Ok, when I grow up, I want to be as cute as this girl.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Sixth Grade Sleep-Over, Montana Style
When I was in the sixth grade, the classic sleep-over was a standard occurrence. It seems like I was always spending Friday night at someone's house or inviting a bunch of friends over to mine. We didn't do very much sleeping at those events, of course, so it was a bit of a misnomer, but terming them as they really were, all night parties, probably wouldn't have gone very far with our parents.
We would sit around and talk about everything, play Truth, Dare, Double-Dare, Promise or Repeat, and occasionally even wander outside to play Hide and Seek, Kick the Can or something similar that was equally interesting under the cover of darkness. But mostly, we just sat in the house and talked.
My daughter's own sixth grade sleep-overs are a little more active and exciting, it seems.
Last night Lizzie came over to spend the night with Ellie. The two of them are very imaginative when they get together and invariably end up in costumes, playing one role or another in a detailed and complex drama that can go on for hours. Sometimes it is themed on a book they are currently obsessed with; sometimes it comes purely from their imaginations. I'm not exactly sure what was going on last night when they found themselves in formal dresses (one formal from this current era and one from about 1865) to tramp through the snowy woods at ten o'clock. That doesn't seem out of character for them, though. It's certainly not the surprising part of this story.
It does present an interesting mental image, though, doesn't it?
As they trudged through the snow, they heard a noise--a crashing noise of something very large and heavy being startled from its hiding place by their intrusion. This was not a scampering field mouse (although they later caught one of those, too). They swung their flashlight beam in the direction of the noise and saw a large, tan colored body running away from them. They assumed, at first, that it must be just a deer, as we have no shortage of those on our property.
But then it took a flying leap. High up into a tree. Deer don't do that.
The girls looked at each other, wide-eyed, for only the briefest second and then screamed, "Ohmigosh, ohmigosh, ohmigosh!" repeatedly as they sprinted back to the house, picking up their long skirts (and in one case, ruffled petticoats) to keep from tripping on them as they ran. They burst into the house breathless, hearts pounding, tripping over one another's words as they spit out their story.
They went back out to that same spot this morning and found unmistakable cougar tracks in the snow.
Not many people will ever get to see a cougar in their lifetimes. They are reclusive creatures who prefer to stay hidden out of sight. We knew that we are in cougar territory, as we have seen tracks in mud or snow a few times over the years. This made me nervous at first, until I was told that they really prefer a steady diet of venison, so I needn't worry. As long as we have an abundant deer population, we would likely never spot more than tracks.
But now we've had a sighting. I'm not sure who was more startled, the two girls tramping through the woods, lost in their world of imagination and coming upon a cougar by surprise; or the big cat himself, out for an evening stroll in the moonlight, shocked to encounter two young girls in frilly dresses.
Ah, rural life.
We would sit around and talk about everything, play Truth, Dare, Double-Dare, Promise or Repeat, and occasionally even wander outside to play Hide and Seek, Kick the Can or something similar that was equally interesting under the cover of darkness. But mostly, we just sat in the house and talked.
My daughter's own sixth grade sleep-overs are a little more active and exciting, it seems.
Last night Lizzie came over to spend the night with Ellie. The two of them are very imaginative when they get together and invariably end up in costumes, playing one role or another in a detailed and complex drama that can go on for hours. Sometimes it is themed on a book they are currently obsessed with; sometimes it comes purely from their imaginations. I'm not exactly sure what was going on last night when they found themselves in formal dresses (one formal from this current era and one from about 1865) to tramp through the snowy woods at ten o'clock. That doesn't seem out of character for them, though. It's certainly not the surprising part of this story.
It does present an interesting mental image, though, doesn't it?
As they trudged through the snow, they heard a noise--a crashing noise of something very large and heavy being startled from its hiding place by their intrusion. This was not a scampering field mouse (although they later caught one of those, too). They swung their flashlight beam in the direction of the noise and saw a large, tan colored body running away from them. They assumed, at first, that it must be just a deer, as we have no shortage of those on our property.
But then it took a flying leap. High up into a tree. Deer don't do that.
The girls looked at each other, wide-eyed, for only the briefest second and then screamed, "Ohmigosh, ohmigosh, ohmigosh!" repeatedly as they sprinted back to the house, picking up their long skirts (and in one case, ruffled petticoats) to keep from tripping on them as they ran. They burst into the house breathless, hearts pounding, tripping over one another's words as they spit out their story.
They went back out to that same spot this morning and found unmistakable cougar tracks in the snow.
Not many people will ever get to see a cougar in their lifetimes. They are reclusive creatures who prefer to stay hidden out of sight. We knew that we are in cougar territory, as we have seen tracks in mud or snow a few times over the years. This made me nervous at first, until I was told that they really prefer a steady diet of venison, so I needn't worry. As long as we have an abundant deer population, we would likely never spot more than tracks.
But now we've had a sighting. I'm not sure who was more startled, the two girls tramping through the woods, lost in their world of imagination and coming upon a cougar by surprise; or the big cat himself, out for an evening stroll in the moonlight, shocked to encounter two young girls in frilly dresses.
Ah, rural life.
Thursday, February 09, 2012
All I Really Wanted Was a Second Cup of Tea
The whole thing started innocently enough. It was mid-morning today and Ellie was busily engaged in her school work. I was quite busy myself, updating our little artist group's Facebook presence. I had worked on the project until late into the night last night and was back at it first thing this morning, as soon as I had seen Tano out the door for school and given Ellie a bit of guidance with her assignments.
