Midlife Jobhunter

Tuition Sluts

2012-01-08T14:29:00.001-06:00

The Rose Bowl is the only bowl I've ever seen that I didn't have to clean.

Erma Bombeck

I know many of you are not football fans, but I am. I have my specific teams like my Alma Mater -- Michigan State. My parents lived in Green Bay, Wisconsin for 31 years and my kids attended Packer summer practice camps countless times. Packers are my pro team.

My husband, Bob, graduated from University of Colorado. I don't feel much loyalty there. But when my kids went off to college, Bob and I found ourselves rooting for teams we never would have considered in a million years. Never did we picture our legs hooked together with a stranger or our arms swathed across the back of whomever stood next to us while we swayed and sang "Saw Varsity's horns off." Or that we'd say "Whoop!' after another Fighting Texas Aggie first down.

Then, there we were in Flagstaff, Arizona watching the Northern Arizona Lumberjacks take on the likes of Montana State while we counted as Louie the Lumberjack did pushups on a trampoline to match the score. Not to mention that although the school colors are navy and green, the athletic colors are navy and yellow - verboten to a green and white Michigan State fan. (U of Michigan is blue and yellow - oh, sorry. Maize, she writes with a sarcastic shrug of her shoulders. I don't like Wolverines.)

No surprise that when youngest son, Ian, went off the the University of Alabama, we became fans of the Crimson Tide. We've just had to face the fact that we are tuition sluts. We cheer for whoever is taking our money.

Banner year for Crimson Tide and Green Bay Packer fans. Tide plays for the national championship Monday night. Packers - three games from repeating as Super Bowl champs.

Tomorrow night Bob and I will wear our Alabama shirts and plant ourselves in front of the TV in the Green Bay Packer Hall of Fame (basement.) After each first down, we will shake our shakers on the Roll Tide count.

First Down Alabama - Roll Tide.

Just sayin'.

Promises, Promises

2011-12-21T00:55:00.006-06:00

The promise given was a necessity of the past: the word broken is a necessity of the present.

Niccolo Machiavelli

~~I will never have a fake Christmas tree.~~

Here it is. Fake in all its glory. Opened the box, took it out in two pieces, plugged it in. Nobody complaining because we had to drive 50 miles and walk acres and acres to find the perfect tree. Nobody swearing while trying to get it straight in the tree stand. Nobody GDing while stringing all the lights. No needles to pick up by hand because the vacuum won't suck them up.

Instant Christmas tree.

I have always, going back as far of my 55 years as I recall, promised I would never have a fake tree. A Promise. A word of honor - an oath, pledge, guarantee, commitment. All those fancy words for 'You can count on me.'

Well, hell. Doesn't seem to bother anyone else around this household, so why should it bother me? I think it's kind of pretty. LED lights and all. So pretty, that the ornament boxes haven't even come out of the garage yet. And they might not. The only thing on there is a pretty crown I picked up years ago and the angel oldest son, Jacob, made 24 years ago.

Bob has an ornament, of course.

And there are 9 candy canes on there. I ate one.

I'm thinking that is all I can muster this year. With the passing of my mother this past fall, I've pacified myself by substitute teaching and making lists of things to do for Christmas. Gifts, bread making, wrapping, contributions, food for Christmas Eve and Christmas day. Cards and letters written and sent. (Some long overdue thank yous.)

But for some reason getting the ornaments on the tree just seems too tedious. All those little things seem just too much for me. Even Ian came home from university and said, "We don't have to put all the ornaments on it, do we?"

No, we don't. Worked for me. I didn't even put up many of the other Christmas decorations. It does look festive around here, but in a milder manner.

I did, however, order a new dove for my tree. Rather ironic as I think about it. Bear with me as I tell this story.

My mother never left much in regard to instructions for her funeral. I don't think she much cared what happened to her body after death. My older brother, Jon, handled the arrangements at the funeral home while I - well, I don't quite remember what I was doing. Getting everyone gathered. Going through paperwork. Funding it. Anyway, I was grateful for his handling of that aspect. The only thing my mom ever told me was that she wanted white doves released at her graveside.

A few years ago she called to tell me she had talked to a woman for hours all about it. And when we discussed my dad's funeral arrangements last year, she told my brothers that she had told me she wanted that at hers. I promised to do it. Promised.

When my brother went off to the funeral home with a myriad of details to fulfill, I reminded him of the doves. I couldn't find the name of the lady my mom had spoken to but the funeral home had a guy. They said the dove guy would meet us at the graveyard.

As things go, you know, we did the nice service at the church (my mom would have complained that it was much too long), proceeded to the graveyard where my older brother and I were met by a guy under dressed for a funeral with a squat cage of birds. He handed us a well worn laminated sheet with three poems on it. "Which one you want me to read?" he said. My fast reading eyes decided then and there that I should have had a little more hands on for this part. I couldn't get past that they all sounded rather cheesy. I chose the least tawdry just as my brother pointed to the most trite.

Whatever, was my thought. But when the time came, the man said he didn't usually get requests for two birds - either one or an entire flock. I guess I was thinking my mom and dad when I requested two. For some reason, that revved the old guy up. He said the most lovely words repeating the unusual request and that this was a love story. Bill and Bernie flying off together. As my oldest and youngest brothers passed in front of my husband and me, birds in hands, I closed my eyes to what I saw - and decided to lift that sight from my mind and just imagine two lovely doves. My husband, however, does not have the creative imagination I do - nor the ability to always keep his mouth closed.

"They're GD pigeons, " he blurted out.

Thank you, Bob. Of course they weren't beautiful doves. Of course they were ratty old white carrier pigeons. Just pretend, Bob. I promised.

As I stood there gulping down the promise I'd made, I couldn't help recall how much my mother detested pigeons. When I was a little girl living on 18th Street, the mothers used to sit out on the front stoops while the kids played outside. Pretty soon I'd hear a few screams, look over to see Joey Costa's big brother's pigeon swooping at the women's heads as they sat on their steps. Joey's brother no where in sight.

The poor bird only wanted to sit on the light above their front doors and if left alone, probably would only have done that, but imaginations run and I think Hitchcock's The Birds was out at the time and women and their tall, teased hairdos and well, you know...

My mom would scream, "Joey Costa. Go get your GD brother and tell him to get his GD pigeon back in its cage right now or we'll have that GD bird killed."

I don't know whatever happened to Joey Costa, or his brother's bird, but for years after, my mom loved to watch cardinals, carolina wrens, finches and robins while they ate at her feeders. She called to those freebirds she discovered in the wild. But if one dared swoop at her, they were the devil incarnate.

So there's the irony in that. My mother was scared enough of pigeons to GD the poor little neighbor kid's older brother and his bird. Good thing she was dead when the pigeons were released to symbolize love at her funeral.

The birds were very eager and pretty when they flew off toward their home. Everyone oohed and ahhed. But I guess I didn't handle that promise very well. I did, however, put a really pretty fake dove on my fake tree that I also promised I would never have. Does that help?

Believe it or not, I have many other stories to tell from my mother's graveside ceremony - like fireworks wars, champagne toasts, and that tombstone that sort of got knocked askew. Perhaps another day.

Merry Christmas everybody. I promise.

What to Do, What to Do...

2011-12-07T11:51:00.001-06:00

The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

As many of you know, we've had a drought in Texas this year. Lately - a few intermittent days of rain. This past weekend, cold and rain dominated the forecast. I relished its arrival.

How does one spend a cold, rainy Sunday afternoon during Christmas season? Hmmmm.

Stay in bed. Surround yourself with hundreds of catalogs (that have your postman hating your guts), a laptop, and a credit card. Start and complete all Christmas shopping while tucked in the warmth of a comforter.

Get the bread machine going while getting out of bed to make a new cup of tea.

Keep it going, all day long. The scent of a sweet bread filling the house. Oh, yeah. Switch from tea to wine and get your journal out.


Relish the beauty of the loaves before wrapping them to give to your friends.

Set up the tree.

Go downstairs and watch the Green Bay Packers.

Prrrrfect day.

Roll Tide

2011-12-01T11:22:00.010-06:00

I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart: I am, I am, I am.

Sylvia Plath

Roll Tide. Rolling tide. Rolling. Been a while since I've posted, but I am still rolling. Not certain it is a clean roll. Lots of undertow in the tide.

As many have experienced, a death in the family often produces a fog that blocks the roads ahead. Thought processes muddle or become stagnant. For me, both true. Varied thoughts all the time and gathering them into a cohesive plan for life action has taken time. Not to say I'm all organized now, for that sure as hell ain't true (nor never possibly has been.) But I do have a new list of action items - things that must get done. It is a start.

"Write a new post" on my list. Here we go.


This is what $230 will get you for a seat at an Alabama game - one that also includes the #1 and #2 team.

Last summer, when we chose to attend the Alabama/LSU football game, we had no idea that by the time the game rolled around, these two would be the top two teams in the nation (or that our tickets had tripled in price.) Oh, what fun. We drove the 11 hour drive to Tuscaloosa and invaded our youngest son's spotless apartment. (I mean - that boy DID learn how to clean a bathroom when he lived at home.) His three roommates were thrilled to have us spend a couple of days there. Such nice boys.

The night before the game, we began tailgating on campus. Never had I seen such a set up - not at a Michigan State, Texas, Colorado, Michigan, Texas A&M, etc. game. Thousands of tents. Countless RV's set up everywhere from fields on campus to the shopping malls. 175,000 people milling about.

The fun began - early morning. A rare open space here.

There we were, a couple of former Yankees in the deep South.

Even the ESPN guys were there.

Throngs of people.

The streets jam packed all day long.


One of the many, many RV parking lots.

According to some, watching the game on TV was the equivalent of the Boring Bowl. For those present, Alabama's loss in this defensive struggle, 9-6, was most intense to sit through.

Best thing? Good chance these two teams will meet again for the National Championship.

Other than being with youngest son, best thing about the trip?

Stopped in New Orleans on the way home. Husband finally got to garner the experience. Made him stand here for the traditional photo.

I won't have to listen to him whine about never being there, anymore.

Meanwhile....

I've pretty much felt like this big block of ice for the past couple of months. Losing your mom is an odd thing to process.

I believe I've broken off from the big pile and find floating has unstuck me some. Hoping for a bigger melt real soon. The fog has lifted and offers a path.

To all of you who have written me and to all who left such lovely comments on my mom's last blog post at Old? Who Me?, please accept my heartfelt thanks.

Roll Tide!

Bookends

2011-10-17T13:27:00.011-05:00

book·end
noun
a support placed at the end of a row of books to hold them upright, usually used in pairs.

Twenty-four years ago I moved to Texas -- seven months pregnant and the mother of a two year old. Pregnant, I wasn't exactly an ideal job candidate. Home with the first child and then a new baby was unfamiliar territory for me, the working girl. Each day I listened to the lady across the street drive away to work and was extremely jealous. I began another day of uncertainty, trapped in a house in a new town with two babies and no friends.

My mom and dad arrived in town shortly after the birth of the second child to help me for a couple of weeks. My husband, very serious about his career, worked long days and I appreciated the help my folks gave me.

However, mothers can be mothers. One afternoon she walked with my two year old to the neighborhood park. At home, the baby napped and I took one, too. Next thing I awoke to was my mother standing beside me.

"Come outside," she said. "I want you to meet someone."

My heart collapsed. I felt like I was five again. I recalled this scene from my childhood to the detail. My mother had found a friend for me. For me, the shy, little girl who couldn't find her own friends. My mother waltzing on air to introduce me to my new friend -- and me, wanting to hide in the bathroom.

I trudged out to the driveway where a young woman my age stood beside a minivan. "This is Rebekah," my mom said. "She gave us a ride home from the park."

I stood in the yard, shuffling my feet back and forth, blushing I'm certain, saying my hellos. My mother's new friend had two children -- a beautiful little blonde girl about two with a mad look on her face and a boy of three, who whipped out the pistols in his gun belt and shot me.

Suffice to say, 24 years later, that little boy with the guns is now getting a Masters in Creative Writing at a London university and "Mad Maddy" is madly in love in Vancouver. Rebekah and I are still friends and from that union a grand group formed -- the Bunco Bitches.

I have my mom to thank for that.

Rebekah and I met the rest of our motley crew while pushing our kids in the swings at the park. We weren't always bitches, but we are now. We don't necessarily remember anyone's birthday with any consistency. We all have different professions, friends, and activities that keep us apart except for once a month on the second Tuesday when we gather to eat and drink and yack. We haven't played bunco in over 12 years. But we are who we are and when we get together, there is no pretense. We put up with each other just because.

Being together for so long, it is kind of like home. We take each other in no matter what. Very often, it is the safest place I know to go.

