family, on the other side. You don't have to be careless to drown. Your brain can do it for you.
I teach and I prepare, but I also watch. Watch, watch, watch. And each time we get out of the water, I'm relieved.
Day one
We are doing a little project in the attic. Nothing permanent, just some cubicle-style walls between the bedrooms so Fiona can have some space to herself and Billy and Daisy can make a chaotic mess in the other 2/3 of the attic. But to do this, day one, I had to clean the place. It is not clean, in the sense of "friends could come over and see it and I wouldn't be absolutely mortified." It is not clean. But it is ready enough for work to begin after Jake gets home from work tomorrow.
And Day One also saw a large amount of junk and toys they don't use anymore (nor do I feel any reason to keep for future generations) put into boxes for the charity pick up later in the week. And I discovered the source of the funky smell (Billy is not quite potty trained for night time and there must have been an accident) but not too worried because I'm fetching a mattress from Ann's house early in the week, once I have my dad's truck, and this one will go to the alley for bulk pick up. It's a flabby old mattress that I think we inherited from my parents' house--which means I probably slept on it when I was Daisy's age. Eep.
I'm excited about the project, about the kids going up there to nice organized space. Where they will promptly wreck all of that and live in a pit again. But I can have hope on this side of the project. Perhaps THIS TIME I will prevail...
And Day One also saw a large amount of junk and toys they don't use anymore (nor do I feel any reason to keep for future generations) put into boxes for the charity pick up later in the week. And I discovered the source of the funky smell (Billy is not quite potty trained for night time and there must have been an accident) but not too worried because I'm fetching a mattress from Ann's house early in the week, once I have my dad's truck, and this one will go to the alley for bulk pick up. It's a flabby old mattress that I think we inherited from my parents' house--which means I probably slept on it when I was Daisy's age. Eep.
I'm excited about the project, about the kids going up there to nice organized space. Where they will promptly wreck all of that and live in a pit again. But I can have hope on this side of the project. Perhaps THIS TIME I will prevail...
Friday, July 13, 2012
Today
Today I played mah jongg with Gretchen, Zelda, and Tara. Our kids scattered to houses and camps and friends and we played. Gretchen did most of the winning. I don't think I like the 2012 card. But I like to play and that's enough.
Today I sat in Ann's new room 6 months after Janet's stroke and found out another friend is pregnant and marveled in my head at how time keeps barreling forward.
Today I took Daisy to swim camp and picked her up and have no idea if she improved her swimming over the course of the week or not. No clue. And she's not saying much, frankly.
Today I filled in some doors with putty and stained and finished them. Almost ready for the big attic project.
Today I went to the little hardware store near my house, one of those throwbacks with 3 aisles and a counter in back. I got a key. And wood putty. And they young man working the counter knew everything. I want to write a short story about such a place, it fills me with such joy when I go in.
Today I went to the little eco-friendly store a little further away for the right wood stain. I do not enjoy my visits there. I can't put my finger on it--I want to buy the products, I want to frequent this place, but the people drive me crazy. I do not leave filled with joy.
Today I outlined my autumn plans to Gretchen (which are, essentially, "we'll see") and realized that it's ok, for one more year, to be up in the air. One short year.
Today I compared garden results with Zelda and felt better (her potatoes were a wash, as were mine; her tomatoes are about where mine are, sweet potatoes, and so forth). I'm so insecure about gardening these years. There's a bell curve that plots confidence and experience in any activity, and it looks like this:
As experience increases, there is a huge drop in confidence. And then eventually real confidence takes over and grows. I saw this with quilting, over the past 25 years. Truly. At the beginning I thought, sure, I can do that. When I couldn't, I kept trying, and eventually gained experience and realized curves were hard, or applique was hard, etc. Now none of that is hard. But it was 25 years. Gardening isn't there yet. I'm still realizing where I'm failing.
But anyway, today was ok. It wasn't too hot, there was good conversation, projects got done, and there was mah jongg. Good.
Today I sat in Ann's new room 6 months after Janet's stroke and found out another friend is pregnant and marveled in my head at how time keeps barreling forward.
Today I took Daisy to swim camp and picked her up and have no idea if she improved her swimming over the course of the week or not. No clue. And she's not saying much, frankly.
Today I filled in some doors with putty and stained and finished them. Almost ready for the big attic project.