I realized I had been hunching over the computer and my shoulders ached. I needed a break. A second cup of tea would be just the thing, since my first cup with breakfast had gone ignored for the most part in my rush to get back to my project. My favorite mug sat next to me at the computer now, its contents cold. I picked it up and walked to the kitchen, dumping the tea in the sink and setting it down on the counter. I took the teapot from the back burner, refilled it with water, set it back on the stove and turned on the burner. Then I went back to the living room to check on Ellie's school progress and wait for the water to heat.
This was not difficult or unusual, of course. I follow this same routine several times each day.
After a few minutes, I wandered back to the kitchen. I was anxious for that second cup of tea and the relaxing comfort it would bring. Just as I began to round the corner into the kitchen, though, I heard a horrific popping sound. I glanced at the source of the sound, the stove, just in time to see a 9 x 13 Pyrex baking dish shatter, sending glass in every direction and spraying dirty boiling water everywhere.
Because it needed to soak overnight and because of my tiny kitchen's perpetual lack of counter space, the baking dish had been set on the front burner of the stove to await washing. I had turned on the front burner by mistake. Oops.
I stared at the mess, stunned, listening to the sizzling and popping of the water, then reached in to turn off the burner. Glass was everywhere.
Everywhere.
As I considered the possible clean-up strategies, I was saddened to think that my water hadn't yet begun to heat. Now, I would not be able to heat it until I was done cleaning up, for there was glass and water filling all of the electric burners. They would have to be disassembled in order to clean them out. There would be no second cup of tea for me in the near future.
The clean-up process proved to be a larger task than I could have originally surmised. Did I mention that the glass was everywhere? And the dirty water--the water that had been loosening up the baked-on leftover casserole bits overnight--did I mention that the water was everywhere, too? Have you ever attempted to clean up shards of glass in water? It's difficult.
With my heavy leather gloves which I normally use for tending the fireplace, I managed to get all the big pieces up. Pyrex baking dishes are thicker than they look. Some of those pieces were huge and quite heavy. Between the glass and the water, the force of the explosion had actually knocked a small bag of carrot sticks onto the floor. I was truly grateful that I hadn't been even half a second faster at entering the kitchen, for I would have surely been injured by the glass shrapnel and boiling water. Andy brought in the shop vac and began to vacuum up both the standing water and the smaller bits of glass. When he had finished that, and I had swept the floor and wiped down all the counters, I began to tackle the big job.
The glass and the water were the easy part. When I disassembled the four electric burners on the stove so that we could clean the glass out of them and suck up the water that had flooded them, I discovered something peculiar. The stove, understand, is likely my equal in age or older. When appliances of that era were made, they were outfitted with a generous amount of chrome, just like the cars of the same vintage. Now, of course I have cleaned my stove top from time to time, but upon this close examination, I realized that my efforts have been only half-hearted. It has been a long time since I have seen that chrome. It had taken on a more matte finish, I'm afraid--a more up to date look, but at a great price.
I have since paid that price.
I used an entire SOS steel wool pad to its fullest extent, working up a sweat in the process, and sat back down at the computer to finish my project while I waited for the muscle fatigue to pass. I would have heated up some water then, but I hadn't reassembled the stove top yet.
After my "break," and some more working with my daughter on her schoolwork, I returned to the kitchen and used a second SOS pad, dropping both of their limp and threadbare bodies into the trash can when I was finally finished.
Whew. That was a lot of work.
The chrome now shines like the grill of a 1964 Ford Galaxie. My sweet, vintage stove is looking good.
By the time I had finished cleaning up after the Great Pyrex Explosion Incident (as it will henceforth be remembered), it was the middle of the afternoon. The rest of the family had already eaten lunch. I was shaky from the exertion of the chrome restoration project on an empty stomach, and still longing for my second cup of tea. I toasted a bagel and spread it with cream cheese while I waited for my teapot to whistle.
Before I could eat, however, I remembered a pair of phone calls that needed to be made. They were supposed to be brief, but you know how it goes sometimes. Even if a call to a friend is supposed to be business related, it generally turns into a very pleasant conversation--the longer, the pleasant-er. I got carried away. It's a peril of being an extrovert. I eyed my toasted bagel and teapot from time to time, but was loathe to crunch and slurp in a friend's ear--being that it was a fairly new friend. An old friend would have had to just put up with the noise.
Hanging up from the second phone call, finally ready to eat and make my tea, I glanced at the clock and realized with some alarm that it was 3:50 PM. That is precisely the time I am supposed to leave the house to drive my son to his filmmaking class in Hamilton. I looked down. I was still in my bathrobe! It had been a fairly busy day.
I sprinted down the stairs and threw on real clothes, sprinted back up the stairs, wrapped my bagel in a napkin, grabbed my purse and keys and ran out the door.
On the way to Hamilton, I thought about my tea. Had I only one extra minute to spare, I could have made a cup to go in my travel mug. But, alas, I had not had even one spare minute.
I arrived at home a little after seven o'clock this evening, warmed up some left over dinner and made...a cup of tea.
With my daughter and husband watching a movie and my son scrambling to do laundry and pack for the church's high school winter retreat, which starts tomorrow after school, I felt the freedom to sit down at the computer to write this post. I reached for my tea mug first and took the luxurious sip which I had been longing for since mid-morning.
And in my haste, I burned my tongue.