In September, I hosted Bunco Bitch LakeFest. I knew at that time my mom was having great difficulty and that her life would change very soon. I didn't know she was to die, but I knew we were headed on a new journey. I'm uncertain exactly what my mother's journey may now be, but I know mine is rather emotionally-wracked at the moment. Most fortunate for me LakeFest served as the left bookend to the beginning of the past month and Bunco Bitch BeachFest bookended the right.

This weekend, Rebekah hosted the BeachFest at the Gulf Coast. I must say, Friday afternoon after our arrival, I sat up on the Bird's Nest deck of her beach house and with the sea before me and a slew of ships and sailboats coming in and out of the harbor, I took the first breath I'd taken in quite a few weeks. Glass of spirits in my hand, sunshine overhead, a clear view before me, I couldn't think of any place more comforting at that moment.

So, must share. Lake first, then the beach.

Remember the Recreation Station? It had blown down the lake so this crew swam down and retrieved it. Notice the supervisor on the right.

Not quite as comfortable as we'd hoped.

Naps allowed.

Reading garbage

Eat, Float, Drink

Graceful Rope Swing Entrance

LIFE INTERVENES

View from the Bird's Nest - the path to the Gulf of Mexico

Bitches at Work

Chair Yoga

See us way out there?

Show Off


Now, onto the next bookshelf.

Soaking for A While

2011-10-04T01:00:00.002-05:00

"And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter and sharing of pleasure. For in the dew of little things the heart finds it morning and is refreshed.

Kahlil Gibran

Old? Who? Me?http://bernie-oldwho--me.blogspot.com/

Downside to Writing - Life

2011-09-20T17:40:00.008-05:00

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.

Ray Bradbury

I'm writing my second novel. For about six years now. Back in July, I isolated myself - Butt in Chair - for an entire week in an effort to recover and organize the work I had only touched a few times in the past few years. I had success. I whittled down 50,000 words to 36,000, organized my notes, made new ones, adjusted my characters' needs, wants, thoughts, and paths. Silenced my writing friend's swinging whip and sent off a new chapter by week's end.

With brief interludes caused by real life, I now have 46,000 (goal 80,000 - 90,000) words and a main character long past stuck in a wheat field in South Dakota. She's now in Montana, further entrenched. More important, I've figured out my antagonist's secret. Knew she had one, just wasn't sure exactly what it was.

I love it when my mind is in the scenes on my pages and the day sweeps by like only a few minutes. It takes so long to get into that mind frame, yet only a moment for it to go away and a complete disconnection to occur while my two worlds attempt to rejoin.

Stepping back from the lives I've created in my writing and running smack dab into the people I live and socialize with catches me off guard. Like I'm caught floating from cloud to cloud, dilly dallying the day away. In my world of fiction writing, my characters are bigger than life, where they do and say things I never would have the guts to do or say. When I live in their world, I am someone else.

The shift to Earth is not easy as words - in verbal format - fail me. Most often, they come out damn wrong. My real world becomes one I don't fit into - like getting a large octagon through a small oval. Makes me want to stay in my written world. Much easier when I'm controlling everything - if that makes any sense.

Ever feel that way? And not just in regard to writing?

Stations of Recreation

2011-09-09T00:52:00.004-05:00

Pleasure is the bait of sin.

Plato

Around the second week of August, before Ian, aka Bama Boy, went back to school, we had some wind out at the lake accompanied by a faux rainstorm. My husband, Bama Boy, and I all sat in the living room looking out the window, thinking if it weren't so hot, 104 degrees, we might go swimming. Ian then noticed something large, that wasn't a boat, floating across the lake. We traded the binoculars to see that coming our direction was a renegade party barge. A Recreation Station.

Perfect. We were pumped. It was my birthday weekend. Oldest son Jacob and wife, Chelsea, were headed out to the lake for a special dinner. What could add to the weekend more than a place to sit, chat, slip off and swim, and float while celebrating?

The barge was due to land a few houses down at the point, so being the neighborly folks we are, Ian drove his truck down there and pulled it from the water as it hit shore.

Bob and Ian pondered their find.

Certainly they could stick it in the garage, clean it up, and next year put it out in front of our place like it was ours.

Or, we could anchor it out by our dock so that its true owners could find it while they swept the lake in search of their detached property.

Decided that was the more neighborly of the two choices. But we figured as long as it was anchored at our place, we could use it. Right? Make sure it stayed in working order?

Just as Bob and Ian hauled it out to the end of the dock and put together an anchor to secure it, a jet ski came up along the shore. The three of us swore, to ourselves, for surely these were the owners. Of course they were.

They pointed out where they lived down and across the lake and said we could come use the float anytime we wanted. We wondered if drinks and dinner were included, but we only nodded and retreated to the house, watching our Recreation Station bob along the waves back to its home. Our eyes teared up.

This past Sunday, the wind arrived at the lake. Big wind from Tropical Storm Lee. We had guests for the weekend and that night we spent our time on the dock, enjoying the cooler temperatures (92) offering relief from over 80 days of 100+ temperatures. White-capped waves crashed at the shore and the wind blew with wild abandon. One friend played the guitar and the rest of us sang along or drank our wine and talked. Over the wind, I heard my husband call out.

"Julie, look at this."

Lo and behold, guess what floated across the waves, directly to our dock. Recreation Station. You betcha - karma. We captured the beast and anchored it to the end of the dock, the wind tearing at the ropes. Secured. We glanced across the lake to the house where it lived. No lights. No one home. Cool.

Had to text Bama Boy to let him know our past effort wasn't in vain. That the party barge had returned to those who appreciated it. Fate now tied to our very own dock.

Through the night and all the next day the station rolled with the waves from the strong winds. When I woke up Tuesday morning, I found this scene. The winds gone and the Recreation Station still awaiting its owners to retrieve it.

Bunco Bitches are due here next weekend. Cross your fingers.

Fire

2011-09-07T13:26:00.016-05:00

Our prayers for others flow more easily than those for ourselves. This shows we are made to live by charity.

C.S.Lewis

With 80+ days of 100 degree + heat in drought-stricken Central Texas this summer, we welcome a breeze, although remain quite leery -- for good reason. Our area has become most vulnerable with our lack of moisture.

This past Sunday, Tropical Storm Lee brewed and dropped heavy rains in areas that may not have needed it, and also in places where rain was welcome. But not here. Central Texas received a ten degree drop in temperature, low humidity, and massive winds which created havoc. Quick fire.

Fueled by months of drought laden timber and countryside, fire spread throughout several populated areas. The wind continued just as strong on Monday as fires swept away hundreds of homes and forests. This video by Texas Parks and Wildlife shows how quickly the fire spread in Bastrop County. Can give you an idea of how little time people had to evacuate.

Very scary.

Our winds have died down. The firefighters have made gains on containment although danger remains and many acres in several different places remain ablaze. Over 38000 acres have burned. Over 650 homes destroyed.

Several of the smaller yet home destroying fires have been within ten miles of my home, but nothing right near us as we watch the sky and the local news. Many at my husband's work have lost their homes. One woman in my Book Club had fire come within 100 yards of her home. Many of her neighbors now homeless.

Those displaced have entered our hearts and minds as many still remain shut off from their homes and word has come that lives have been lost. Now, the community gathers to help put lives back together.

How you can help.
Red Cross
Various opportunities

Return to Tornado Alley

2011-08-24T11:17:00.007-05:00

Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid.

Frederick Buechner

AP Photo

Last April 27 a massive tornado struck Tuscaloosa, Alabama. My youngest son, Ian, a then freshman at the University of Alabama, took the following picture just moments after the tornado left on its path to further destruction.

A few days ago, I drove the 11 hour and 38 minute drive with Ian back to Tuscaloosa for his sophomore year. (On the road again. Seems to have become my mantra.) Our arrival rekindled many memories for him - not such great memories of his hasty departure from a city without power or water. Of the newly homeless wandering aimlessly. The agonizing search for loved ones.

We returned to the location where he had taken that picture and he took another.

The sky is blue and no longer menacing. The destruction, albeit somewhat more organized, remains.

This small lake, still filled with debris. A dumpster. Pieces of wood. Pieces of homes. The wrecking crew slowly plows through the once upon a time neighborhood, hauling away the pieces of once upon a time lives. Many demolished homes await the crew that makes its way methodically through the mess that once held such life.

All this land, once filled with homes and businesses. Trees.

Life does go on. This path through the university quad this day bustles with new and returning students. The first day of the new semester, teachers and students, take on the new year in spite of the anxieties many retain from the frantic aftermath.

My boy included.
New room, new classes, new adventures awaiting.
Of course, this meant I had one of those goodbyes that stab my heart.

"Be good, Ian. Do well. I'll see you sometime - soon."

Awful quiet around here.

The Adventure Continues - Blowing Down the Road

2011-08-10T12:16:00.011-05:00

I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it...People think pleasing God is all God care about. But any fool living in the world can see it always trying to please us back.

Alice Walker, The Color Purple, 1982

{This post has taken longer to put together than the entire trip. I don't want to download any more photos to Blogger for a very long time.}

Middle son, Jordan, and I continued our adventurous trek through Wyoming. After a good night's sleep following a day of geological delights, the Thermopolis hot springs, and the Buffalo Bill Historical Museum we headed out from Cody to take on Yellowstone National Park.

Finally Yellowstone.

This was our first view of geothermal activity. Smoke coming up out of the rocks on the roadside.

We stopped at places where we could read signs, like this one explaining that grizzly bear live in places like this.

When we turned around to look on the other side of the road, our jaws dropped. Damn, it was a bear. Right there in the middle. A grizzly bear. We watched him swim all the way to another island. He definitely swims laps faster than me.

From Yellowstone Lake to the Yellowstone River.

"Hey, we'll take your picture if you'll take ours."

The water was bringing it.

Jordan liked taking pictures of the Cutthroat Trout, waterfowl, and bugs. Me?
I had to take a picture of my shoes, of course.

Then, we spotted the buffalo.

They got closer...

and closer...
and a little too close.

Hey, big boy.
I made Jordan a bet that park rangers bring these guys in on a truck in the morning. Set them up beside the road. Then at dusk, come back, blow a whistle, and the buffalo all file back on the truck. Sleep in a barn overnight.
Jordan just looked at me, wondering how he ended up with me.

Onto the sulfur mud springs.
Nice. Bubble, bubble. Gurgle, gurgle.

Another stop light in the middle of no where. At least this one had actual workers, doing something.

This was Jordan's favorite part of the trip. After enjoying the hot springs the previous day, I couldn't wait to find another spring. We ventured to the Madison Junction campsite. Big signs said you had to register to drive through and Jordan pointed to them as I drove by. My guidebook said to go to a certain campsite, park at the bathroom, and find a small trail. We found it and then found the scene above.

You can see how the water was bubbling.

This one too, That little section in front of the river was hot, hot, hot, but certainly soakable. Several hikers passed us as they headed downstream to a more well known swimming hole. They didn't have my guidebook and I most certainly didn't share what they were passing.
I didn't make Jordan go swimming again. And a few miles down the road, he said, "Are we done with the hot spring hunting now?"
I closed my hot spring book, earmarked with several more spots.
"Yes, we are."

Onto a spot for lunch.Salmon jerky, elk sausage, Brie cheese, carrots, bananas, cinnamon bread spread with honey. Animal crackers. Wine for later.

We moved from the beautiful water to this -- the Geyser Basin.

Paint pots.

Reminded me of the blue in the Caribbean

And then, Old Faithful. Jordan and I sat there for 85 minutes waiting for it to go off. Just as it began to bubble, my camera died. Go figure. Jord covered me though. He got 21 pictures of it.
We drove away from the multitude of tourists and buses and back into the country. As we came to a rare intersection, I spotted a moose cow right by the road. As Jordan was teasing me that I didn't have a camera ready, we came upon all these cars parked on the road.

Had to stop, see what was going on.

Bear JamOur second grizzly of the day. Everybody was scrambling around to get good photos. Poor park rangers trying to keep people from standing on the bridge and getting run over. Some people running to get the shot. Crazy.

After a pleasant night at the Grant Village, a bison burger eaten in a restaurant right on the 141 mile around Yellowstone Lake, we headed out the next morning. Came across this group on a float trip.

As the Teton Range began to peak out at us through the haze, we came across a herd of elk. Due to bear activity, we couldn't walk further into the area.

Then incredible beauty rose before us, and we hit every roadside stop to take it in.

"Hey, we'll take your picture if you'll take ours."

Happened upon this church - The Chapel of the Transfiguration

I'm thinking I would have a hard time concentrating on the sermon in this incredible place.
A side note - two days before, we were driving through a small Wyoming town. Came across a church with a big white sign on the side. OPEN SUNDAYS.
Cracked us up.

On to Jackson - and lunch. A pesto calzone accompanied by a Teton Ale.