Today I went to the little hardware store near my house, one of those throwbacks with 3 aisles and a counter in back. I got a key. And wood putty. And they young man working the counter knew everything. I want to write a short story about such a place, it fills me with such joy when I go in.
Today I went to the little eco-friendly store a little further away for the right wood stain. I do not enjoy my visits there. I can't put my finger on it--I want to buy the products, I want to frequent this place, but the people drive me crazy. I do not leave filled with joy.
Today I outlined my autumn plans to Gretchen (which are, essentially, "we'll see") and realized that it's ok, for one more year, to be up in the air. One short year.
Today I compared garden results with Zelda and felt better (her potatoes were a wash, as were mine; her tomatoes are about where mine are, sweet potatoes, and so forth). I'm so insecure about gardening these years. There's a bell curve that plots confidence and experience in any activity, and it looks like this:
But anyway, today was ok. It wasn't too hot, there was good conversation, projects got done, and there was mah jongg. Good.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Smokies Recap
Emma's story of our trip is probably better than mine. It's the same story, but she tells it from the girl scouts' point of view instead of the adults'. But I will say these things, these moments:
*My dad's truck has a thermometer in it, reading the outside temperature. In Knoxville it was 107. In Cosby it was 95. By the time we entered the park and got to our campsite, at 4 pm, it was 82. Hottest it ever was at the campsite (and the Appalachian Trail was much cooler, and night time)
*There was no one at our campground. The ranger said it's mostly locals that camp there, and the heat probably kept them away. I had prepared for hot and noisy and got cool and peaceful. I will probably not luck out like that again. But I will try.
*I used a coleman propane stove without girl scout approval. Because come on. I'm supposed to watch a video to be certified in propane and propane accessories. Ridiculous. We used it instead of lighting a fire all but one night. I got good at lighting it with a flint and steel instead of wasting a match, too.
*We took a float/raft trip down the Pigeon River. Our guides were fun and the trip was good. It was hotter on the river than at our campsite. While we were waiting to get on the rafts, a woman and a couple of her daughters were standing on the porch with us, too, accents said locals or nearby. She was doing the hair of a younger girl, maybe 8 or 9, and a 15 year old was standing next to her. Zelda and I were watching as she told the older daughter to turn her face and put her hand down. Both of us thought she was going to whisk away a mosquito off her cheek. No. She slapped her and said, "Don't you ever talk to me like that again." She had her position her face just so...and then hit her. It was time to go stand somewhere else to wait.
*The river wore me out. That sleepy water sunshine drug. I was exhausted after the hike, but I was lethargic after the river. I slept poorly the first night (barred owls having an argument, sounding like monkeys imitating owls). I slept like a rock the second.
*Grotto Falls is still pretty. We got a move on early in the morning and took a walk up to this waterfall, that you can walk behind. This was after the ranger talk the night before letting us know this was the only waterfall you should get that close to--the others are steep and slippery and kill people. We took it to heart.
*Cades Cove was hot. Folks got crabby at lunch--it was a lot of car time and a lot of hot time. Food was good all weekend but the rice and beans with cilantro and tomato at that lunch was the best.
*The Primitive Baptist Church made me glad I wasn't a Primitive Baptist from 150 years ago. Look at those benches.
*As we drove through Gatlinburg, Zelda kept announcing things she saw, like wedding chapels and pancake restaurants. The girls in my truck were astonished. "I didn't tell lies about Gatlinburg," I promised them. No hyperbole is necessary. It is a ridiculously crowded commercial strip of craziness.
*But we had ice cream just outside the strip on the way back to camp that day. It was a nice little pause on a hot afternoon.
*Thank goodness for the swimming hole right by our campsite. Girls emerged happier each time.
*That night was a thunderstorm, or rather, a series of thunderstorms. My memories of being in tents during thunderstorms, well, it's going to take a lot to make me comfortable in one. Two tents leaked (mine and Zelda's did not). Two folks spent a long time in the VERY CLEAN bathroom (the cleanest campground bathroom I'd ever seen), two went to the van. Finally the bathroom pair got the key to my dad's truck and slept there. I didn't get any solid sleep until 4. Got up at 6 and hiked 11 miles. Yeah buddy I did.