I realized I had been hunching over the computer and my shoulders ached. I needed a break. A second cup of tea would be just the thing, since my first cup with breakfast had gone ignored for the most part in my rush to get back to my project. My favorite mug sat next to me at the computer now, its contents cold. I picked it up and walked to the kitchen, dumping the tea in the sink and setting it down on the counter. I took the teapot from the back burner, refilled it with water, set it back on the stove and turned on the burner. Then I went back to the living room to check on Ellie's school progress and wait for the water to heat.
This was not difficult or unusual, of course. I follow this same routine several times each day.
After a few minutes, I wandered back to the kitchen. I was anxious for that second cup of tea and the relaxing comfort it would bring. Just as I began to round the corner into the kitchen, though, I heard a horrific popping sound. I glanced at the source of the sound, the stove, just in time to see a 9 x 13 Pyrex baking dish shatter, sending glass in every direction and spraying dirty boiling water everywhere.
Because it needed to soak overnight and because of my tiny kitchen's perpetual lack of counter space, the baking dish had been set on the front burner of the stove to await washing. I had turned on the front burner by mistake. Oops.
I stared at the mess, stunned, listening to the sizzling and popping of the water, then reached in to turn off the burner. Glass was everywhere.
Everywhere.
As I considered the possible clean-up strategies, I was saddened to think that my water hadn't yet begun to heat. Now, I would not be able to heat it until I was done cleaning up, for there was glass and water filling all of the electric burners. They would have to be disassembled in order to clean them out. There would be no second cup of tea for me in the near future.
The clean-up process proved to be a larger task than I could have originally surmised. Did I mention that the glass was everywhere? And the dirty water--the water that had been loosening up the baked-on leftover casserole bits overnight--did I mention that the water was everywhere, too? Have you ever attempted to clean up shards of glass in water? It's difficult.
With my heavy leather gloves which I normally use for tending the fireplace, I managed to get all the big pieces up. Pyrex baking dishes are thicker than they look. Some of those pieces were huge and quite heavy. Between the glass and the water, the force of the explosion had actually knocked a small bag of carrot sticks onto the floor. I was truly grateful that I hadn't been even half a second faster at entering the kitchen, for I would have surely been injured by the glass shrapnel and boiling water. Andy brought in the shop vac and began to vacuum up both the standing water and the smaller bits of glass. When he had finished that, and I had swept the floor and wiped down all the counters, I began to tackle the big job.
The glass and the water were the easy part. When I disassembled the four electric burners on the stove so that we could clean the glass out of them and suck up the water that had flooded them, I discovered something peculiar. The stove, understand, is likely my equal in age or older. When appliances of that era were made, they were outfitted with a generous amount of chrome, just like the cars of the same vintage. Now, of course I have cleaned my stove top from time to time, but upon this close examination, I realized that my efforts have been only half-hearted. It has been a long time since I have seen that chrome. It had taken on a more matte finish, I'm afraid--a more up to date look, but at a great price.
I have since paid that price.
I used an entire SOS steel wool pad to its fullest extent, working up a sweat in the process, and sat back down at the computer to finish my project while I waited for the muscle fatigue to pass. I would have heated up some water then, but I hadn't reassembled the stove top yet.
After my "break," and some more working with my daughter on her schoolwork, I returned to the kitchen and used a second SOS pad, dropping both of their limp and threadbare bodies into the trash can when I was finally finished.
Whew. That was a lot of work.
The chrome now shines like the grill of a 1964 Ford Galaxie. My sweet, vintage stove is looking good.
By the time I had finished cleaning up after the Great Pyrex Explosion Incident (as it will henceforth be remembered), it was the middle of the afternoon. The rest of the family had already eaten lunch. I was shaky from the exertion of the chrome restoration project on an empty stomach, and still longing for my second cup of tea. I toasted a bagel and spread it with cream cheese while I waited for my teapot to whistle.
Before I could eat, however, I remembered a pair of phone calls that needed to be made. They were supposed to be brief, but you know how it goes sometimes. Even if a call to a friend is supposed to be business related, it generally turns into a very pleasant conversation--the longer, the pleasant-er. I got carried away. It's a peril of being an extrovert. I eyed my toasted bagel and teapot from time to time, but was loathe to crunch and slurp in a friend's ear--being that it was a fairly new friend. An old friend would have had to just put up with the noise.
Hanging up from the second phone call, finally ready to eat and make my tea, I glanced at the clock and realized with some alarm that it was 3:50 PM. That is precisely the time I am supposed to leave the house to drive my son to his filmmaking class in Hamilton. I looked down. I was still in my bathrobe! It had been a fairly busy day.
I sprinted down the stairs and threw on real clothes, sprinted back up the stairs, wrapped my bagel in a napkin, grabbed my purse and keys and ran out the door.
On the way to Hamilton, I thought about my tea. Had I only one extra minute to spare, I could have made a cup to go in my travel mug. But, alas, I had not had even one spare minute.
I arrived at home a little after seven o'clock this evening, warmed up some left over dinner and made...a cup of tea.
With my daughter and husband watching a movie and my son scrambling to do laundry and pack for the church's high school winter retreat, which starts tomorrow after school, I felt the freedom to sit down at the computer to write this post. I reached for my tea mug first and took the luxurious sip which I had been longing for since mid-morning.
And in my haste, I burned my tongue.
What--Me, Funny?
Check it out--I'm guest blogging over here today. I'm afraid I'm not as crass and profane as most of her bloggers, though. Oh, well. Guess she'll just have to settle for plain ol' rated G me!
Wednesday, February 08, 2012
What is it About Flying?
Last week, I had an amazing epiphany, one that would change my life forever.
I discovered that I can fly.
