Boy Tricks

It is the nine-to-twelve year old boy fantasy, at least for our son.  He is able to play video games for hours on a 60-inch screen, with his two girl cousins cheering him on, laughing at his jokes, learning and repeating the secret songs he knows from the bus and his friends.  We make them turn off the tv to play shuffleboard or eat dinner or swing some golf clubs or play a family game, but the little trio eventually retreats back to the media room, Ronan with the controls and the girls watching, giggling, directing him how to move.

He is on stage,  teaching them songs about Barney that your toddlers should not know with lovely lyrics like

“A-B-C-D-E-F-G Barney is my enemy…” and “Joy to the World that Barney is dead.  We barbequed his head…”

and burping tricks and Wii shortcuts.  And they wonder–why would anyone make a booby trap?  What kind of traps throw boobs?  Oh yeah, that’s the thirteen year and older fantasy.

Cousin fun. C

 

Thanksgiving Thoughts

Thanksgiving day.  At first glance this year it seems hard to give thanks at the end of a tumultuous year of hospital visits and broken bones and pet loss and friend loss and downsizing and friends losing jobs-hope-faith and ongoing wars in other countries and guns and government infighting for themselves and the White Sox/Bears/Cubs eliminated again.

Wait.  While the negative can seem overwhelming, it is the small, the simple, the unexpected and sometimes the everyday, the overlooked that we should be thankful for today and perhaps each day.

I am thankful that an unplanned-for shifting of priorities–and finances– means we now spend more time with our friends and families playing-laughing-cooking,  share our homes and talents, a dinner out appreciated more (especially for mom), we explore local treasures, thankful I can watch a new rescue puppy morph into a dog, health recoveries, a vacation, a movie night in with the whole family, warm tomato and basil straight from the garden,  an email from a forgotten friend or a call from someone up the road, finding the steal of a deal while shopping, s’mores and lightning bugs, impromptu talent shows of children dancing and singing, decent grades in new schools, family moving closer, a new work endeavor, each other.

These thoughts aren’t new, though the experiences are, but sometimes it helps to really take a moment to remember, as life slips by, like sand through the fingers, the grains all intermingled but each one still individual–the shiny, the tarnished, the plain forming into a beautiful stream of grains.  And I hope that you all have small joys and the everyday smiles to be thankful for. They fill our lives as much as the than the wonderful, grand moments we experience.  They are everyday happiness.  C

 

Hot Chocolate and Pudding

As I peeled the foil top off a large can of Swiss Miss hot chocolate, I was immediately transported back to childhood.  The chocolate scent that rose from the can was of the boxes of Jello chocolate pudding, a favorite dessert from my youth.

We sometimes prepared the cooked version on the stove, stirring and stirring in a silver-colored pot with black handle.  We put plastic wrap on the top as it cooled, then slowly peeled it off to see the chocolate craters on the surface.  And no one ever wanted the hard crusty part when it was just a day old. Sometimes we used the yellow and white Tupperware shaker, with a plastic spoke in the middle to stir it up.  We could then immediately take turns dipping spoons into the shaker, slurping down the chocolate jelloey pudding.  Yum!

The final time I remember eating homemade pudding I was just driving, home from a visit to a friend’s house with a severe case of the munchies.  I dove into the bowl of freshly-made chocolate pudding on the counter and starting inhaling spoonfuls into my mouth, all the while yakking on the phone.  Yum!

An unexpected trip to the past, just from opening a can.  Weird. C

 

Equestrian Connected–People Connected

“When was the last party you were at with three generations singing together?” John asked, as we all broke into the familiar words of  Hard Day’s Night, Yellow Submarine, Eight Days a Week and a myriad of other Beatles songs performed perfectly by the band American English.  So true.

There were over 300 of us joined together last night, at the annual fundraiser for Equestrian Connection, the equine therapy program I volunteer at.    I looked around the indoor arena transformed into a party room with flooring (no dirt!), round tables and chairs for dining, a bar, a stage for a live auctioneer and bands, the silent auction nestled in the aisle with the curious horses, not used to these late night festivities.

The evening was lively and inspirational, with some young students speaking, a homemade DVD put together by one family showing the benefits of hippotherapy, wheelchairs scattered around the room intermixed with dancers and revelers.  The goals were clearly defined: to raise enough money to pay for one year of therapy for the 20 or so families who cannot afford the therapy right now but know how critical it is for their kids.

One choked up mom said on stage that her wheelchair bound eleven-year old daughter cannot play soccer or softball or baseball…but she can ride horses!  I have personally witnessed time and again the amazing improvements these children (and adults) make during their weekly lessons or fields trips from schools and institutes.