*I was so worried that everyone else was back at camp crabby, wet, and unhappy, but it wasn't so. They'd gone swimming and on a nature walk and had a low key day. I was glad we split up. I was glad dinner was easy (I had dehydrated lentils at home, just soak, heat, and serve--and salt). I was glad the weather was better.
*Such good conversations. Really got to know Tiffany and Celeste for the first time. So interesting to see girls with their moms. Such a good introduction to a Big Trip, taking 5 easygoing girls and their mothers who were, for the most part, game for whatever. I needed that our first time.
*My favorite view I don't have a picture of, but I'm hoping someone else got it--along the trails, to cross Cosby Creek, there were logs laid down across the water (a few feet above in some cases) with a slender pole as a handrail. They felt so old and worn and comfortable. That's how the Smokies feel to me. Like a favorite pair of jeans. Nothing hi-tech or newfangled about them. Cozy.
So where to next? It'll probably be Summer 2014. Upper Peninsula? Rockies? Four Corners? South Dakota? It'll be a bigger group of girls and a different adult to girl ratio. Starting to think....
*My dad's truck has a thermometer in it, reading the outside temperature. In Knoxville it was 107. In Cosby it was 95. By the time we entered the park and got to our campsite, at 4 pm, it was 82. Hottest it ever was at the campsite (and the Appalachian Trail was much cooler, and night time)
*There was no one at our campground. The ranger said it's mostly locals that camp there, and the heat probably kept them away. I had prepared for hot and noisy and got cool and peaceful. I will probably not luck out like that again. But I will try.
*We took a float/raft trip down the Pigeon River. Our guides were fun and the trip was good. It was hotter on the river than at our campsite. While we were waiting to get on the rafts, a woman and a couple of her daughters were standing on the porch with us, too, accents said locals or nearby. She was doing the hair of a younger girl, maybe 8 or 9, and a 15 year old was standing next to her. Zelda and I were watching as she told the older daughter to turn her face and put her hand down. Both of us thought she was going to whisk away a mosquito off her cheek. No. She slapped her and said, "Don't you ever talk to me like that again." She had her position her face just so...and then hit her. It was time to go stand somewhere else to wait.
*The river wore me out. That sleepy water sunshine drug. I was exhausted after the hike, but I was lethargic after the river. I slept poorly the first night (barred owls having an argument, sounding like monkeys imitating owls). I slept like a rock the second.
*The Primitive Baptist Church made me glad I wasn't a Primitive Baptist from 150 years ago. Look at those benches.
*As we drove through Gatlinburg, Zelda kept announcing things she saw, like wedding chapels and pancake restaurants. The girls in my truck were astonished. "I didn't tell lies about Gatlinburg," I promised them. No hyperbole is necessary. It is a ridiculously crowded commercial strip of craziness.
*But we had ice cream just outside the strip on the way back to camp that day. It was a nice little pause on a hot afternoon.
*Thank goodness for the swimming hole right by our campsite. Girls emerged happier each time.
*That night was a thunderstorm, or rather, a series of thunderstorms. My memories of being in tents during thunderstorms, well, it's going to take a lot to make me comfortable in one. Two tents leaked (mine and Zelda's did not). Two folks spent a long time in the VERY CLEAN bathroom (the cleanest campground bathroom I'd ever seen), two went to the van. Finally the bathroom pair got the key to my dad's truck and slept there. I didn't get any solid sleep until 4. Got up at 6 and hiked 11 miles. Yeah buddy I did.
*I was so worried that everyone else was back at camp crabby, wet, and unhappy, but it wasn't so. They'd gone swimming and on a nature walk and had a low key day. I was glad we split up. I was glad dinner was easy (I had dehydrated lentils at home, just soak, heat, and serve--and salt). I was glad the weather was better.
*My favorite view I don't have a picture of, but I'm hoping someone else got it--along the trails, to cross Cosby Creek, there were logs laid down across the water (a few feet above in some cases) with a slender pole as a handrail. They felt so old and worn and comfortable. That's how the Smokies feel to me. Like a favorite pair of jeans. Nothing hi-tech or newfangled about them. Cozy.
So where to next? It'll probably be Summer 2014. Upper Peninsula? Rockies? Four Corners? South Dakota? It'll be a bigger group of girls and a different adult to girl ratio. Starting to think....