Now, mind you, I've thought I could fly twice before. The first time was about four years ago. I had a dream in which I realized that I could fly. I spent the dream soaring effortlessly through the air, enjoying my new found freedom. I'd never had such a realistic sensation of flying before and wanted everyone to enjoy the wonder of it all, so when I woke up in the morning, still groggy and not thinking clearly yet, I couldn't wait to share the good news with my husband. When I opened my mouth to explain to him the basic mechanics of human flight--and they were indeed very basic and I knew he would pick up the skill easily--I realized with a great deal of sadness that it had all been a dream. I couldn't really fly after all.
I was crushed at first, but then grateful. At least I'd had the opportunity to fly, even if it had been a dream. The sweet sensation lingered.
The second time I got to fly was a year later. This time was also in a dream and I was quicker to recognize the fact that it was only a dream, but enjoyed it anyway. Flying is truly a fabulous thing. I didn't have the urge to share it with everyone that time, but rather just savored it alone, smiling throughout the day at the memory of it.
But last week, it was different. I could fly. I had the strongest urge to lift off as I had done in my dreams previously, so I did. It worked. I could twist and loop, stretch out flat to gain speed, dive, recover, shift to the left or the right, slow to a stop and drop effortlessly to the ground again to walk like I always had before. It was amazing. I was free from the binding chains of gravity, using it only selectively, when I wanted to be bound by it. I was free, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world, like I had been meant all along to do this and was just now awakening to the truth.
But then I regained contact with the cold, hard ground of reality. This was probably just a dream again, like it had been twice before. I lifted off again, just to see if I had imagined it. No, I could really fly this time, it seemed. I pinched myself. No change. I went in the house and splashed cold water on my face. These are the things that would awaken a person from dreaming, right? Going back out into the yard, I lifted off again, just as easily as ever. It wasn't a dream. Oh, the joy!
I experimented a little more, perfected some of my maneuvering skills, and then had a sudden realization--I could make money off of this! I quickly lowered myself to the ground and looked around to make sure no one had seen me flying. It was good that I lived out in the country, blocked off from the view of roads by towering pine trees. The news media would pay dearly for footage of me flying, as I had certainly never heard of anyone else who could do such a thing. If there were others who knew how, they had not yet been discovered. The local media would want exclusive rights to me. I would do interviews and even give lessons--to the highest bidders only, of course. The financial woes that have plagued our family over the years were over, if only I could be smart about how to handle my newly discovered skill. I must be extremely cautious not to let anyone film me, even from a distance, for even grainy cell phone footage, published to YouTube, would cheapen the value of it. No, flying would have to be kept private until I had made a fair amount of money off of it, and even then, if I was really smart about it, it could continue to be a steady source of income for our family.
But then the doubts began to creep in again. Who was I to think I could actually fly? Unassisted human flight was the stuff of dreams, not reality. I began once again to go through the rituals people do to check and see if they are dreaming. I pinched myself repeatedly until it hurt and again I splashed water on my face. I didn't wake up. I tested my ability. Still there. It was real--better than any dream could ever be. Exhilaration flooded my soul and I launched myself up into the air just high enough to do a few twists and barrel rolls without being seen by anyone else. Caution and discipline were in order, if I was going to do this right and make maximum use of this amazing gift.
I continued to plot my course regarding how to contact and negotiate with the media. I talked to my husband and my kids, demonstrating my ability and making sure they were on board with the newly forming media relations policy. We were all so excited. I just couldn't get over the fact that it was real this time. I remembered the other dreams so clearly and they were great, but this time it was real. I could fly.
You can imagine my disappointment when my alarm went off.
It had all been a dream. Again. Even though I had doubted the veracity of the experience from within the dream and had repeatedly attempted to wake myself up from it, it was still just a dream.
Throughout that next day, several times, I had the urge to launch myself into the air again. I remembered how. My muscles seemed to know exactly what to do and actually felt restless to fly again. It was the strangest thing to have an actual physical sensation, this faux muscle-memory urge, to do something impossible, as if I had really done it. All of me, body and soul, longed to fly. Even now, as I write this, I can close my eyes and take a deep breath at the memory of it all and still feel the sensation of rapid elevation gain in the pit of my stomach--very similar to the feeling of going up in a very fast elevator in a high-rise building, but with the accompanying sensation in my arms and legs of not only lifting off, but also employing subtle shifts in position in order to affect course, speed and direction.
It is, at once, a glorious sensation, and a terribly frustrating one, for it comes with the knowledge of reality, the knowledge of limitations, the knowledge of the irresistible pull of gravity upon the human form.
So what is it about flying? Why does it feel so very natural in my dreams, like we were meant to do this all along? Why do my muscles still ache with the memory of it and the longing to do it again?
I am a firm believer in a heavenly afterlife to be spent in close communion with my creator, even though writing it thus looks so silly and uneducated to many. I have never been attracted to the images of heaven in which we all dress in poorly fitting white robes; grow chubby, cherubic cheeks; and flit and float about on tiny flapping wings beneath our sparkly pipe cleaner halos while strumming harps among the cottony clouds. Really, that sounds pathetically boring and not at all in line with the Biblical previews that I read. I do hope, however...hope upon hope...that we get to fly--like I did in my dreams, or maybe even better. Why would I have such a longing for it if it can never come true?
I will remember the sweet freedom of flying. And I will hope.
I discovered that I can fly.