So, there we were, routing for the auction bids to go higher, warmth spreading on a clear, cold autumn night.  American English entertained–and reminded me how many Beatles songs I know ALL the words for (hard admission for someone who grew up a true-blue Elvis fan with the scrapbooks to prove it)–and drew people together.  Some people danced, I saw one group of seven from 65 to 13 standing arm and arm  and singing along while swaying with the music, others took pictures with their phones and cameras, some just tapped their feet and enjoyed the sets.

And we all arose with the encore, seeming to sing together strongly–if not totally in tune–that we would start a Revolution to band together and keep this organization moving forward.

A fine, successful night for all, horses now enjoying the quiet until their riders come again. C

 

Peeping In

Last Friday Bob and I had a three hour window between dropping kids off and picking up others from parties.  We headed out for an early anniversary dinner, then came home to start a film.  I chose “Zack and Miri Make a Porno” which I had just rented, since I knew it was completely kid-inappropriate and we had an empty house.  The film began raunchy yet funny, and though we watched the whole thing, I became semi-bored as it turned repetitive and predictable. A little disappointing, based on the reviews I had initially seen (and I usually like Seth Rogan’s films).

Two nights later, while watching the Bears game, I took the puppy Cali out to do her business.  As  I walked on our side yard  by our neighbor’s driveway, I realized that in the dark anyone there has a clear shot to seeing what we are watching on TV. How could I not have noticed that before?  We don’t have window coverings on our kitchen windows, so there is no way to block the view.

So, were the neighbors–or their daughters–in the driveway on Friday night?  It was before ten and they have 3 teenage girls, so most likely someone was out there.   Did they happen to glance in our window?  Did they think we were watching porn on an early evening, instead of watching a film about making a porn movie (with a few porn stars who dropped their clothes easily)?  Were they curious and watched longer?  Or did no one notice?

It gave me a great laugh on a Sunday night, just wondering.  More amusing than some parts of ” Zack and Miri”  (re-titled now that it is available in the library).  C

 

Traffic Stop

Stuck in traffic, we lament the interruption in our travels, express dismay in the delays to our travel plans, wonder why we are slowing then stopped on the highway.  We sit with our uncomfortably filled bladders, unable to relieve the pressure, turn our cars around, or ride along the downward-sloping shoulder.

Complain, swear, scream uselessly inside our cars, a single white truck stopping every few feet for the driver to open the door and vomit on the side of the road, we creep along, helpless and frustrated.

After miles of this long snaking array of cars and trucks, we see the flashing lights in the distance.  Lots of them.  And we rethink our anger. We approach with trepidation, fear for whom these lights blink and sirens sound,  ambulances and fire trucks and a flat bed truck now loaded with half a speed boat on top of it, another winch pulling up the other half the boat from over the road’s edge, down from the barricades, workers in yellow reflective vests and hats gathered, watching.  The tail end of a car also visible in the overgrown weeds.

We feel guiltily thankful and relieved that we are simply stuck in traffic, not part of this horrifying accident that added hours to our driving schedule. And hope that the people who were involved have escaped, unharmed or at least alive.  As we drive past the rescue vehicles, the lanes open, the cars and trucks and motorcycles speed up, the race towards our destinations back on, the accident already fading in our minds as we think about what lies ahead—curving roads, glaring sun, and hopefully no more slowdowns.  Until the next one. C

 

Headlands

The Marin headlands are one of my favorite, most beautifully desolate places to visit.  Go north over the Golden Gate Bridge, and take the first left off the 101, instead of the familiar right curve to Sausalito.  When we lived in San Francisco, we often explored the sehills, our Aussies Maxx and Annie running up and back, exploring, smelling, chasing, wandering.

These windswept hills overlook the forever-pounding Pacific Ocean, salty water foaming over tall black rocks sitting like miniature islands, some now white with bird guano.  Remnants of old military barracks dot the hills,  and this week Ronan found a rusted bullet remains on a sandy path we walked.

One day I will be part of these hills,  winds whirling my dusty remains onto the lichens and dancing mango-colored California poppies and tiny succulants that cover the ground.  It is already the resting spot for our loyal friend Maxx, and last week we spread the ashes of Annie, who came from these lands, so she can run with us during future escapades over these hills.

Just avoiding the rain, we lunched under cloudy skies, before they dissipated as we began our climb.  We soon wrapped our sweatshirts around our waists, stopping for water as the air warmed.  We meandered to our favorite spot to leave Annie,  then walked on for another hour, stopping to watch lizards play, throw rocks off the cliffs, search for sea lions in the surf (alas-none spotted today), and stop/start as we came to unexpected ends of paths. One daughter, who claimed to dislike hiking, wanted to climb to the very top hill, but there was no path from where we were.

We descended from the hills to let the kids run in the surf, trousers wetter than expected as the tide moved in, picking up flat rocks and split sand dollars then finding a sixteen-inch jellyfish wash onto the beach then eventually taken back into the churning waters.  We never figured out if it was still alive, or now.

“That was a fun excursion,” one of our kids commented as we climbed back into our car.   Agreed.