Thursday, July 05, 2012
Power of Two
We went to San Francisco. It was his idea, nothing I'd ever really considered. Sat at the travel agent and listened to advice. Made plans and reservations. We went to San Francisco in July and it was lovely.
We sat in the courtyard of a bed and breakfast in Carmel-by-the-Sea, drinking the wine that is still my favorite wine, for the very first time. We ordered in a pizza and watched a movie. And then we sat and talked about our hopes for the future.
We flew home and were greeted with gifts to open and laundry to do and our ordinary hot little apartment with friends and their troubles and an incredibly terrible year in store for us, a year that would include a baptism by fire at my job in the public schools, Jake's dad's broken neck, friends falling away, and the second to last move. On that checklist of stressful events, we would manage to check most of them off, frankly.
But that's the power of two. Alone, I wouldn't have made it through my first teaching job. Alone, neither of us could afford a better place to live. Alone, we would have clung to the wrong friends instead of the right ones. Alone is hard.
It's 16 years now and it's strange to be that. A few months back my mother-in-law asked me something about the changes I would have noticed over the last 19 years I'd been coming to visit, and I started to correct her. Until I realized she was right. These are starting to be big numbers.
As the person who was always moving into a new place, always the newcomer, it is strange to be so comfortably settled. It is jarring to realize I'm an old married woman now, three kids, a mortgage, a couple of cars, too much to get done.
At this moment, a few hours before our anniversary, Jake is fencing out at the club with Fiona. Daisy is lying in bed with a washcloth over her eye, in anticipation of a doctor's visit tomorrow to diagnose either an infection or a scratch. Billy is resisting bedtime. I'm going to go hang some laundry. We are utterly ordinary and I love it.
I think of that young couple strolling through the strange chilly evening, eating sourdough bread and being the whole world to the other, the two kids with high hopes sitting drinking wine (barely old enough to drink it legally) in that courtyard, and I pray for them. I hope they make it.
We sat in the courtyard of a bed and breakfast in Carmel-by-the-Sea, drinking the wine that is still my favorite wine, for the very first time. We ordered in a pizza and watched a movie. And then we sat and talked about our hopes for the future.
We flew home and were greeted with gifts to open and laundry to do and our ordinary hot little apartment with friends and their troubles and an incredibly terrible year in store for us, a year that would include a baptism by fire at my job in the public schools, Jake's dad's broken neck, friends falling away, and the second to last move. On that checklist of stressful events, we would manage to check most of them off, frankly.
But that's the power of two. Alone, I wouldn't have made it through my first teaching job. Alone, neither of us could afford a better place to live. Alone, we would have clung to the wrong friends instead of the right ones. Alone is hard.
It's 16 years now and it's strange to be that. A few months back my mother-in-law asked me something about the changes I would have noticed over the last 19 years I'd been coming to visit, and I started to correct her. Until I realized she was right. These are starting to be big numbers.
As the person who was always moving into a new place, always the newcomer, it is strange to be so comfortably settled. It is jarring to realize I'm an old married woman now, three kids, a mortgage, a couple of cars, too much to get done.
At this moment, a few hours before our anniversary, Jake is fencing out at the club with Fiona. Daisy is lying in bed with a washcloth over her eye, in anticipation of a doctor's visit tomorrow to diagnose either an infection or a scratch. Billy is resisting bedtime. I'm going to go hang some laundry. We are utterly ordinary and I love it.
I think of that young couple strolling through the strange chilly evening, eating sourdough bread and being the whole world to the other, the two kids with high hopes sitting drinking wine (barely old enough to drink it legally) in that courtyard, and I pray for them. I hope they make it.
Wednesday, July 04, 2012
Mt. Cammerer Day Hike
My girl scout cadettes, plus Fiona, went on a mother-daughter trip to the Smokies this past week. I will post other photos from hanging out at the campsite, playing in the creek, going to the old settlements, and so forth, later (I'm hoping to share files with the other women who attended over the next few days). But I wanted to put the hike in writing before time got away from me.
We stayed at the Cosby campground, where we were almost alone. It has over 100 sites and it couldn't have had more than 10 other single groups there. I had hunted around for a good long hike nearby and found the Low Gap Trail, which leads up to the Appalachian Trail, and then goes over to Mt. Cammerer, where an old CCC-built fire lookout tower still stands. This was going to be our hike. I had read it was 10 miles, although by the time it was all over, we realized it was actually 11.2 miles.