Our hotel room - The Anglers Inn

A walk about town. All the sidewalks are made of wood and Jordan's boots sounded cool against the wood. Kind of like the old westerns. Just needed a horse to leave at a trough.

Town Square

Dance Hall

Delphiniums. I so can't grow them at home.

The best part of the restaurant where we ate dinner. (Youngest son, Ian, was right. Don't eat Mexican in Wyoming.) Loved the artwork, though.

Next morning, we picked up the local paper and had breakfast. I took this photo as sometimes I look at my children and they remind of when they were a child. Same pose. Have seen this one many times.

Of course, payback is a bitch.

Had the best Eggs Benedict. Open all day. Would go back for dinner, but...

...it was time to get back to Jordan's ranch.

Anyone know what kind of animal this is hanging on the wall in his cabin?

While Jordan cooked me dinner, I sat on his front porch and

kibitzed with one of his friends.

Who told Jord's other friends to come by and say hello.

Next morning it was time to drive back to Denver and catch a flight home. I don't like goodbye's. I'm not very good at them. So I stole a line from my dad, who wasn't very good at them either.

"I'll see you sometime," I said to Jord as I honked and drove away.

Cruising Down the Road

2011-08-04T14:32:00.018-05:00

Too often travel, instead of broadening the mind, merely lengthens the
conversation.

Elizabeth Drew

Three hundred sixty-eight miles. 368 miles. Last week, after a plane ride to Denver, I had that many miles to drive to see middle son in his summer habitat. Sometimes, when I pause to ponder what I've planned for myself, I get a few extra thumps in my heartbeat. A 'what were you thinking?' thump.

I remind myself that often I drove 3000 miles, with three young boys in tow. (My husband flew in as he didn't have as much time off. Gave us more time with the grandparents and side trips.) But driving alone in the wilderness is something different for me. Adding to those tangled thoughts, if you recall, after the trip my husband and I took in the spring, I no longer want adventure. I want to rotiss, on a beach, with a book. For days.

Once I got behind the wheel and started driving, all those ridiculous thoughts went away.

But first, the night I arrived in Denver, I met with a gathered family for dinner at a favorite downtown restaurant.

I admired the lawn chairs in my brother's backyard. I want them.Come morning, I was on the road -- all the way to Lander, Wyoming and beyond. It had been some time since I'd been to Wyoming. In my earlier life, I'd never found Wyoming particularly pretty. (Of course, when I'd visited in times past, I hadn't yet been to West Texas.)

Travel at any age is certainly beneficial and eye opening, but just like re-reading a book read 20 or 30 years before, at 54 I hold a complete and different perspective.

On this adventure, I found wonder in the ever changing scenery. Around every curve the terrain reshaped from the size of the hill or mountain to the color of the soil, the plant life. I found it beautiful. Geology suddenly seemed a fascinating study.

A sight on the road was I, I'm certain. My right hand alternated between holding my little tape recorder to my lips and my camera out the window. (I lost my camera a few weeks ago and had to buy a new one. So you'll have to bear with me getting to know how to use it, one handed.)
I often went 15 minutes or more before a car came from the other direction. Later, listening to the tapes I made, I described the scenery as a different kind of no where. And then...

I came to a place on that empty highway where a car was stopped in front of me. I stopped, thinking they had a car problem or perhaps an animal on the road before them. But no, It was a stop light. Right out there in the middle of a different kind of no where. A stop light. A red stop light. I sat behind the car ahead for about ten minutes and all I could think of was the movie Blazing Saddles. You might recall the part where the bad guys came to a toll booth in the middle of the desert. The leader yelled out, "Someone go back to town and get a shitload of dimes."

Light turned green and after six hours of listening to NPR and singing loudly to old rock and roll on the radio, I drove into yet another new valley and there I found...

... my son.He had washed the sheets and cleaned the bathroom for mom's visit. Even did the dishes. As I sat on his front porch peering through the Aspen trees, it was most comforting to see him in his new habitat. (Side note for new readers - Jordan is working for the Nature Conservancy this summer on a 3000 acre ranch.)

I shared with Jord all my reading material and maps. He was so excited to be on a road trip with mom, once again.

Next day, we began our adventure. Didn't have a particular plan except a night scheduled in Yellowstone and one in Jackson Hole.
Jordan showed me Red Canyon Ranch, a 30000 acre ranch owned by the Nature Conservancy. A couple of his buddies work here.

Once again, the changing terrain fascinated me. I've been reading about hot springs in Wyoming and Montana for some time. The main character in my novel in progress has a rather sensuous encounter at a hot spring. I'd had difficulty picturing the scene in my head. No more.

The visit to the state park at Thermopolis satisfied that vision. We took in a 20 minute soak at the park's free pool. Very hot. Lots of people seeking a healing of their weary bones. Me included.

Our body aches healed in the warm waters, we drove on to Cody.
And our hotel.

Oh, wait.
This was our hotel.

While Jordan took a nap and enjoyed having WIFI and cable TV (not available in his cabin) I walked down the road to take in the Buffalo Bill Historical Center. Fascinating find - five museums in one. I was interested in the Plains Indian museum, but was most surprised to discover the western art museum showcasing the works of Charles Russell and Frederic Remington, among others.
The Yellowstone sections had displays explaining the geothermal activity as well as the varied wildlife. I took a few photos of the stuffed animals just in case we didn't see any real ones in Yellowstone.

That way we could say we saw wildlife even if we didn't.

Little did we know...

TO BE CONTINUED

Road Trip

2011-07-26T10:59:00.004-05:00

The road to success is dotted with many tempting parking places.

Author Unknown

Some of you may recall these photos of my middle son, Jordan. He spent the summer before college graduation interning on a ranch in south Texas, hand raising baby deer. As you can see, life with these babies was rather intimate.

When he graduated from college with a biology degree - fisheries and wildlife emphasis, he found a job working for an exotic deer ranch (where people pay to come hunt the deer.) He was to care for the 170 fawns due in the summer.

As his mom, I secretly knew he would not like this business aspect of raising wildlife. Suffice to say, by the time any of the fawns born in the wild came into his care, they were only moments from death. Other than tagging the new fawns, he spent most of his time building fences.

I didn't say, "I told you so." I say those words to my husband every chance I get, but I try not to say them to my kids. After two months on the job, Jordan moved home and began an employment search in the fisheries and wildlife field - for something on the conservation level instead of killing for sport. (So much for empty nest - he overlapped youngest brother headed off to college.)

He signed on doing the same thing as me - substitute teaching. At night, he painted the local YMCA. The subbing part was most interesting for when our paths crossed at the same school, I got to see my son as an adult. Watch how he conducted himself. Watched how the young girls would raise their hand and say, "Oh, Mr. Anderson, I have a question." When he'd walk over to their desk, they'd say, "Oh, I get it now," in sweet voices I never heard on my watch.

On those few days when I was the teacher in the back of the room working with some of the special students, I could only chuckle to myself. I understood why he rarely had trouble like I did in the substitute teaching world. After all, much more fun to mess with an old lady than a young, good looking man. As for the boys, well, he's 6'3". Bring it on.

In February, Jordan flew to Montana to attend a convention of the Society for Range Management. Since he didn't have money to rent a car while there -- or stay in the hotel where the convention was held -- he had to walk a mile to attend the job fair and smooze for a job in a bad market. Have you ever been to Montana in February?

In late April, Jordan landed a job with the Nature Conservancy in Wyoming. He would work to redesign wetland areas and organize a fish restocking plan. Although only a four month job, my husband I encouraged him to take it. When you're 23 and everything you own fits in your paid off Honda Civic, go for it. (Again, overlapped little brother coming home from college. Empty nest is a joke around my house.)

He has loved it up there. He lives in a little cabin beside a creek. The deer, elk and other wildlife don't sit in his arms, but they most certainly welcome him in the morning.

What's for breakfast, Jord?

I haven't been to Wyoming since I moved out of Salt Lake City 23 years ago. Guess where I'm going? My husband can't travel yet, but I told Jordan on the phone the other day - wash the sheets and clean your bathroom. Your mama's coming to visit.

(Taking my computer so I can try to keep up with my novel. Still writing each day. Yay!)

Signed, Sealed, Delivered - I'm Going Swimming

2011-07-22T14:34:00.002-05:00

Eighty percent of success is showing up.

Woody Allen

Friday - 1:39pm

In reference to my last post, so eloquently entitled Butt in Chair, please note that the photo presented here shows that particular chair pushed into its resting nook at the table. For you see, dear E.S. Carlson, I took on your challenge. I've written a new chapter in my novel in progress. (Six years in the making?) Look in your email inbox for you will find not only the next chapter, but an additional reworked 30 some previous pages leading up to it.

Alas, my heroine, dear Lily, is out of the wheat field in South Dakota and long past her panic attack. Still in South Dakota, but, oh, in such a different place.

This week I took a huge mess and pieced it back together. I spent Monday, Tuesday and half of Wednesday reacquainting myself with what I'd written over the past few years. Then I read all the journals of notes I'd taken, my character sketches and their long lists of conflicts. I reviewed some of my research and resource books.

I spent Wednesday reorganizing what I wanted to keep of the writing, throwing out some 20,000 words which held scenes that no longer will occur in my story, along with what I first thought would be the ending.

In the words of the most talented Anne Lamott in her book Bird by Bird - I'm 36,000 words into a very "shitty first draft." (If you haven't read Bird by Bird, I highly recommend it - even if you are not a writer.)

Even though I'm no longer certain where my protagonist Lily will end up, I do know it will be a most interesting ride. And I'm so glad to be back with her on that horse, er, Airstream trailer.

Even better, I know what I will write tomorrow. And the next day. My goal for the remainder of the summer, except for a couple of side trips, is to plow through all the way to the end so that I can spend next school year rewriting and rewriting and...

Thank you, ES, for the ultimatum and thank you to my blogging friends, new and old, for your support. Happy am I. I put much more pressure on myself when I'm alone, focused, challenged. Of course, things have certainly calmed down in my summer, which helps.

Cheers to my family who has left me to myself at the lake this week. (Hope you guys got the laundry done, watered my plants, went to the grocery store, fed the cat... yes, we have a cat.)

Dear Family,
Looking forward to seeing you this weekend.
Bring food and toilet paper.
Love, Mom and wife

Up to me to keep it going, but right now, I'm off to float for the rest of the day.

P.S. Can you believe it? I just sent ES that email and before I've finished this post she has already sent me her next set of pages. That woman is a slave driver. Chop, chop.

Butt in Chair

2011-07-18T10:08:00.008-05:00

There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.

Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith

Once upon a time I was a writer. Not one that made millions off a bestseller as that is such a fluke of nature, unless you're a star or cute politician. No, I was someone who made daily journal entries and did timed writings in a big blank book. I took classes on the craft of writing. I practiced. I joined a writing group. I wrote paragraphs. Essays. Short stories. I wrote a novel. Worked hard. Took it through many, many drafts.

I volunteered at the Writer's League of Texas. Worked on their Programs and Services committee. Ran the annual manuscript contest. Read 100's of first chapters from anxious writers, eager to to discover how their work might fare in an open venue. I studied query letters and wrote a good one which received great response. Sent my book out to 52 agents, 20 of whom replied with a standard rejection letter. The other 32 were kind enough to type a rejection letter addressed to me or in very special cases, a handwritten note telling me my book wasn't for them. I felt pretty good about my rejections.

In the meantime, I sent out my essays and short stories - won some contests, had a few published. Helped spearhead the publication of a book of women's stories and poetry and served as coeditor. In that process I learned along with several other women how to write a book proposal, get an ISBN number, beg authors for blurbs, and ask the lovely Liz Carpenter (may she rest in peace) for a foreword. The generosity of writers is most heartwarming.

When the book was finally in hand, we organized readings at book stores and literary organizations. Coffee shops. Sold books out of our trunks. Donated all the proceeds to NAMI - The National Alliance on Mental Illness. One of the authors in our book had succumbed to depression and we wanted to honor her memory by choosing a worthy charity.

All those aspects of the writing life filled my days when I wasn't being a full-time housewife, civic do gooder, and mother. Having learned tremendously from the rejections of my first novel, I took a few more in depth writing classes and began a second novel. One hundred pages in, I fearfully found work outside of the home due to business not going well in my husband's line of work. The recession sent me back into the workplace, with old, worthless or non-existent credentials. My writing dwindled to crying into the pages of my journal and an occasional timed writing. I edited/critiqued work for others and did some pro bono editing for a few publications. Other than that, my writing mind took on other junkets.

Come to today. My dear friend, ES Carlson, has issued an ultimatum. Emails me that she will no longer send me any of her work to critique unless I send her a new chapter from my novel in progress. A new chapter - due Friday. Bitch.