A final, fitting farewell to Annie. C

 

Musical Changes

“Regret” by New Order was first.  The next time it was “Love My Way” by The Psychedelic Furs, followed by “Another Nail in my Heart” by Squeeze.  These were all songs we danced to in the 80’s at “new wave” and punk clubs in Chicago with names like Neo, Club 950, Avalon, Clubland (greatest new year’s bashes!) Exit and of course–the Lizard Lounge– that most of our friends did not know or understand, and most radio stations did not dare play for fear of reaching outside the top 40 or big-haired rock realms.

All had great dance rhythm, and we could–err, would–dance all night.  On the dance floor, on the bar, on our couches at late night parties, a Christmas tree swaying in the background of one video.

And in the past two weeks I have heard ALL these songs at the grocery store!!, Trader Joe’s at least, but still.  Our once-new, different music playing while shopping for Wasabi mayo and samosas and orange juice and hummus.  How cliche, how old I felt, how everyday….but they all still made me want to dance. Some things don’t go out of style, for me. C

 

The Drop-Off

For the fourth straight year, my friend Laura and I have driven our two eldest girls to camp very early on a Sunday morning, and the younger two now going for their second year.  Overnight camp at the YMCA, or where ever you choose to go, is such a rite of passage.  I wish that all kids had this opportunity.  They get to explore outside their town, their families, their boundaries and meet people from other cities, states, countries as their bunkmates, roommates, counselors, and friends.

So much of camp seems the same as when I went–horse back riding, boating, swimming, crafts, archery,  group songs, family style meals, woods, group bathrooms, chores, fun, fun.   The worst part for us is waiting for check-in, arriving early so the girls can secure a good bunk near each other,  the crowds pushing forward–every group wanting the same, the newbies wide-eyed.  It’s a bit crazy.

I remember when Lisa and I went to camp.  It was August of 1977, and we took an 8 hour (!!) bus drive to southern IL.  Yes, we had one freak in our room who told us she had heart medicine that we would all DIE if we took, pretended to talk in her sleep, and swore Lisa would go straight-to-hell for going up to communion as a non-Catholic, because as a 13-year old she was too embarrassed to stay in her seat, alone.

She joyfully broke the news to me that Elvis had died when she heard in a letter from home, knowing I was a huge Elvis fan. I was convinced she was lying, but wrote my mom just in case to save me all the headlines and newspapers—which I still have today in my yellowed Elvis scrapbook.

I remember our relay race–everyone in the cabin participated–with Lisa riding the horse (boy, was I jealous!) and I sprained my ankle tripping over a raised root in the path.  Then everyone else was jealous of me because I got to see the cute, friendly doctor as he wrapped my ankle, and he let me hold newborn kittens each visit.

I wonder what my girls will remember from their yearly camp visits, other than the great songs we learn from them (“there were 3 little muffins in the bakery shop…”), the friends they can keep in touch with online, and the 1000 types of friendship  bracelets they can make.  I hope they will remember their routine of driving with their moms, the bakery we stop at for lunch, waiting in lines,racing to cabins, and many quiet and loud moments that I am sadly not a part of.

Me, I will remember the 6-7 hours Laura and I get to listen to the girls’ giggle and talk and that we get to catch up, uninterrupted on the way home.  and maybe route 65 closed, while we are SO thankful to have the iphone GPS.

Camp.  Everyone should go! C

 

The White-Tail Tale

A shimmering Sunday afternoon several weeks ago, I was stealing five minutes of silence on the screened-in porch,  reading the paper in between chauffering sessions.  

“Cali,” I heard Tara warn our 7-month Aussie, who she had been playing with for the better part of an hour.

“Cali!” she yelled agin.

I glanced up to see  the raised white-tail of a deer galloping through our yard, followed by a coyote, then Cali.  They bolted through our yard, then the neighbors, then they kept going.  Tara ran after them, and I ran from the porch after them.  It has been years since my feet went from zero to sixty in three seconds, and I hope it is years until I have to do it again.  That white hot pain, burning though my chest, my heart pounding.  Visible through my chest? I don’t know.

As the trio of animals kept running, I realized the “coyote” was a fawn, probably only days old. The mama deer ran off track, and the fawn and Cali ran into the cornfields.  Oh no! How were we going to get them now?  I could hear the jangling of Cali’s tags, so I knew that she was close by.  Suddenly, fawn and pup appeared nose to tail, the fawn in front, bleating-bleating for its mom.

We chased and called for a couple more houses, Cali oblivious to us.  Then, as the yard lines curved, Tara continued to follow the pair as I cut across towards the front yard. As the pair slowed, Tara managed to step on the end of Cali’s leash, which she had been dragging behind her.  

Breathing hard, we slowly walked back to the house, leash held tight.  Wouldn’t any curious puppy do the same, we thought.

So now Cali no longer plays in the yard without a long lead rope, just in case…. C