When we talked to locals about this plan, like the guide when we went rafting, or the ranger that gave the evening talk, we were advised to perhaps pick another. "Ambitious" said the guide. "It's strenuous," said the ranger.
But Zelda and I decided to do it--the three other moms and daughters stayed back and in the end had a great day themselves after a torrential thunderstorm the night before that resulted in 4 of the 10 of us sleeping in cars. I worried as we walked away from the campsite and headed out towards the trailhead. I had 200 ounces of water on my back and Fiona had nearly 100. I sweat like, well, like my father. I knew I needed it. Low Gap Trail is 2.9 miles with an elevation gain of 1700 feet. Cosby Campground is 2400 ft high, and the crossroads at the Appalachian is 4100.
It was like a 3 mile staircase. I had to stop at almost every corner and then again the centers of the long stretches. For a long time it was as if Tennessee didn't believe in switchbacks. And once they did, it didn't improve the slant to the trail at all. It was relentless and brutal for this Missouri hiker. But I knew that the AT's elevation gain across 2.1 miles up to Mt. Cammerer was only 800 feet and so would be much easier to handle. I set it in my mind that I just needed to get to that crossroads.
We got there, and look at Fiona. I don't think she'd broke a sweat yet. Neither had Bree.
I was relieved that they were doing so well. We took a break in the cool 62 degrees in the morning sunshine, had a snack, and got ready to start the AT. And it was as relentless as Low Gap. I stopped about a quarter mile in because I was queasy. Zelda looked worried. "Do we need to call it a day?" she asked. But I was not going to be the one to do that. It's just not in my nature. I think it's because I'm out of my mind. "No, I'll be ok, I just need to take it easy on these uphills." And I said, "I'll be ok until I'm not ok." Which made sense to me. Every time we stopped, my heart rate decreased, my breathing rate decreased, and I was still sweating. Later, after we were home, my father reassured me that all was well--as long as you keep sweating.
Soon after the stop where I almost had to quit, the trail leveled off and became stretches of straightaways and some little gentle climbs and falls. No big thing. I could talk and walk. We made better time.
Suddenly we were at the spur trail up to Mt. Cammerer. That trail is not difficult until the very end, when you have to climb up some rocks (not hard, just not a walking trail) up to the tower itself. We had lunch on the tower.
I was fine. I'd made it all the way up and was still sweating. It was freezing, in fact, up on the tower with my shirt and hair soaked. Fiona, again, wasn't even tired. We ate and rested and enjoyed the solitude so high up (4928). We saw a bird that looked like a junco, but no juncos stay into the summer. I took pictures, and then later learned that juncos stay all year in this tiny finger of Tennessee because why leave? It's beautiful.
We saw no other people the first half of the trip. Only after lunch and a rest did we encounter anyone, and it was 2 men and a woman who were hiking to a pack-in campsite further away. She talked to the girls a minute about what they'd done so far. "Doesn't it make you feel strong?" I loved her.
Rested up and having eaten a proper lunch, I was better. So much better.
I thought about the night before--with the thunderstorms I couldn't
have had more than a few hours sleep and most of it was sporadic. My
breakfast had been rushed and I'd headed out before I was really ready
because we wanted to get a move on before it was hot (it never got hot).
Zelda is a fast hiker and I kept finding myself matching her
pace--although I'm not that sort of hiker, ever, and when we stopped on
the way back for the girls (just sheer exhaustion from being on the move for so long), that's when I enjoyed the hiking (as opposed to just the accomplishment, which of course is a great big part of it)--the caterpillars and
birds (black throated blue warbler) and snails.
Above, the Appalachian Trail facing south. We were surprised by how abandoned it was, how much of it was overgrown with grass, and how narrow it was. I don't know why we thought it would be the path most traveled...and below, my photo taken at the same spot. See the difference in exhaustion between mother and child?
The way back was easy. I have a pair of hiking sticks, I don't know what
else to call them, metal poles with a sharp tip that digs into the
rocks and stabilizes you before you set your foot up or down, and they
REALLY worked.
(Go back to the first view picture facing north and you can see the cleared area that is part of the town where I'm sitting).