I just blew the dust off the pages I have. I'll let you know if I succeed.

Summer Slow Down

2011-07-12T11:23:00.006-05:00

Deep summer is when laziness finds respectability.

Sam Keen

The other day a friend of mine said, "Seems like summer is coming to an end."

No, I cried out. I'm thinking it just began. After the whirlwind of spring around my house, this past week felt like the first breath of summer's air.

I've spent the time reading, reading, and reading. Swept the floor, read a chapter. Watered the plants, read a chapter. Pulled all the pieces of my WIP novel out of its basket and organized it on the table, read a chapter.

Somewhere along the line, I've lost my camera and failed at a fresh squeezed vegetable/fruit diet with my youngest son. Hey, we made it through breakfast and lunch. But, last night, looking at the lovely green glass of goodness we'd prepared for dinner, we took little time deciding to pour it back in the pitcher. (Moms have to be supportive, you know.)

Anyway, here are some photos I took (before I lost my camera) of my bougainvilleas and some other moments from the summer.

Middle son trying out his new clothes for a new wildlife job in Wyoming.Prepping the crawdads.A summer feast.A crowd in the kitchen.
(Please note the placement of my granddog's head.)

New friends in our backyard.
Hope you're finding some lazy moments in your summer.

Can You Babysit Your Dad? I'm Going to Happy Hour

2011-06-29T10:42:00.008-05:00

Pleasure is the bait of sin.
Plato

Let's face it. I can only be good for so long.

After four days in the hospital tending my husband after hip replacement surgery, followed by six days at home with only a grocery store and a BandAid run added to my 'oh, there is so a reason I wasn't a nurse' role, I decided to see a movie. Like in a movie theater movie. Called a couple of friends who had the day off.

True to my usual twisted menu of movie/TV watching, Bridesmaids (click to see the trailer) didn't disappoint. I can't tell you too much about it other than I'm glad none of my sons sat with me while I busted my gut laughing. The story was an old one, but the delivery and writing, very funny. Just what I needed.

After the movie, my friends and I sat in the lobby and talked of the day's errands ahead: Linda - grocery store, bank and Lisa had a return and a $5 coupon for something free at Kohl's burning a hole in her pocket. I, of course, had to return to the painkiller infused, over-achieving hip replacement recoverer, lovingly guarded by my 19-year-old son during my two hour escape.

I finally said, "Lets just go get a drink."

"It's 2:00," Lisa said.

"Close enough."

I called youngest son. "Can you babysit your dad a little longer? I have to go to Happy Hour."

Funny how life evolves.

Encouraged by the comic opera in the movie, I decided to forgo my usual glass of wine and ordered a Pomegranate Cosmopolitan. I'd never had one. I was thinking martini = a buzz. Should have ordered a shot of tequila. All I got was a martini glass filled with Kool-Aid and a too sweet toothache. But, gotta try everything once.

An hour later, resuscitated by a change of scenery and conversation with girlfriends, I paid off youngest son and went back to the old boy and his walker. Now, eight days later, if I could only educate him on carpal tunnel syndrome surgery required from thumbing the channel changer on the remote control EVERY 30 F------- SECONDS and the cost of replacing the window said remote will fly through when I get my hands on it, I promise I'll be really good.

What's On Your Summer Reading List?

2011-06-18T13:40:00.004-05:00

Always read something that will make you look good if you die in the middle of it.

P.J. O'Rourke

What's on your book list for summer? I'm compiling my pile and hope you'll share yours also. I'm also adding a few titles written by some friends of mine.

My Summer Stack:

The Moonflower Vine - Jetta Carleton
A Visit From the Goon Squad - Jennifer Egan
The Lake Shore Limited - Sue Miller
The Widows of Eastwick - John Updike
Beloved - Toni Morrison
Why New Orleans Matters - Tom Piazza
As I Lay Dying - William Faulkner
Divisadero - Micahel Ondaatje
The Whole World Over - Julia Glass
The Golden Notebook - Doris Lessing

(Not to mention that there are 30 more books on my To Be Read shelf and that I'll probably hit the library when nothing pops out at me on any given day.)

Here are a few I recommend written by some of my author friends.

If You Can't Stand the Heat - Robin Allen
A Cozy Mystery Culinary Romp

I, too, have suffered in the garden - Jennifer Hritz
Character driven delight

Circular Breathing - Meditations from a Musical Life - Ann McCutcheon
Essays from an incredible writing teacher
Tender Graces - Kathryn Magendie
Women's literary fiction

Click on the books to find their Amazon page. As you can see, I haven't quite mastered the proper download of the covers. Why is it that some days you can't remember what you've done in the past? Perhaps sometimes a good thing.

So, what's on your list for the summer?

Hip Hop

2011-06-14T23:21:00.003-05:00

After two days in the hospital, I took a turn for the nurse.

W.C. Fields

I intended a post of summer reading choices. Slight delay. Spending my days at the local hospital - my husband had his hip replaced.

Thought I might get my house cleaned while he's in the hospital's care. Read a few books. Write a novel. Not happening. Seems these days patients need someone other than hospital staff to make certain they have what they need. (Nurses - forgive me. Obvious you are short staffed. Administrators?)

Meanwhile, remember the guy who doesn't sit well on vacation?

Any ideas on what to do with him for the next three weeks?

Eyes Opened Wide

2011-06-02T10:03:00.011-05:00

For each new morning with its light,

For rest and shelter of the night,
For health and food, for love and friends,
For everything Thy goodness sends.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

When I was 18, it never occurred to me I'd be old. That some day my skin might become mottled with tiny moles or that I'd have white hairs on my chin.

I drove in snow storms without fear, did worm turns with loose abandon as I skied down a steep mountain, and never gave much thought to the fragility of life.

Cut to present day. Remember the movie Apollo 13, when everyone waited over three minutes for that small space capsule to make it through the fiery re-entry into the earth's atmosphere? I liken it to a few weeks ago and the twenty minutes I sat with anxious abandon while a tornado engulfed Tuscaloosa, Alabama - my youngest son in its path.

My son had called a few moments before, to tell me a tornado was five minutes away from his university. Hide. That was all that went through my mind while I told him to get to a stairwell. I don't believe he thought like me as the excitement in his voice didn't reflect fear. The line went dead, the ugly bleat of an endless busy signal replacing his voice as I tried to get him back.

A quick turn to the Weather Channel provided a radar view of the hook of the storm, the announcers saying in quiet voices that the immense, powerful storm was at that moment overtaking the city of Tuscaloosa and the University of Alabama. They added, we can only pray for these people. Silence.

I prayed.

Twenty minutes later, my phone rang. Youngest son saying it took him a while to get through. That he saw the tornado out his window. "You saw it?" I cried. "You weren't hiding?"

"You have a chance to see that? Wouldn't you?" he said.

No, I thought. Not at my age. I would have my head between my legs, kissing my ass goodbye.

There lies the power of youth verses the knowledge (or cynicism) of age. Settled by the sound of his voice, I used my mother voice to instruct him not to go outside, that first reports indicated total disaster. Danger.

"Okay, mom."

Mothers of three sons know what that means. And in my youth, I would have done the same. To take that walk and see the downed trees, the broken windows. That's what my son saw before he walked over the next hill and saw this.

Just like that, the excitement of the storm replaced with the aimless wandering of those lost and still alive amid the devastation. With eyes wide open, the endless scenes now slammed into his mind like the tornado that invaded in his very own backyard.

Students able to get home were told to do so. Two nights later when my son came through the garage door after a twelve hour drive, I saw a youthful spirit dulled by the reality of the previous 48 hours. The invincibility of youth now tinged with vulnerability. The buzz of the rightafter muddied by the lack of power, food, water and lost faces.

He stared at the TV and computer screens that repeated the videos of the storm and its aftermath he'd not been privy to before. This bothered him even more. That even though he had been present, just two blocks from the fringe of the massive destruction, the "seeing" on the screen wrought an even wider opening of his eyes.

"Tell me what you're thinking," I asked a few days later.

"It won't be fixed by the time I graduate," he said.

No, some of it will never be fixed. And I think it might take some time for his thoughts to collect and settle.

There are many in Tuscaloosa, Joplin, Minnesota, Oklahoma, Massachusetts and throughout the US that are not as fortunate to have their son home safely. As the rebuilding, resettling, and the search for a new norm begins, please remember those that will never be fixed completely.

http://alabamapossible.org/2011/04/tornado-relief-how-you-can-help/

ttp://blog.salvationarmyusa.org/?p=6136

http://american.redcross.org/site/PageServer?pagename=ntld_southern_tornadoes

http://yourlife.usatoday.com/mind-soul/doing-good/kindness/post/2011/05/how-to-help-victims-of-the-missouri-tornado/171501/1

Do You Ever....

2011-05-18T22:22:00.004-05:00

Do you ever get so far behind, you don't know where to begin?

My last blog post was April 22.

I need to just jump in.

Advice is what we ask for when we already know the answer but wish we didn't.
Erica Jong, How to Save Your Own Life, 1977

Sometimes You Have to Do That

2011-04-22T12:03:00.017-05:00

Marriage is an alliance entered into by a man who can't sleep with the window shut, and a woman who can't sleep with the window open.

George Bernard Shaw

I recently began a story of a trip my husband and I took to Turks and Caicos in March. It was a celebration launch of a new life together as Empty Nesters (even though some of them are still home.) A "loll and bask" on the beach for rest. No movement, just relaxation. Alas, with my husband, little time to laze exists. See here to catch up.

Meanwhile, back at the beach...

After two days of adventure and bumping along dirt roads, I had hopes I could return to the beach outside my motel room door for a day's rest. I knew better. The evening before, we had met a retired couple from Cleveland. While her husband wandered off to snorkel, walk, or whatever, she laid on the beach with her carton of books declaring that for the next three weeks, she was there to read and "rotiss." Her husband could do whatever he wanted.

As I shared my woes of yet another adventure ahead, she nodded, said she'd done that for years. "That sometimes you just have to do that."

I looked at her with envy, wondering if I could leap ahead and join the ranks of the rotisserie vacationers. Then she looked at me and winked. "I don't do that crap anymore. I suggest getting yours trained earlier."

Wish I'd thought of that two days before.

Day Three of Relaxing Vacation brought us to my next chariot. Destination? North and Middle Caicos - reachable only by boat.

I relaxed and enjoyed the ride. A reef surrounds the islands so the ocean is rather calm, rendering a smooth ride through waters like this...

and this...

But I should have known there'd be a catch.

We walked up the plank after landing and passed $75 cash to a Belonger who pointed to a Toyota Corolla with beat to death tires and 175,000 miles. He handed us a map and said to leave the car with the keys in it when we came back to catch the boat. Then he pointed, "Go to the end of this dirt road, take a right on the next dirt road and then a left. That's the main road."
Which was, guess what, another dirt road.

I would have taken photos of the harrier roads, but I was too busy trying to control my heartbeat. That and throw back out the window the debris from the flora that came through as we weaved around craters. (Note to the next traveler - call a few days ahead and reserve a jeep!)

Notice guy below - in hog heaven.

The fun began. Of course we drove, and drove, and drove. Middle Caicos has 200 residents, but the only people we saw were the occasional car filled with a couple or small group from the boat we rode in on. We'd wave.

A shipwrecked Toyota Corolla

I'm not being fair, there were portions of the road that had blacktop. And that road that connects North to Middle Caicos? Yes, there is a road or was a road, before the hurricane took it out a few years back. But no matter, we had a Toyota Corolla with 175,000 miles on it and as long as we didn't go over 5 miles an hour, no problem.

The first beach was easy to find, sort of.

But, you know, can't stay in one place too long. Back in the car and after a few hours of this road and that, I wanted to shoot myself. As beautiful as the place was, I wanted out of the car. No more bumpy roads. I was hungry. I was out of patience. When we followed a dirt road that had a sign that said "To Beach" and we were still on the dirt road after 20 minutes, no beach in site, I spoke.

"I've had enough. I'm done. Take me back the other way."

(Sometimes I think men, or my husband at least, need someone else to give in. They might want to give in, maybe even before the other, but can't until someone else says it.)

My husband's response? "Had enough adventure, have you?" He immediately turned around and headed back across the islands. I choose to believe he shared my pain. On the long ride back to the boat landing, we came across some lovely things like these flamingos.

We turned a corner on a dirt road and came across this incredible restaurant where we ate a lobster sandwich and had warm bread pudding, right out of the oven.
We had two of the local beers and the full attention of the waiter and owner. We were the only ones there.
Of course, we did have to find one more dirt road
Please note even though that looks like a two-lane, it is one, with big rocks in that middle section. I had no idea what we would do if we came across a vehicle coming from the other direction. The gods were with us -- we didn't.