Now, mind you, I've thought I could fly twice before. The first time was about four years ago. I had a dream in which I realized that I could fly. I spent the dream soaring effortlessly through the air, enjoying my new found freedom. I'd never had such a realistic sensation of flying before and wanted everyone to enjoy the wonder of it all, so when I woke up in the morning, still groggy and not thinking clearly yet, I couldn't wait to share the good news with my husband. When I opened my mouth to explain to him the basic mechanics of human flight--and they were indeed very basic and I knew he would pick up the skill easily--I realized with a great deal of sadness that it had all been a dream. I couldn't really fly after all.
I was crushed at first, but then grateful. At least I'd had the opportunity to fly, even if it had been a dream. The sweet sensation lingered.
The second time I got to fly was a year later. This time was also in a dream and I was quicker to recognize the fact that it was only a dream, but enjoyed it anyway. Flying is truly a fabulous thing. I didn't have the urge to share it with everyone that time, but rather just savored it alone, smiling throughout the day at the memory of it.
But last week, it was different. I could fly. I had the strongest urge to lift off as I had done in my dreams previously, so I did. It worked. I could twist and loop, stretch out flat to gain speed, dive, recover, shift to the left or the right, slow to a stop and drop effortlessly to the ground again to walk like I always had before. It was amazing. I was free from the binding chains of gravity, using it only selectively, when I wanted to be bound by it. I was free, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world, like I had been meant all along to do this and was just now awakening to the truth.
But then I regained contact with the cold, hard ground of reality. This was probably just a dream again, like it had been twice before. I lifted off again, just to see if I had imagined it. No, I could really fly this time, it seemed. I pinched myself. No change. I went in the house and splashed cold water on my face. These are the things that would awaken a person from dreaming, right? Going back out into the yard, I lifted off again, just as easily as ever. It wasn't a dream. Oh, the joy!
I experimented a little more, perfected some of my maneuvering skills, and then had a sudden realization--I could make money off of this! I quickly lowered myself to the ground and looked around to make sure no one had seen me flying. It was good that I lived out in the country, blocked off from the view of roads by towering pine trees. The news media would pay dearly for footage of me flying, as I had certainly never heard of anyone else who could do such a thing. If there were others who knew how, they had not yet been discovered. The local media would want exclusive rights to me. I would do interviews and even give lessons--to the highest bidders only, of course. The financial woes that have plagued our family over the years were over, if only I could be smart about how to handle my newly discovered skill. I must be extremely cautious not to let anyone film me, even from a distance, for even grainy cell phone footage, published to YouTube, would cheapen the value of it. No, flying would have to be kept private until I had made a fair amount of money off of it, and even then, if I was really smart about it, it could continue to be a steady source of income for our family.
But then the doubts began to creep in again. Who was I to think I could actually fly? Unassisted human flight was the stuff of dreams, not reality. I began once again to go through the rituals people do to check and see if they are dreaming. I pinched myself repeatedly until it hurt and again I splashed water on my face. I didn't wake up. I tested my ability. Still there. It was real--better than any dream could ever be. Exhilaration flooded my soul and I launched myself up into the air just high enough to do a few twists and barrel rolls without being seen by anyone else. Caution and discipline were in order, if I was going to do this right and make maximum use of this amazing gift.
I continued to plot my course regarding how to contact and negotiate with the media. I talked to my husband and my kids, demonstrating my ability and making sure they were on board with the newly forming media relations policy. We were all so excited. I just couldn't get over the fact that it was real this time. I remembered the other dreams so clearly and they were great, but this time it was real. I could fly.
You can imagine my disappointment when my alarm went off.
It had all been a dream. Again. Even though I had doubted the veracity of the experience from within the dream and had repeatedly attempted to wake myself up from it, it was still just a dream.
Throughout that next day, several times, I had the urge to launch myself into the air again. I remembered how. My muscles seemed to know exactly what to do and actually felt restless to fly again. It was the strangest thing to have an actual physical sensation, this faux muscle-memory urge, to do something impossible, as if I had really done it. All of me, body and soul, longed to fly. Even now, as I write this, I can close my eyes and take a deep breath at the memory of it all and still feel the sensation of rapid elevation gain in the pit of my stomach--very similar to the feeling of going up in a very fast elevator in a high-rise building, but with the accompanying sensation in my arms and legs of not only lifting off, but also employing subtle shifts in position in order to affect course, speed and direction.
It is, at once, a glorious sensation, and a terribly frustrating one, for it comes with the knowledge of reality, the knowledge of limitations, the knowledge of the irresistible pull of gravity upon the human form.
So what is it about flying? Why does it feel so very natural in my dreams, like we were meant to do this all along? Why do my muscles still ache with the memory of it and the longing to do it again?
I am a firm believer in a heavenly afterlife to be spent in close communion with my creator, even though writing it thus looks so silly and uneducated to many. I have never been attracted to the images of heaven in which we all dress in poorly fitting white robes; grow chubby, cherubic cheeks; and flit and float about on tiny flapping wings beneath our sparkly pipe cleaner halos while strumming harps among the cottony clouds. Really, that sounds pathetically boring and not at all in line with the Biblical previews that I read. I do hope, however...hope upon hope...that we get to fly--like I did in my dreams, or maybe even better. Why would I have such a longing for it if it can never come true?
Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life. Proverbs 13:12
I will remember the sweet freedom of flying. And I will hope.
Thursday, February 02, 2012
Brrr...Sounds Chilly
You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.
Found in Stevensville, Montana on Feb. 1, 2012
Found in Stevensville, Montana on Feb. 1, 2012
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
Four Months in a Starcraft--Philly and the Big Apple, Part Two
To start at the beginning of this story, click here.