And one last thing. In the morning, we were all kind of sore, definitely worn out from the week. Except Fiona. She didn't sweat on the trail, she didn't wear out at the end, and she wasn't sore in the morning. I think she must have sent a hologram in her place. We were all amazed.
We stayed at the Cosby campground, where we were almost alone. It has over 100 sites and it couldn't have had more than 10 other single groups there. I had hunted around for a good long hike nearby and found the Low Gap Trail, which leads up to the Appalachian Trail, and then goes over to Mt. Cammerer, where an old CCC-built fire lookout tower still stands. This was going to be our hike. I had read it was 10 miles, although by the time it was all over, we realized it was actually 11.2 miles.
When we talked to locals about this plan, like the guide when we went rafting, or the ranger that gave the evening talk, we were advised to perhaps pick another. "Ambitious" said the guide. "It's strenuous," said the ranger.
But Zelda and I decided to do it--the three other moms and daughters stayed back and in the end had a great day themselves after a torrential thunderstorm the night before that resulted in 4 of the 10 of us sleeping in cars. I worried as we walked away from the campsite and headed out towards the trailhead. I had 200 ounces of water on my back and Fiona had nearly 100. I sweat like, well, like my father. I knew I needed it. Low Gap Trail is 2.9 miles with an elevation gain of 1700 feet. Cosby Campground is 2400 ft high, and the crossroads at the Appalachian is 4100.
I was relieved that they were doing so well. We took a break in the cool 62 degrees in the morning sunshine, had a snack, and got ready to start the AT. And it was as relentless as Low Gap. I stopped about a quarter mile in because I was queasy. Zelda looked worried. "Do we need to call it a day?" she asked. But I was not going to be the one to do that. It's just not in my nature. I think it's because I'm out of my mind. "No, I'll be ok, I just need to take it easy on these uphills." And I said, "I'll be ok until I'm not ok." Which made sense to me. Every time we stopped, my heart rate decreased, my breathing rate decreased, and I was still sweating. Later, after we were home, my father reassured me that all was well--as long as you keep sweating.
Soon after the stop where I almost had to quit, the trail leveled off and became stretches of straightaways and some little gentle climbs and falls. No big thing. I could talk and walk. We made better time.Suddenly we were at the spur trail up to Mt. Cammerer. That trail is not difficult until the very end, when you have to climb up some rocks (not hard, just not a walking trail) up to the tower itself. We had lunch on the tower.
I was fine. I'd made it all the way up and was still sweating. It was freezing, in fact, up on the tower with my shirt and hair soaked. Fiona, again, wasn't even tired. We ate and rested and enjoyed the solitude so high up (4928). We saw a bird that looked like a junco, but no juncos stay into the summer. I took pictures, and then later learned that juncos stay all year in this tiny finger of Tennessee because why leave? It's beautiful.
We saw no other people the first half of the trip. Only after lunch and a rest did we encounter anyone, and it was 2 men and a woman who were hiking to a pack-in campsite further away. She talked to the girls a minute about what they'd done so far. "Doesn't it make you feel strong?" I loved her.
The view facing north:
The view facing somewhat westward:
Fiona and I on top of the tower:
Inside the tower. Note the rake and the two old padlocks.
The tower from a short distance away:
The USGS marker:
We got back to camp 8 hours after we left. The women and girls who hadn't hiked had a good day. They were just starting to have the conversation about when to alert the ranger (they thought we'd left two hours earlier). We had a walkie-talkie, a good set, but their battery had worn down. All was well. They had watermelon for us, and then I went to stick my head in the creek, the freezing cold creek. I was almost waist deep in it, and couldn't feel my toes. It was WONDERFUL.
I drank almost 200 ounces on the trail and didn't have to pee once (we made several stops for the others). My father would call it an efficient cooling system. Fiona calls it gross. Either way, it's what saved me. Nobody else drank near as much water...
Zelda and I, after dinner and creek and all that, went into Cosby to make phone calls to husbands (it was her anniversary after all!). Sitting in the parking lot looking southward at the mountains, I realized it. I was up there. I was up. There:
And one last thing. In the morning, we were all kind of sore, definitely worn out from the week. Except Fiona. She didn't sweat on the trail, she didn't wear out at the end, and she wasn't sore in the morning. I think she must have sent a hologram in her place. We were all amazed.
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