And we found this gorgeous place...

Three Mary Cays

before getting back on the road to catch the boat back to Providenciales.

At days end, we gathered under a shelter to await the arrival of the return boat. Waiting also were several other dusty, travel worn faces. Rejuvenated by the fact that I had declared myself done with adventures and that on the morrow would rotiss in front of our motel and not move, I greeted the weary explorers with a new found zest. "How was everyone's day on the beaten path?" The travel worn group of Canadians and French perked up a bit.

I could tell the difference between those that led the show, like my husband, and those that had chugged along, like myself. I wanted to take their names so I could hook my husband up with the leaders on future trips.

While watching the sun set, we shared tales of what we'd found, or didn't find.

Next day, here I was. Bob had taken the car to find a snorkel place down the road. I'll be damned if only an hour later, I heard the chink of ice in a cooler as it landed beside my chair. Guess who? The perky adventurer found his way back, complete with a six pack of beer. Spent the afternoon sitting next to me. Go figure.

Even though this was a trip to launch our empty nest life together, I'm thinking we're older now. We both have different ideas on how we want to spend our time. Next vacation, like five years from now, I might look into organizing a relaxation trip with about four other people. Surely out of that cluster someone will want to tour dirt roads with Bob.

And I will rotiss.

Then Followed that Beautiful Season

2011-04-19T06:46:00.009-05:00

Then followed that beautiful season... Summer....
Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape
Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Twenty-Eight More School Days...

...til summer.
Can't wait.

Can We Bring Our Friends?

2011-04-05T23:35:00.003-05:00

I soon realized that no journey carries one far unless, as it extends into the world around us, it goes an equal distance into the world within.

Lillian Smith

I now understand why married people travel in groups. In fact, I'm thinking that three couples or a group of six might be ideal. Why?

When researching a destination for this celebration retreat with my husband, I searched far and wide for the perfect journey to fit my burned out parent frame of mind. I knew I didn't want to travel as we usually do, wandering museums and traveling from city to city, guidebook in hand. I was tired and wanted a trip where I sat on my butt and read books and magazines, with beautiful water in front of me where I could take a dip, snorkel, maybe, then nestle back into the sand and read some more. I didn't want a lot of fancy people, cruise ships, shopping, or noisy stuff (kids) around me.

Relaxation. No adventure. No guts/mind required.

I discussed this at length with my husband. He doesn't sit well (or hear me when I talk) so when I suggested Turks and Caicos, known for its beautiful beaches and not much else, I tried to make sure he understood the landscape. He agreed this port of call sounded good. He was tired, too.

Turks and Caicos, part of the British West Indies, is south of the Bahamas, east of Cuba and north of Hispaniola. The trip is an easy two hour jaunt from Atlanta, 2 1/2 hours from New York City. Many Canadians, French, German, Americans, and English frequent the islands.

One of the least developed group of islands in the Caribbean, Grand Turk welcomes cruise ships, but Providenciales, boasts the 12 mile long Grace Bay Beach, good restaurants right on the waterfront, and no shopping or crowds. Perfect. No need to do anything but hang out at the beach during the day and walk through the starlit sky to eat dinner at night. Take an occasional trip to the grocery store to purchase Cheetos, chips/dip and picnic lunch/dinner items. Beer.

I reiterated the details of the trip and asked my husband several times: Will you be content to sit on beaches each day and spend our days splayed out on top of the sand?

He said it sounded perfect.

So, fast forward. Here he is. Sitting on the beach in front of our great hotel, the 28 room Sibonne'. Looks pretty content, right?

Good thing I caught this moment in my camera lens. Might be one of the few moments he simply sat there.

Like I said, he doesn't sit well. So after the first day and a half, I was one book into my stack and reaching for another. He had already roamed 8 of the 12 miles of beach in front of us. That next morning, while I drank my coffee on the beach and set up for the day, he joined me and said how he'd studied the guidebook and had found a beach on the other side of the island.

What? This spot was working for me. I had this view three steps outside our hotel room.

And a 45 second stroll through here...

...to get here.

But, all good things...

Change.

Into our little rental car we loaded our cooler, floats and snorkel equipment. My husband handed me the map.

Now I don't know how it is where you live, but where I'm from maps mark things like interstate highways, state highways, main thoroughfares and side streets. Dirt roads don't make the cut. In Turks and Caicos, with very few exceptions, dirt roads are the state highways, main thoroughfares and side streets. Also, being a British Commonwealth, you drive on the opposite side of the road. (Every time we turned a corner, I had to remind my husband, "Get on the left.") Stress.

I studied the map and we embarked on our search for Sapodilla Beach, or rather the small wooden sign that led to it. Nestled at the end of a dirt bike trail, where we dodged craters the size of nuclear bomb sites in our Daihatsu with dime-sized wheels and six inch ground clearance, we discovered the largest natural kiddie pool I'd ever seen. Three feet deep, the clearest turquoise water one can imagine. Perfect. I set myself up in my float and with sun and sunscreen on my face, breathed deeply to acquire a meditative state.

Halfway through my second beer, my husband walked out to my float. "Time to go," he said.

"What?"

"We've been here. Time to move on."

"But I want another beer," I plead.

"They're all gone."

"But there were six."

I then come to find out he's also been for a walk and scouted out an entire 25 square mile area.

I packed up, reminding myself it is his vacation, too. We headed back down the bumpy road, into the village, and out into the countryside in search of Da Conch Shack. Bolstered out of my comfort zone and clinging to a two beer buzz, I'm now the navigator on roads with names known only to the natives - the Belongers. We dodged pot holes big enough to swallow an elephant on "paved" roads and drove what seemed like endless miles past above ground cemeteries and cinder block homes painted delightful colors until we came across a restaurant situated five feet from the beach. And they had rum punch. Delicious conch salad. I adapted.

After a trip to the local grocery store, I got a few moments to rest on the beach, watch the sunset and study the stars before an early sleep.

The next day, car got loaded again. My tour guide informed me we were headed to Malcolm's Beach. This time I knew the way to the gravel road because we passed it while wandering the day before. This road, the only road that reaches the east side of the island (on my map,) is an endless drive down yet another rut-filled dirt road. Driving our Daihatsu, we traveled 5-10 miles per hour. However, the prize at the end of the line was indeed beautiful. Remember this beach from my last post? All to ourselves.

We did have to share with this lone avian adventurer.

My husband snorkeled (first photo) and took a walk. As I cracked my second beer and turned the page of my book...

... the man I married long ago stood above me. "Let's go."

This is when it dawned on me, that this is why couples travel with others. So those with like minds can hang out together and people like my husband will have a pool of poor souls to drag on his adventures. That for him, the relaxation part comes from the adventure and unknown. And once he's conquers the quest, he's ready to roll and find another one. Unlike me, who in my older age conquers reluctantly and then quests to sit on my ass.

With that revelation, I still didn't anticipate that the next day would provide an opportunity for me to recall the dirt roads of these two days...

and rename them The Autobahns.

To be continued...

Midlife Jobhunter Decides Future

2011-03-29T11:18:00.002-05:00

Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.

Confucius

A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I took a trip to celebrate getting all three of our sons to 18 without having to embrace any surprise grandchildren or post any bail. Little did I know that while celebrating, I'd also discover my calling.

Yes, this Midlife Jobhunter has decided what she wants to be when she grows up - a professional vacationer. I have no idea why I didn't think of it sooner. I'm so good at recess. I can even prove it.

See how well I sit at this table in an open window restaurant drinking my wine. I'm so happy.

And my toes - look how good they look after a wave swishes over them.

Look how comfortable I am on this beach. I have my cooler, my float, my hat, my book (although I must say this wasn't the best time to lend my only smut book to the Fragrant Liar. Those I brought were much too tame for vacation alone with my husband. )

Who, by the way, never said a word that even though I'd hauled my snorkel gear all that way, only used it for about ten minutes.

Besides, it was much more fun to look at views like this..

and this...

Yup! I think this is gonna work for me.

2011-03-10T06:40:00.001-06:00

Why do we love the sea? It is because it has some potent power to make us think things we like to think.

Robert Henri

I'm thinking.

Progress on My List?

2011-03-05T14:44:00.001-06:00

Tomatoes purchased and planted,

toes painted.

Excited for vacation. Will figure out the rest while lounging - maybe.

Those that say you can't take it with you never saw a car packed for a vacation trip.
Author Unknown

Coming Up For Sun

2011-02-22T12:24:00.006-06:00

Often the hands will solve a mystery that the intellect has struggled with in vain.

Carl G. Jung

In my late 20's, my husband and I lived in Salt Lake City, Utah. For one year, two months and five days. Yes, it wasn't my favorite place to live. Beautiful, though. Recreational haven summer and winter and my oldest son was born there, but not quite my cup of tea for various reasons that are unimportant to this tale.

For Salt Lake's role in this post is to merely provide a metaphor utilizing their temperature inversion that occurs each winter. That time of year when the ban goes up on wood burning fireplaces and the fog moved in. For months one would awake not only to not see across the street, but no view past the front door as well.

I worked for an oil and gas company and had finally attained an office with a window. Excited at the prospect of having my own place and view, I had to wait months for the air to clear and the view of the Salt Palace across the street to come into focus. Living in this blur became normal, I suppose. Wasn't like you arose each day, noses pushed to the window in anticipation of some one's arrival or the first snowflakes of winter. For you knew out there was just the norm. Life in the fog.

On weekends, my husband and I would drive the 20 miles up Little Cottonwood Canyon to ski at Alta or Snowbird. As we began our ascent up the mountain, the fog abated and above the black cloud cloaking our entire city, the sun shone intensely. I'd ride the ski lift to the top of the mountain and see all the way down to the hidden valley, as though a tent cover kept it isolated from the rest of the world. Like Truman's world in The Truman Show. (Probably some metaphor for my stint in Salt Lake in that as well, but another time.)

If we flew to Denver to visit family during the inversions, the return trip to Salt Lake took longer than scheduled. Often we circled above the city, waiting for a break in the clouds so the plane could dip into the abyss and land safely.

I doubt I need to tell you that happiness was Salt Lake City in my rear view mirror. Although 24 years have passed, seems I've returned to living in that fog most of this past year. Only this time the visual effects of Salt Lakes' inversion coveted my brain.

Time has offered a chance for the mist to begin its evaporation process. Lately, I often yearn for a schedule. Substitute teaching doesn't quite provide that as other than Thursdays and Fridays, I'm never certain what days I might work. Or when I may fall into a longer gig for a teacher with a sick child. Most of my sub work is based on request by the teachers, so simply saying I will work these three days and do such and such on the others is not a viable choice right now.

However, the work has provided an easy escape while biding this passage of time. There is no homework so my day is done when the school bell rings. With my youngest son gone, I don't have to keep my energy up to attend baseball games or school events. I can sink into my chair at home and watch Jeopardy and then decide what frozen entree we will eat for dinner.

I do feel that with the promise of spring, the haze is beginning to lessen. I feel certain things awakening in my brain that I haven't felt in some time -- a yearning to put my pen in hand and write something. Anything. My half finished novel has begun a slow chug in my thoughts. Poor Lily, my main character that has been stuck in a wheat field in South Dakota suffering a panic attack most certainly deserves a change of scenery.

For whatever reason, perhaps time is what it takes to find a clearing for oneself when the fogs of life brings a burdensome weight. As this fog dissipates, the heaviness seems to lessen also. I see a few rays of sun seeping through the clouds.

Provides hope in this search for new beginnings. I'm starting a list--a list of things I want to do in my life. Nothing too grand, at first.

1. Buy tomato plants
2. Sign up for a writing conference this summer
3. Make a list of all the places I want to visit in my lifetime
4. Go get a pedicure
5. Get excited about the vacation coming up with my husband. Our celebration of getting all three sons to 18 and college, without any pregnancies or jail time.

Seems a good start. A fairly easy step to fumble my way into the sunshine.

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

2011-02-06T09:37:00.012-06:00

Speed, strength, and the inability to register pain immediately.
Reggie Williams, when asked his greatest strengths as a football player

A long awaited Sunday has arrived. The Green Bay Packers play in the Super Bowl today. Now I know that many of you could truly give a crap about that, but this is the big time at my house.

As many of you know, my parents moved to Green Bay 30 some years ago. I drove my kids up north every summer to stay for a few weeks and most often we hit the summer training camp for the Packers. We'd spend hours at Lambeau Field, watching the players.

During Packer Camp, the players walk with the kids, ride their bikes, and sign endless autographs. Bleachers are set up beside the outdoor practice field and rarely a seat opens. Lots of standing and through the years we watched the likes of Brett Favre, Aaron Rodgers, Reggie White, Sterling Sharpe, Robert Brooks, Gilbert Brown, James Lofton, Ty Detmer, William Henderson, and a mass of other men that took the time to thrill my young boys.