We hit as many of the major historical sites as we could in our one day in Philadelphia--the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, Ben Franklin's old haunts, a few historic homes. They served as powerful connecting points to written history for the kids, as I had hoped they would. Carpenters' Hall, even though it was swarming with tourists, was particularly moving--imagining the treasonous conversations held there by the members of the First and Second Continental Congresses.
We didn't get to see as much that day as we had hoped we would because there were reports of a terrible winter storm on its way and everyone seemed to be in a hurry to close up early and get safely home. We were disappointed again and again as the afternoon grew late, having walked dozens of blocks in the bitter cold to see something significant, only to find that it, too, had closed early in anticipation of the storm. By the time it started to get dark, we were very tired of walking and fairly chilled by the icy wind that was whipping around us, threatening to blow the storm in at any minute.
There were three unexpected highlights, however, that were unaffected by the weather.
On a whim, we ducked into the Arch Street Meeting House, the largest Quaker meeting house of its kind. A tour guide, himself a member of the congregation, showed us around and introduced us to the history and culture of the Quakers, particularly as they would have been at the time of Benjamin Franklin. It was fascinating, and I was glad we stopped.
On a less historically and culturally significant note, we noticed that we had parked the Starcraft very close to the Federal Reserve Bank. The Fed. We had to check it out. To even enter the building, we had to pass through a security checkpoint that would make the TSA blush. This place was serious. We were ushered in to a guest area filled with numerous high-tech interactive exhibits, all centered around money. Several of the exhibits were interesting to us, but what made us laugh was the souvenirs we were each given by an attendant on our way out: bags of shredded money, bills that had been taken out of circulation due to age and/or wear. The bags advertised that they contained approximately $100--before the shredder, at least. Seriously. It looked like dirty green confetti. We couldn't decide if we were fascinated or disgusted. I saved mine for a white elephant gift exchange at a Christmas party the following year.
And finally, the number one memory from Philadelphia, at least if you ask my son, was purchasing Philly Cheese Steak sandwiches from a street vendor's cart. It is really all about the food for that boy.
The snow had begun to fall in earnest by the time we arrived at our hotel that night and we were chilled from being outside most of the day. Staying at budget motels in winter climates often comes with the added perk of finding a freezing cold room upon check-in. No need to spend the money on heating unrented rooms, of course. Andy suggested we go out to dinner, but it was so cold outside and I didn't feel like going back out. I also didn't feel like cooking, however, so we grabbed the little flyer beside the phone and ordered a pizza to be delivered to our room. The room was still cold, though, and I was fighting waves of irritability exacerbated by fatigue, hunger and the fact that I could see my breath as I opened up my suitcase.
Andy came up behind me, patiently wrapped his warm and comforting arms around me, and suggested with a tender voice that we go down to the lobby to wait, since the toilet seat was up in our bathroom.
"What?" I pulled out of his arms and turned to face him, already on edge and now completely baffled. "Why in the world does it make any difference that the toilet seat is up in here? That is the craziest thing I've ever heard!" My voice came out as a high-pitched shriek.
His brow wrinkled in confusion, unsure of exactly what was happening and a little concerned that I was losing it so early in the trip.
In response to his silence and confusion, I restated what had been said. "I said I was cold and hungry and tired, and you answered with, 'Why don't we just go down to the lobby and wait? Toilet seat's up in here.' That doesn't even make any sense!"
A rush of understanding passed over his handsome face and he laughed as he wrapped his arms around his flailing and cranky wife once again. "I actually said, 'Why don't we just go down to the lobby and wait 'til it heats up in here?'"
'Til it heats up in here.
Toilet seat's up in here.
I began to laugh then, too--one of those weak and tired laughs--and was grateful for the strong arms holding me up. After checking to be sure that the heater unit was turned up to full power, we went down to the lobby to wait for the pizza delivery.
The next day, we would take a bite out of the Big Apple.
(To be continued)
We hit as many of the major historical sites as we could in our one day in Philadelphia--the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, Ben Franklin's old haunts, a few historic homes. They served as powerful connecting points to written history for the kids, as I had hoped they would. Carpenters' Hall, even though it was swarming with tourists, was particularly moving--imagining the treasonous conversations held there by the members of the First and Second Continental Congresses.
We didn't get to see as much that day as we had hoped we would because there were reports of a terrible winter storm on its way and everyone seemed to be in a hurry to close up early and get safely home. We were disappointed again and again as the afternoon grew late, having walked dozens of blocks in the bitter cold to see something significant, only to find that it, too, had closed early in anticipation of the storm. By the time it started to get dark, we were very tired of walking and fairly chilled by the icy wind that was whipping around us, threatening to blow the storm in at any minute.
There were three unexpected highlights, however, that were unaffected by the weather.
On a whim, we ducked into the Arch Street Meeting House, the largest Quaker meeting house of its kind. A tour guide, himself a member of the congregation, showed us around and introduced us to the history and culture of the Quakers, particularly as they would have been at the time of Benjamin Franklin. It was fascinating, and I was glad we stopped.
On a less historically and culturally significant note, we noticed that we had parked the Starcraft very close to the Federal Reserve Bank. The Fed. We had to check it out. To even enter the building, we had to pass through a security checkpoint that would make the TSA blush. This place was serious. We were ushered in to a guest area filled with numerous high-tech interactive exhibits, all centered around money. Several of the exhibits were interesting to us, but what made us laugh was the souvenirs we were each given by an attendant on our way out: bags of shredded money, bills that had been taken out of circulation due to age and/or wear. The bags advertised that they contained approximately $100--before the shredder, at least. Seriously. It looked like dirty green confetti. We couldn't decide if we were fascinated or disgusted. I saved mine for a white elephant gift exchange at a Christmas party the following year.