I remember many a moment where a very large player would reach over the crowd of adults or older kids to take up my young son's football to pen his name. I remember when Robert Brooks was engulfed in a sea of supporters shouting his name for an autograph. My oldest, Jacob, said, "Mr. Brooks, may I have your autograph?" The player stopped and reached back and signed Jacob's Wheaties box.

Perhaps one of the most memorable signings occured with a 5 year old Jordan, now 22. After Ty Detmer handed him back his autograph book, Jordan burst into tears. My mom and I gathered around him, worried as to the problem. "They're all writing in cursive," Jordan cried.

Downstairs at the lake house, youngest son Ian put together a collection of Packer memorabilia. Jerseys, newspaper clippings my mom sent him. The signed footballs and helmets. When he lived at home, each weekend he'd put the Packer banner next to the team they played that week. If it wasn't going well, he'd put the other team's banner into a closet and shut the door.

Today, we have a big pot of beer brats cooking.

Expecting a crowd of 10. Jacob's searching Austin for cheese curds. We've got potato chips and French Onion dip. Potato skins. Bob and I are deciding which jersey we'll pull off the wall to support the team.

Two things will be missing in this quest for Super Bowl greatness - Jordan and Ian. Jordan's up in Montana attending a job fair and that Ian boy, the creator of our basement decorum, is at the University of Alabama. Doesn't seem right that he can't be here with us today, but we plan to Skype him in for a little bit of time. Frequent calls to my mom in Green Bay and my brother, Jordan, in Sheboygan will have the phone lines rattling.

You are hereby welcomed to The Texas Green Bay Hall of Fame.
(We have no idea how that speed sign got there.)

To all you Steeler fans out there, Sorry. Just gotta believe about the Pack. Come join us in the Texas Packer Hall of Fame.

Happy Super Bowl Sunday everybody.

What Color Is Your Car?

2011-01-20T16:31:00.013-06:00

The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.

Dorothy Parker

Next time you're sitting at a stop light, notice the cars around you. How many different colors do you see?

I know what I see. A sea of white, black, silver, gray, beige. An occasional red. Maybe a blue one here and there. Used to be black, white, brown, gray, and silver weren't even colors. The color wheel I remember had blue, yellow, red, green, purple, orange.

Are our cars a sign of how boring we've become? Sort of like how boring this post is?

Often when my husband and I are driving somewhere, he'll ask what I think of some car he sees on the road. I don't know why he does this, because cars really don't do a lot for me. (Air conditioning, heat, radio, starts--works for me. I can't tell the difference between a Cadillac and a Datsun. And a truck is a truck.)

I never display much enthusiasm in my reply, hoping he'll discuss something more interesting to me. Surely he knows what those things might be.

His next line? "What do you think of that new Z2000375A?"

"Coupe or sedan?" I reply, and in my mind bang my head against the dashboard.

So goes our exciting rides in the car. Sort of like when he's flipping channels between American Chopper, some war show on the history channel, and some obscure football game between Nimrod College and Shinola State. He'll make a comment and I'll look up from my book and nod my head. I think he truly believes I'm following the changing of the channels every 30 seconds. That I enjoy watching snippets of all those shows, too.

Okay, so I was talking about boring colors and boring posts.

I have six drafts of posts sitting in my Post queue. I have topics on minivans, children's play, my cat coming to the lake for the first time, night owls, creativity, jobs. Each of those has notes on it with a worthwhile list of ideas to make a fine essay. Do I have interest in writing any of them this week? No.

Perhaps it is a reflection of my personality at the moment. Perhaps it is the time of year and everything outside is brown, so I feel brown, too. Perhaps, perhaps.

I think I'll go get in my silver car and go to the grocery store. Nothing mundane and boring about that. I'll even, like normal, forget where I parked and search for my car in the sea of boring color in the lot.

Oh, wait. Sometimes there is a rainbow. The produce section. Surely I can find some real color there. I'm off!

Onward to the New Year

2011-01-12T13:49:00.005-06:00

For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.

T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"

My oldest son took the above photo down at Zilker Park in Austin. The city has put up this tree of lights for as long as we've lived here, probably longer. When my kids were little, my husband and I would take them down to the park and we'd stand underneath and twirl.

When my son sent this photo he took this past Christmas season, I recalled those nights of twirling with my little boys. Those recollections brought me joy and I closed my eyes and whirled in my mind, the events of the past year swirling with me. After a year of extreme highs and lows, I welcome the new year in hope of a steadier stream of events.

Alas, rather than further lament over how to write my first post of the year, I've decided to "butt in chair" and type away. If this lands all over the place, so it goes. The new year has arrived; I'm happy about it.

Of course, I don't know if life this year will accommodate a level stream, but I can hope.

This morning, I have the house to myself. No teaching job today. Middle son and husband off at work. Youngest son safely ensconced in his dorm room at the University of Alabama after sliding in between the South's snow storm and freezing cold. He left yesterday morning at 5:30 taking the southern route through Baton Rouge and arrived in Tuscaloosa in 12 hours. Proud of that boy doing that all by himself.

Seems odd to have him gone again although I didn't see him much while home. He worked landscape and made his money for books and expenses this next semester. Had a good lesson on how if he were to depend on that income to live, he'd have to give up certain things like electricity, entertainment, and food. (Great fodder for school success.)

Middle son currently living at home substitute teaching in the day and painting the YMCA at night. Decided that working on a for profit trophy deer hunting ranch argued with his sense of wildlife preservation and conservation. Eagerly pursuing a wildlife job anywhere in the country, but employed in the meantime.

Still his presence here means my husband and I are not empty nesters. That transition has been put on the back burner. We still can't run around naked.

But today, no one is home and I won't tell you what I'm wearing. Instead, I'll begin my first blog of this wonderful new year with some photos from our holiday. Get this first one going and hopefully the ideas and words for getting back on track will arrive.

The Christmas card I sent this year, ala A Christmas Story. I want that lamp.
The other card I sent.
One of my favorites that I received.
The mushroom crab cakes I made up. No recipe, but to die for.
My granddog getting intimate with our splurge for dinner.
The dinner table filled with Swedish meatballs and potato sausage, lefsa, cucumber salad, and the lobster. A white dinner.
Me with the kids. Husband had to take the picture.
Chelsea's new socks.

Happy New Year everybody. I'd like to share my list for the new year, but, I don't have one. However, do cheer for the Green Bay Packers Saturday night. Go Pack!

May You Have...

2010-12-24T11:56:00.005-06:00

May you have the gladness of Christmas which is hope;
The spirit of Christmas which is peace;
The Heart of Christmas which is love.

Ada V Hendricks

From my trees to yours,
Merry Christmas
(Thank you to all the elves who put these trees together for me.)

On the Hunt for a Tree

2010-12-11T12:26:00.004-06:00

Nostalgia is like a grammar lesson: you find the present tense, but the past perfect!

Owens Lee Pomeroy

Tis the time of year to get Christmas up in the house. Before us, the annual trek out to the tree farm, family in tow. Riding the haycart out to the fields, wandering the aisles of growing firs. "How about this one?" "Hey! Come see this one." and the inevitable "Just pick one for cripe's sake."

Then a stop at a small town BBQ joint before returning home to open the numerous boxes from the attic accompanied by exclamations of "Oh, isn't this fun?" and "Remember when you made this? When you were two?" "Put on some Christmas carols" followed by rearranging the furniture, getting the tree straight, the lights and ornaments placed. All the remaining decorations spread throughout the house and Bingo, the house transformed into an enchanted winter wonderland, Christmas on the horizon.

Back in the 70's when I met my husband and visited his house at Christmas, I was appalled to discover a tree similar to this in his parent's living room -

What kind of people would have THAT for a tree? Who didn't endure the family hunt for the perfect real tree? No smell of true pine in your house? No handpicking of prickling pine needles at tree's end?

Of course, that was just the beginning of the "fake tree" boom. Suddenly families could simply grab their tree out of the box in the attic and have it up in few moments. No wrangling the pine through the front door and hallway. No arguments on its best side, whether it was straight or not, the husband lying on the floor, twirling the trunk, losing patience while the decision made.

Alas, back to the present tense. I had hoped others in the family might garner interest in doing as always. That as my kids drifted in from jobs and college far away, they, too, might welcome the norm and perhaps generate some interest for me. Funny thing, they don't really seem to have the enthusiasm either.

Gives me pause for relief, and guilt. Relief because my kids are older now. I don't need to put on a perfect Christmas with all the baking, music, festivities. That I, as they, do want the family dinner on Christmas Eve, but maybe we don't need all the decoration hoopla. Guilt, because my husband, under protest, already put up the lights outside.

Perchance my apathy presides because it has been a very full year and I'm tired. Just plain tired.

I awoke four hours ago. I'm still sitting in bed, deciding on the process to come. I've perused via my laptop the shops in Austin with trees for sale. Not a normally barren lot with dry trees cut in October, but a store with real fake trees with the lights already on them. When I find one that arrives on wheels, completely decorated, and can be pushed back into its box and automatically lifted into the attic like magic, I'm buying it.

As to that silver tree of my in-laws, I want it.

May Your Blessings Be Bountiful, Your Day Filled with Love

2010-11-24T10:18:00.000-06:00

May your stuffing be tasty
May your turkey plump,
May your potatoes and gravy
Have nary a lump.
May your yams be delicious
And your pies take the prize,
And may your Thanksgiving dinner
Stay off your thighs!

Author Unknown

If given the choice between Thanksgiving and Christmas as a favorite holiday, hands down the former gets the prize.

The day before finds me lolling in bed at 9am. No school today. I've done my grocery shopping, Ian has driven the 12 hours home from Alabama, my mom asleep in the next room. The rest of the kids are due to arrive later today and we'll begin the prep work while gathered around the kitchen table - pies made, celery and onion chopped, bread broken to dry for stuffing, conversations shared.

Tomorrow, a half hour of raw turkey wrestling ensues which only means when the big bird makes it into the oven, I can sigh and say "That task done for another year." I can then methodically peel my potatoes or recruit a son happening to walk by.

Then, we wait, and play, and talk, watch football. Not being a fan of early large dinners, we'll eat around 5. Will finish just in time to lie about and, hopefully, watch the Aggies kick the Longhorns across their own field.

Oh, yes, so much easier than putting Christmas together.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. I hope you have many blessings to recount.

And lets not forget the Crimson Tide on Friday!

The Blogger's Joy

2010-11-11T10:28:00.003-06:00

Praise the bridge that carried you over.

George Colman

Why do I blog? Why do I wonder how those I've met in the blog world fare in their days? Why do I write to those who have not posted in some time to see how life goes?

Perhaps because they have continual faith in me, despite my absences and often lack of individual thankfulness for their comments. Despite my inconsistent visits to their home pages.

Why do I blog? Because when I have a totally crappy day and the audacity to write about it, YOU all write to me. You reassure me. You let me know you are out there. (Even though you may have had an equally or completely worse day.)

That's why I blog. Not for what I get, but what I might give when I'm able to do that. Not to mention I find it fascinating how others live their lives. Also, how fun to read when bloggers get together from afar.

Several of my blogger friends gathered in the photo above. Lovely women, all of them, in attendance at my son's wedding last April.

On the left, Kimber, The Fragrant Liar, the "You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille" friend of mine who relocated to Florida in June. On my other side, Bernie, that old broad from Wisconsin at Old?Who? Me? and then Beth at The Busy Traveler, the talented chemical engineer turned writer who travels much too much and sends my jealous meter off the chart.

As for that old broad in Wisconsin, I'm headed up there on Saturday to celebrate her 85th birthday. Feel free to wish her a happy day. I'll be freezing my big Texas butt off in the frigid cold that has descended on that state, because I'm visiting, I'm sure. Believe it or not, there is no Packer game this weekend. Is there no mercy for a long-time fan?

Next post should arrive upon my return, Old? Who? Me? accompanying me for a Texas stay.

Hence, let us not underestimate ourselves. I have followed many of you for almost two years. Community. I thank you for responding when in my dumps and in my highs and middling. I appreciate your comments and suggestions.

You will have that backing with me, also. More important, as a reader for your most lovely essays of norm, and adventure. This roadtrip of the Midlife Jobhunter has been most interesting even though I'm not certain I've metered much mileage yet.

Grumble, Grumble

2010-11-03T11:23:00.001-05:00

Oh, wouldn't the world seem dull and flat with nothing whatever to grumble at?

W.S. Gilbert

Tis one of those rare days when I don't have to get out of bed. Coming off a day of substitute teaching hell, I awoke to the perfect morning for recovery -- a gray sky complete with a drizzling rain.

With the blinds closed in my bedroom and the back patio door bringing in the only light, I'm furrowing deep into the covers. Such sinful pleasure to lie here. I awakened early, but have decided to warm myself and shake off the remnants of yesterday's bad day.

One of those days where I find myself policing and thinking that if any of these kids were mine, I'd beat the shit out of them for their behavior. However, these days, I'm not up for a fight. Causes me to step back and wonder what the hell I'm doing with my time. Or not doing.

I've known for some time I don't want to return to secondary school teaching or secretarial work. Substituting offers flexibility, but nothing in the way of contributing to any one's life, least of all mine. I can certainly do it and do it well as most of my work is by request. But the pay is pathetic. I've never enjoyed babysitting and it takes me all day to make what most can make in few hours or less.

Late last night, when neither a teacher request nor an open job for the next day had shown up by midnight, I took myself off the morning call queue. I keep telling myself that for right now, this job works -- until I figure out what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. I mean, really, it's a Wednesday and here I am, nestled in bed at 8:30am.

And if I don't get out of bed, I won't have to think about what else I might could do.

Ah, the disgruntled Midlife Jobhunter. Guess I'll go soak my head in a pail of water. After all, tomorrow is another day.

Who is that Fat Lady in the Photo?

2010-10-21T12:35:00.001-05:00

We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be.

Jane Austen

This past weekend, the Bunco Bitches got together for one of our famous weekends. Hadn't had one since last November. I was ready.

Our original plan had us spending Friday night at JoD's new bungalow in a little town in the Hill Country. (Another Midlife Jobhunter, she is setting up a whole new life for herself.)

Well, you know how it goes. One night stretched to a long, lazy morning and then a walk about town, which led to the local watering hole. Next thing you know, everybody is headed down the road to my cabin for another night of decadent behavior. Home? What is home?

Languid ladies sipping luscious wine while the sun's light slides beneath the landscape.

Of course, we had a photographer in the group. Here I am driving my VW bug on our way to the lake. When my friend posted this photo on Facebook, I looked and looked. Who was that smiling lady with the double chin?

In my last post, I mentioned an excerpt from Simple Abundance - A Daybook of Comfort and Joy (Warner Books, 1995.) I actually found the entry Sarah Ban Breathnach writes in her selection for February 12.

Today, try to find a photograph of yourself when you were about ten. Make sure you're smiling. Put it in a pretty frame and place it on your dressing table, desk... and look at it every day. Send love to that young girl. Try to travel back in time and imagination.

...because age ten was probably the last time you trusted your instincts. You didn't listen to the opinions of your mother, your sister, your friends because you had your own.

...I remind myself that once upon a time, I trusted my instincts. You did, too. Once upon a time there weren't second or third guesses. It can be that way again.

...Try to contact the girl you once were. She's all grown up now. She's your authentic self and she's waiting to remind you how beautiful, accomplished, and extraordinary you really are.

Here is my ten year old self.

Fourth grade. I more often than not saw things differently than those around me. I didn't understand why, nor the loneliness it sometimes wrought, but I kind of liked the independence it created. My mother and I had opposite opinions on what I should wear. My bedroom was a mess; my dresser and night table covered with pictures, artifacts I liked to look at, dust, paperwork that needed tending or filing, and probably something I'd worn and not hung up. My favorite color was blue. I rarely had my attire completely together. I loved spaghetti. I played teacher. My favorite subject was reading.

Hmmm, nothing's changed there. Except for that double chin. Probably should work on that.

Puzzle Pieces

2010-10-11T11:04:00.016-05:00

Did you ever stop to think, and forget to start again?

Winnie the Pooh

When you were a kid, lying under a tree or while cuddled under a warm blanket, did you envision yourself as a grownup? In my Midlife Jobhunter quest to discover what I'd like to be, I've returned often to what my thoughts may have been when I was ten. I mention 10 as somewhere I read - I think in Simple Abundance by Sarah Ban Breathnach - that we are the closest to our authentic self when we are 10 years old.

Ten. Oh, to summon back the youthful vision of ten.

When I completed Breathnach's year long study many years ago, I discovered a long forgotten photo of myself -- at 10. Sure luck as I don't have many photos of my youth. But, alas, from a book my oldest brother had gathered for me, I discovered a picture in front of a birthday cake -- a smile on my face and 10 candles ready to blow. I studied the face of that child, excited about life, unaware of what might lie ahead, and tried to recall her dreams, desires, and hopes.

I'm sure at the time I journeyed through Simple Abundance, I also journaled my recollections. But life, once again, segued me off in another direction.That journal is now buried in a box in the attic and I have no desire to dig around up there. I must begin anew.

Sitting on my porch this morning, accompanied by the morning glories that burst open today,

I recall I liked to explore, albeit with trepidation. I was neither the one with the most guts, nor the most fear. I would climb the trees and ride the neighbor's horse, but always with a tug of angst in my chest. I wasn't fond of getting hurt. But I never minded following a new trail in the forest. I had a good sense of direction and the ability to remember where I came from. I could always find my way back.

I know I wanted to see the world. In middle school, we had assemblies in the auditorium. We saw movies of far away places, different cultures, adventures. My family didn't venture far - a week at the lake in summer and a four day trip to Chicago in the fall. Sunday car rides offered a view of life surrounding our small corner of southern Minnesota - the cornfields flying by, interrupted by the cows walking home or a railroad track with a train due. As my older brother was drilled on his math facts or the parts of speech, I sat in silence, watching the heart and soul in the countryside glide by outside the window. I dreamed.

My mother always talked of visiting Paris so from an early age I knew another world existed. Her father left her a $1000 life insurance policy when he died. She planned to take that money and go to Paris someday. Then more kids were born and life took over and many years passed, the $1000 depleted. But in my head, a world beyond the gridded sections of Minnesota countryside existed. Paris, New York City, the Pacific Ocean.

What does this have to do with my authentic self and what I want to be when I grow up? Hell if I know. Trying to piece it together, I guess. And today, you are my listeners as I sort things out.

Sorting. Always seem to be sorting. Laundry, thoughts, me.

Bama Boy - Joie de Vivre

2010-09-28T09:00:00.007-05:00

To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.

Emily Dickinson

How fun is that? Youngest son found in the 100,000 spectators at the Alabama/Penn State game. Recognize him? He's the one showing off that orthodontia while he gives you the #1 sign.

What a relief to know Ian's having a great time. We'll find out how much fun when mid-term grades come out in October.

Seriously, though, how fun was that! All 8 seconds of it. Such joy I observe in his smile. Such joy in my heart as I watch on the other side of the screen. Good way to bring him home for a moment.

Roll Tide!

How Late Is Too Late?

2010-09-26T20:08:00.004-05:00

Nothing is so fatiguing as the eternal hanging on of an uncompleted task.

William James

How long is too long to not write a fellow blogger and thank them for taking the time to make a comment on your post? To respond to the kind thoughts they passed on in a time of need? To let them know how their time and comments made you feel better?

I have that problem. Many of you wrote such kind thoughts when my dad died and my youngest son went off to college. Your comments sit in my active email list. I have 55 to answer. I keep avoiding that. Not sure why.

Sort of like I keep avoiding putting out a new blog post. My last - forced. Only thing coming to mind is my new shoes or that the air conditioning in my car and my upstairs has gone kaput along with the leaky roof.

Or that I haven't told you that the swallows won the sparrow/swallow war. Or that I'm substitute teaching almost every day - and that I so want a cleaning person. A grocery delivery person. The YMCA in my back yard. New feet.

All seem rather trite.

Deb of Catbird Scout (if you don't read her, you should - she is a fine essay writer) sent me an email about the silence on my end. Yes, perhaps the heart has been tainted by the events of the last two months.

I'm hopeful the fog is lifting.

So, how late is too late to let people know how much you appreciate them? Or, that the moon that rose the other night had such beauty and I hope you saw it, too.

Meanwhile, a special moment shared...

...eatin' blueberries with my niece at Lake Michigan. August 2010

And Then the Rains Came

2010-09-16T09:55:00.008-05:00

Let us permit nature to have her way. She understands her business better than we do.

Michel de Montaigne

Be Prepared. The scout motto, yes? Here in Central Texas, we prepare for weather. Any inkling of an ice storm, snow flurry, or hurricane in any sea, our weathermen get excited and tell us how to prepare. We follow like good scouts and invade the grocery store for water, flashlight batteries, and any other necessity to make it through the harrowing days ahead. I, of course, include the wine aisle.

Normally, our preparations are for naught. The ice storm stays in North Texas and the remainders from the hurricane skirt us and head into Mexico. I drink the wine anyway.

Last week, the rains arrived unexpectedly, adorned with the title of Hermine. I'd heard of tropical depression/hurricanes Alex, Earl, and Igor, but where did Hermine come from. No days of fore warning by our weatherman. A hint that rain might come, but no clue that three days of pouring skies might produce new rivers.

I can't tell you where she came from, but I can tell you where she ended up.

In my living room.

There I was, minding my own business. Reading a book while the rain poured outside. Hours of steady rain and then I heard a different sound. A dripping. I looked up from my book to see my fireplace weeping. Sobbing, in fact. Not just from that spot above, but through the rocks.

I rushed to remove all the photos, diplomas and the summer's collection of tidbits from the mantle.

I grabbed pots and pans from the kitchen only to notice water there also - above the oven, coming out of the register.

So glad we got that new roof last year.

Until three in the morning I wandered the house, pulling out more pans and towels, my evil eye tracing the ceiling and rocks on the fireplace for the next spring of a leak. The kitchen ceiling for even more brown spots popping up.

Outside the rain continued to drench, inch after inch. The radar on the television displayed a solid line of red right up our alley with no hint of drying up. Reports of cars under water in an intersection only a few blocks away.

Unprepared, I had no wine in the house. I wept right along with my fireplace.

My husband slept through the whole damn thing. My middle son, Jordan, currently living at home awaiting a new wildlife position, huddled with the computer in the study, playing some game online with his little brother in Alabama.

I stood in the study door, my hands on my hips. "Your dad's asleep and you're playing a game. I'm in here freaking out while the house crumbles before my eyes."

He shrugged and went back to his game. "Calm down, Mom."

Don't you hate that.

He told his little brother to give me a call and Ian called on cue. I was passed off, but I welcomed the call.

Twelve inches of rain, total, for our area. Our damage truly minimal compared to the loss of life and property experienced by many others.

But, my house in a shambles, I did what every self-respecting homeowner should do. I abandoned the property and went to the lake. Needed to check out the damage there, right?

Only 3-4 inches of rain unleashed, but oh, how my flowers loved it.

And look who came to visit.

I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it.... People think pleasing God is all God care about. But any fool living in the world can see it always trying to please us back.

Alice Walker, The Color Purple, 1982

Funny How Things Work Out

2010-08-31T11:20:00.004-05:00

I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart: I am, I am, I am.

Sylvia Plath

Nineteen years ago, my oldest child went off to kindergarten followed two years later by his younger brother. Four years after that, his youngest brother joined the ranks of student. On the first day of school, they arrived home with backpacks filled with papers for me to peruse and sign, forms to fill out. I hated the big pink ones - where you filled in health info, social security number, who to call and all the other garbage required. Someday, I said, someday, I won't have to fill out these stupid forms.

Someday has arrived. I bypassed the Back to School ads and the watchful eye to identify locker, book, and schedule pick up days for my kids. The familiar angst that summer is over and my days now dictated by defined schedules and childrens events, didn't elapse. Finally, finally, my days of public school over.

Of course, life isn't complete without irony. I no longer have kids in the public school system, but guess who's still there? That would be me. The substitute teacher.

Gave me a very odd feeling to walk those halls of the high school yesterday. I didn't hear the familiar "Hey, Mrs. Anderson" calls. The most heart stopping, I didn't hear "Hey, Mom." Just as his friends that greeted me so warmly have begun new lives at college, so has my Ian. Gave me pause to consider that he is now so far away.

But the boy is doing well. In an effort to grant him his wings, I've only called twice in more than two weeks. Texted twice. Where a little homesickness invaded his world at the beginning, he now says things are going great. Activities joined, classes attended, new friends met. An adventure well on its way.

Ian and his new roommate, Zach.

The family farewell. Ian and I had driven from Austin to Tuscaloosa after flying back from Green Bay. Bob and Jordan drove in from Green Bay. A little rearranging in the midst of schedules gone awry.

I'm not very good with goodbyes, so our last morning whipped by rather quickly. "See you again sometime," is all I mustered before climbing into the car after a quick hug. Shades of the goodbyes my brothers and I shared with my dad, and one my oldest brother, Jon, so eloquently recalled at my dad's service. Thank you, Jon.

A parting glance.