And finally, the number one memory from Philadelphia, at least if you ask my son, was purchasing Philly Cheese Steak sandwiches from a street vendor's cart. It is really all about the food for that boy.
The snow had begun to fall in earnest by the time we arrived at our hotel that night and we were chilled from being outside most of the day. Staying at budget motels in winter climates often comes with the added perk of finding a freezing cold room upon check-in. No need to spend the money on heating unrented rooms, of course. Andy suggested we go out to dinner, but it was so cold outside and I didn't feel like going back out. I also didn't feel like cooking, however, so we grabbed the little flyer beside the phone and ordered a pizza to be delivered to our room. The room was still cold, though, and I was fighting waves of irritability exacerbated by fatigue, hunger and the fact that I could see my breath as I opened up my suitcase.
Andy came up behind me, patiently wrapped his warm and comforting arms around me, and suggested with a tender voice that we go down to the lobby to wait, since the toilet seat was up in our bathroom.
"What?" I pulled out of his arms and turned to face him, already on edge and now completely baffled. "Why in the world does it make any difference that the toilet seat is up in here? That is the craziest thing I've ever heard!" My voice came out as a high-pitched shriek.
His brow wrinkled in confusion, unsure of exactly what was happening and a little concerned that I was losing it so early in the trip.
In response to his silence and confusion, I restated what had been said. "I said I was cold and hungry and tired, and you answered with, 'Why don't we just go down to the lobby and wait? Toilet seat's up in here.' That doesn't even make any sense!"
A rush of understanding passed over his handsome face and he laughed as he wrapped his arms around his flailing and cranky wife once again. "I actually said, 'Why don't we just go down to the lobby and wait 'til it heats up in here?'"
'Til it heats up in here.
Toilet seat's up in here.
I began to laugh then, too--one of those weak and tired laughs--and was grateful for the strong arms holding me up. After checking to be sure that the heater unit was turned up to full power, we went down to the lobby to wait for the pizza delivery.
The next day, we would take a bite out of the Big Apple.
(To be continued)
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
A Little Suggestion for the Husbands Out There (NOW UPDATED!)
Guys, if you wake up on a January morning in Montana to find the weather unseasonably warm and steady rain falling, but your driveway is a solid sheet of ice from the previous week's record-setting snow, mostly plowed (for which your wife is thankful) with the remaining snow packed down solid, please know that the once walkable and drivable ice will no longer be passable by any method with the addition of that rain causing puddles on the surface. Any attempt at getting a vehicle down to the highway to put your child on a school bus will be futile. But if it is very important to get your son to school because it is only his second day, having been homeschooling for four and a half years, and so you, by some amazing feat of navigation, do manage to slip and slide out of the driveway, make the turn onto the road and safely navigate the downhill stretch (which ends at the highway), managing to stop at the bottom of the hill before being hit by the speeding cross traffic so that you can drive your son to school--since he would have clearly missed the bus by now--and then call your wife on the cell phone to go out behind the barn and check on the spare set of studded tires that has been parked there since they came off the last van you owned, in order to find the numbers on them and see if they will fit the new van so you don't have to go to the tire shop in town to buy a new set of studs, please remember to remind your wife that 1) she should bring along paper and pencil to write down the lengthy string of numbers or bring her cell phone to call them in to you from out behind the barn (one or the other would be sufficient, for without either one, she will be forced to memorize them and repeat them back to herself for the entire lengthy and treacherous trip back to the house), and, 2) she should not attempt to traverse the ice to the shop, then cross the untrodden snow to the barn and then dig through the heavy drifts of snow piled next to the barn where the snow has slid from the barn's roof to get to the old set of studded tires...in her open-heeled bedroom slippers. Please. I beg of you; remind her to put on socks and shoes first. Perhaps even boots. That is all.
UPDATE: In addition to all of the above, you yourself, men, should probably not head out for this type of morning in your own bedroom slippers either, just in case you find that, upon returning from the trip to school and the tire shop (having learned that you technically can use the studded tires stored in the snow bank behind the barn, although it is not recommended because of the difference in size), you are unable to get the van with its current tires back up the hill to the driveway. For, if you cannot climb the hill after several attempts and end up sliding backward into the ditch, you may then be forced to find some way to get your vehicle out of the ditch, find a safe place to park it where it will not be hit by other sliding vehicles, and then walk the third of a mile home over the treacherous ice covered with icy puddles of rain water...in your bedroom slippers.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
An Unexpected Change of Plans
I have heard that many people feel this way when their children start kindergarten. They weep as they let go of the hand of the little one and watch him/her walk away into the big world of school. I might have shed a tear or two at the novelty of it. But I didn't feel it.
Not like this.
When my son started kindergarten, I was happy to have the time to focus on my daughter, who was a bit of a spitfire and really needed some one-on-one time. When my daughter joined the ranks of the school kids, too, I was honestly excited--for me, as much as for her. Maybe I was even more excited for me. That's hard to have to admit.
I am not as much of a baby and toddler person as many moms; that is true. I have always felt that kids are much more enjoyable once they can control their own bodily functions, can carry on two-sided conversations of substance, and can crack a joke that is actually funny. But even beyond that, I had spent my early years of mothering somehow believing that children were a bit of a hassle and should be hustled off to school as soon as possible so Mama can get some free time. I didn't see much value in the mothering process itself. Particularly in the early years, it was something to endure, hopefully with a good attitude and generous amounts of hugs and kisses on sticky little faces.
It's so sad to see these words in print now, all these years later, but it's true. I was blind. I was immature. I was a total newbie at this whole parenting gig. I guess we all start as newbies, right? I just wish I'd had a little more sense. I wish I'd known how to truly enjoy my kids, how to take my eyes off myself and my own little kingdom long enough to get know them, to treasure them, to find value and satisfaction in my role as their mother.
But I didn't.
Now I do.
I have been educating my kids at home for the past four and a half years and having them at home with me has deepened our relationships in ways I could have never imagined possible. I know them so well and I like them so much. I love to have them around me.
This school year, we took kind of a half-and-half approach for my son. He started his first year of high school by enrolling in a state-run digital academy and spending part of his afternoon, several days a week, in the local high school's computer lab, with the rest of his work done at home. The system has not worked well for us, unfortunately. It is a brand new system, full of kinks and quirks still, and he has borne the brunt of it, finishing the first semester of his freshman year with very poor grades.
He asked if he could just come back home full-time, with the exception of his online Latin class, which has been wonderful, and his online AP Biology class, which he really enjoys and is learning so much from. I agreed. I was happy to have him back under my care and direction. I was excited about discussing literature with him again and watching his face light up as we discussed world-changing events in history. I was so pleased that I was going to get my boy back.
All that was left to do was to meet with the high school's assistant principal, the one overseeing his online schooling. We would need to make sure he was enrolled in second semester Latin and AP Biology and would drop the hours he spent on the school campus, except for a rare occasion when he wanted to be there for a particular reason.
Tano and I were both relieved, really, to be done with this experimental semester, which I had made him stick out until the bitter end. We were relieved to be returning to education at home. Tano mentioned, on the way to the meeting with the assistant principal yesterday, that he was really looking forward to doing English class with me again and we thought we might invite other local home schooled kids to join us, as we had done with our public speaking class in the fall. Tano suggested that I should teach "a whole bunch of classes" for the local home school community and we discussed which subjects I was qualified to teach to others at a high school level and what those classes might look like. We talked about modifying our home education to include more of a block schedule approach, focusing on fewer classes more intensely for shorter bursts.
The meeting with the assistant principal and the school's guidance counselor went well, I guess. The two of them were very attentive to our concerns and duly disturbed by some of the things we had to report about the new digital academy. We felt listened to and supported.
And then, the unexpected happened, as it so often does. The assistant principal offered that, instead of going back home, Tano would be welcome to move to the high school campus full time if he was interested. I reminded him that we had family business travel needs, and that although most of our travels for this year had been cancelled, we still had a sizable trip in March coming up, a trip of perhaps three weeks or even a little more. Next year, we might be back to our more lengthy trips in the middle of the school year.
The assistant principal didn't even blink. He assured us that he could take care of that, at least for this semester. He would make an exception and see to it that all of Tano's teachers were able and willing to send work with him that he could accomplish under my guidance. If we wanted to make a new decision for next year, based on more intensive travel, we could make that call then. He told us we didn't need to give him a decision right then, but could go home and talk about it. However, the spring semester classes did start the very next day, so the sooner we decided, the better.
We left his office a little stunned. This was not an option we had considered, honestly, because I know that three weeks of scheduled travel is generally not allowed. I was all ready to bring my boy back home. We would discuss great literature...
I told him it was his decision. I did not want him to feel obligated to the school, just because the assistant principal was such a nice guy and was making special provisions for him. On the other hand, I also did not want him to feel that he is obligated to me, just because I was looking forward to having him fully at home under my guidance again. He needed to make this decision for himself and not for anyone else.
By the time we arrived home, Tano had decided he wanted to give the local high school a try for this semester. I felt badly that my emotions came across so strongly. I was weepy on and off for the whole evening. I couldn't imagine being without his handsome, smiling face every day for so long. I would miss his smirky smile and his constant scrounging for something to eat, his funny one-liners and his single raised eyebrow. I would even miss how he comes up behind me and gently tickles me by surprise, then wraps me up in a playfully apologetic hug. I had to keep reminding him that I was not trying to make a display; I was not trying to guilt him into changing his mind. I was just overcome at how much I would miss him. It was not a decision that I've been preparing for. It was a total surprise. I supported his decision, really, but my emotions were not cooperating.
He is such a sweet boy and kept coming to me throughout the evening and putting his arms around me, repeating how much he loved me. This, of course, only made me cry all the more, as I am doing right now just remembering it. When did my boy grow up to the point that he can comfort me, his mother, with his strong arms and kind words? That's crazy, right? But he did it nonetheless and I accepted it for what it was.
So, he's gone now. He's in his fourth period math class right now, in fact. I am praying for him frequently and trying to focus on enjoying the unexpected one-on-one time with Ellie. She and I laughed our way through her geography lesson, comparing population density to different types of chocolate cake--from light and fluffy with lots of air pockets to the super heavy flourless varieties. We laughed about rich, dense chocolate so much, in fact, that I need to go make some brownies after I type this.
I am sure Tano will do fine at school. He is adaptable and well-liked and has already been on the campus several afternoons per week since September. I'm sure I will do fine, too, after I get used to the absence of my firstborn. At least he isn't gone away to college or worse. It may be rough for a few days, though, as I make the transition.
A batch of brownies couldn't hurt.
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