I thank everyone for your most kind thoughts, prayers, and comments from the past two posts. I appreciate the Fragrant Liar's contribution to this blog in my absence. It totally fits that she would choose the photo where she looks best. Ahem! That other blond in the photo? That's our friend, Carolyn, of Backyard Pearls fame.

Okay, now that I've sent you to three different places in one paragraph, time for a bit of relaxation. After my week of solitude spent raking the lake, I had a few friends join me. For some odd august reason, clouds and cool breezes replaced the heat and allowed us to not spend our days dodging the sun. Our focus of the day became taking turns replenishing the drink and food trays. Lazy day indeed.

Just a bunch of old bitties, slacking off. Swimming with the swans.

Back to work.
Cheers!

Raking the Lake

2010-08-20T14:18:00.010-05:00

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Kahlil Gibran

Last Monday, I returned once more to the lake after a two-week leave. Two weeks filled with familiar routes on two uncertain journeys. I know the way to Green Bay, Wisconsin very well. For twenty-two years I’ve driven it -- all 23 hours of it. Rarely have I had the opportunity to fly over I-35, I-44, the Mississippi River, I-55, I-39, and I-43.

In previous trips along this route, I wanted the miles to drift by with quick ease, for at the end of the journey, my parents would greet me. But this trip, I didn’t mind watching each farm go slowly by. In fact, I almost wanted to slow down for I knew when I reached my destination, the familiar embrace of my mom would find me, but an unfamiliar welcome from my dad lay ahead. My dad, dying. I didn’t know how to greet that scene.

I had hoped he might pass before I arrived. My dad, his body and mind devoured by Alzheimer’s disease, had fought this ugly demon for ten years. When I walked into his room at the nursing home, my fear of seeing him completely helpless and on his way out dissipated and diluted itself into the excited air of Packer camp brewing down the road at Lambeau Field. After all, he was just my dad -- whom I loved and I knew loved me.

For four days, a seat in a chair beside his bed became a comfortable place.

After he peacefully passed, my family gathered to honor him and celebrate his life. Within 28 hours of his burial, I was on an airplane, passing over the interstates and Mississippi River to return home to prepare for another trip, a day later.

A mere 12-hour drive this time to take my youngest son to college. With previous campus visits behind us, the road now familiar through towns along HWY 31 in Texas and I-20 all the way to Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

My game face on. Once again across the Mississippi to deposit my boy in his new home and encourage him on the grand adventure before him.

Another Mississippi River crossing, tired beyond words and home again, I retreated to the cabin only to discover during my absence, the silky, sandy bottom of the lake had been invaded. Without our watchful eyes, weeds had annexed every inch of our waterfront. Of course, they didn’t choose only us; my neighbor’s plots covered in the garlic smelling green vegetation also.

The languid heat of summer had crept in with indexes and temperatures in the 100’s encouraging the weed growth. With no one tending the floor of the warm water, the squatters took up residence.

I hate weeds. I hate the way they coil around your feet when walking out to swim. I hate knowing they’re down there when I’m floating above them.

These weeds, for which I’m at a loss of heart to research an accurate name, have shallow roots and tiny tendrils that swish across your toes. Rather unobtrusive for the weed world actually. I can use my toes to roost them easily out of the bottom, but this infestation wasn’t like the sprinkling of past years, easily harvested to restore our sandy bottom.

I turned my back on the heat and the lake and slept for two days, letting the weeds have their way. I watched the first two seasons of Mad Men on my laptop. I made a batch of gumbo and ate the entire pot.

On Wednesday, I wrestled a three-foot wide rake from the shed and tackled the lush weed bed.

I began in a grid-like fashion, following up and down the dock, across to the neighbors and back, collecting the weeds in the talons of the rake. I lifted the full catch up through water and spanked them with a harsh clang into piles on the dock. It was easy to follow my route, like walking up one street and down the next.

I tried to mark off my progress in squares, but every once in a while I’d take a crisscross route, to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, my rake yielding a few recluses here and there.

At times I found myself bored with the section I platted. I’d meander making a new pass, marking new territory, winding this way and that. It reminded me of my father’s hearse, or coach as they call them now, weaving its way through the lovely oak covered cemetery trails, finding its way to his final resting place.

As I worked, the lake was calm, quiet and I was alone. Only an occasional jet ski or fishing boat’s motor droned in the distance. No one mowed their lawn nor arrived to pound hammers into the cabins around us enduring endless updates.

Just me, and a few turtles curious as to my motion. A couple of ducks hoping I might break to feed them while the raking of the lake fed me. The peace of my work, underground. Tearing free the weeds, so when I swim, it will only be the gentle sand cushioning my feet.

After five hours of work, more boats joined the lake creating synchronized waves. A breeze erased any remainder of calm water. My arms ached from sifting through two, three, four feet of water. I climbed the ladder and sat on the dock.

My arms tingling.

Feeling.

Rejoining life.

With sincere gratitude, I thank the Fragrant Liar for hosting during my absence.

On Leaving Footprints

2010-08-05T12:05:00.007-05:00

Some people come into our lives and leave footprints on our hearts, and we are never ever the same.

– Flavia Weedn

Hello, Friends of Midlife Jobhunter,

Julie is away from home for a little while, spending some precious hours in Green Bay, Wisconsin, with her father, who is not doing well. So she's asked me, Fragrant Liar, to guest post. And though she didn't ask me to roast her, I kinda thought it would be fun.

As a writer, one of my favorite subjects is the relationship between friends—particularly women friends, which is sometimes surprisingly hard to come by and therefore all the more valuable and special when you are blessed with it. I couldn't write engaging four-dimensional characters if I didn't have real-life examples to draw from, like Julie.

What I like most about Julie is that she's down to earth, unpretentious, and says what she thinks. This allows us to cut right through the bull I usually like to sling around. Why, in the 9 or 10 years we've been friends, Julie has been known to say the most loving friendship stuff to me. Here are just some of my favorites:

Most memorable party invitation: You better show up.

Most constructive comment on my manuscript: No.

Best cure for boredom: More wine?

Best simultaneous activity while star gazing: More wine?

Most shared sentiment on a group project: I'm sick of this shit.

On raising three sons (vs my 4 daughters): Pink? What's pink?

Most dreaded suggestion for joining her at the lake: Don't forget your suit.

Most useful advice: So did you dump his ass?

When assigned to create a positive affirmation for ME: I hope I get to come see you in Florida.

Real friends leave footprints in your mind and heart -- sometimes on your ego -- always on your character.

Jules, take care of your pops, and treasure the time you have with your family.

I'm a Home Wrecker

2010-07-23T13:18:00.003-05:00

Let us a little permit Nature to take her own way; she better understands her own affairs than we.

Michel de Montaigne, translated

I've destroyed a family, or two.

For the past couple years, we've had a family of Barn Swallows living in our dock eaves. We like them. They sit on the fan above us and sing to us. We watch as their young awaken and the parents tend and protect them, teach them to soar the sky and eat the spiders and mosquitoes living around us. They keep a neat nest and have a lovely song.

On another eave, we've had a sparrow family. I've lain in my hammock and watched that mother push her young out of the nest and down the railing, letting them know their time to explore on their own has arrived. One day last year I observed an eight hour process from pushing the babies away to their actual flight. (Wish raising my own kids had been that easy.)

The Swallows and Sparrows appeared to live in relative peace until this year. The Bird Wars have begun. Apparently in this mottled sparrow mess of collected treasures, the eggs did not hatch.

Which caused the male sparrow to stake out another space and claim the entire dock as his domain. With relentless fervor, he and his female crew began nest making in various spaces, including the swallow nests. Messy nests. Eggs galore.

The swallows relocated their nest to the neighbor's dock, but the neighbors promptly removed it. These human inhabitants also spray constantly for spiders and fog their entire yard to kill any bugs. Seems rather futile to me - we are at the lake.

After a few days back in town, I returned to the cabin. From our front window I saw a flurry of activity down on the dock. With my binoculars, I watched a flustered female sparrow pick up stray nest pieces in her beak, a tad frantic as to how to get them back in place. I assumed the swallows had returned to reclaim their own home and deflect the new building. A walk on the the dock proffered indeed the discovery of broken eggs on the ground, their yellow yolks on the sun-warmed wood looking like a miniature fried egg.

Finally having an opportunity to string a couple of days together to mimic a compete slug and hibernate in my hammock, I found myself engulfed in the middle of these bird wars swarming above me. Seemed a nonstop daily cycle of rebuilding and destruction of homes. The swallows flying through the spires of the dock patrolling the area. No physical fights, just a show of unity and diligence on the part of the swallows. The sparrows - domineering and invasive, unwavering. I decided to intervene.

I had my tallest son - 6'3" climb the ladder and remove the sparrow messes from the swallow nests. And, the extra ones they had started on other rafters. We only cleaned up the nest with the unhatched eggs, as the grasses and collected pieces of feather and matter in that nest dangled like two feet of hanging trash. Following Linda at Wander to the Wayside's lead, I hoped that the nest with lifeless eggs and the loss of their new makeshift nests might force the sparrows to relocate to another dock. My swallows could live in peace. Me, too.

I stayed for a while that afternoon, awaiting the response. The male and female sparrow arrived at their dismantled swallow nest and displayed quiet distress. The female leaned her head against her mates neck for a moment, then flew off. The male, took a few of the loose strands of grass remaining from our cleanup and placed them gently inside the nest.

A tender moment, I'd experienced. I felt like a beast.

Upon leaving the lake later that day, I wondered what might occur while I returned to my home and tended the flock living there. When I returned to the cabin a few days later, armed with my new Google research on the invasive sparrow empire in North America, I worried about my swallows. I found their original nest remained clear. However, another haphazard sparrow nest loomed above me in the rafters. But only one. Seemed the swallows with their tell-tale forked tails had gathered in force - the parents and both sets of babies born this year joined and running recon. One alighting on the fan, while several sat on the eaves, and when the male sparrow inched his way toward the swallow nest, two to three swallows huddled, emphasizing their presence.

Mr. Sparrow keeping watch, never giving up, never giving in.

The swallows equally vigilant.

I question my involvement in this process, that I turn up my nose to my neighbors decisions of chasing away the birds, hanging fake owls, and spraying weekly for spiders. But, I, too, have intervened in the process of nature. Even though I only sought peace for all of them, I chose one over the other. Difficult.

Meanwhile, my birdie looks on.

Happy to visit the lake and spend his mornings outside talking to all his friends as they fly by. Another piece of nature I have to admit I control.

Every 18 Year Old Boy Dreams of...

2010-07-07T22:06:00.012-05:00

Children aren't happy with nothing to ignore,
And that's what parents were created for.
Ogden Nash, "The Parent," Happy Days, 1933

When I was 19 years old, I enrolled as a junior at Michigan State University. With two years of community college behind me, I drove myself the two and a half hours to East Lansing for summer orientation. I registered, bought my books and paid for my first quarter of tuition and living from my own bank account. All that jazz.

When school began in the fall, I lived in a dorm. A few freshman lived on my floor and come to find out, they had attended a different summer orientation. One where their parents had attended as well and spent the night in a dorm. I had to chuckle to myself. As a transfer student, that option wasn't offered to me and besides, no way in hell would my parents have done that. My mom sleeping in a bunk bed? In a dorm? With other parents? I don't think so.

I just returned from orientation at the University of Alabama with Ian. No way in hell did I sleep in a bunk bed either. Ian stayed in the dorm. I had my own hotel room. Me, myself, and I. A remote control. A bottle of wine brought from home. A cooler of fresh berries to savor. Bag of cheese puffs. Worked for me.

Yes, for those of you that have been here before, Ian's turn to road trip with mom. (New readers - my kids just love this.) Complete with AAA guidebooks. Instead of heading west as I did with Jordan driving to Flagstaff, Arizona on this road...

...we went the other way. A new part of the country to explore. Road trip - always an adventure.

As usual, took FOR EV ER to get out of Texas, but most surprised at the beauty of the Piney Woods.

The Mississippi at Vicksburg, MS

The casino over on the right. I can't believe all the casinos everywhere. My husband and I are not gamblers, so always surprises me to see how many exist and in such odd places. When I grew up, you could only gamble in Las Vegas. And Monte Carlo.

Finally we arrived at the University of Alabama. Here's a view of The Quad.

Ian's college - the football stadium conveniently located next door.

The President's home - one of the only buildings to survive the Civil War.

The library - I took this photo so Ian could read this and recognize the building while he's there. (I bet they let you inside there, too, Ian.)

After two days of "disorientation" and the up/down emotion of the reality of his decision, more familiarity with the campus gained, classes registered for and a quick peek at the future dorm room, we were ready to hit the road. Had intended to visit the Alabama or Florida beaches on the way home. Followed the oil stories and felt this wasn't the best time to take a dip in the ocean. I'm so sorry for that as I've never seen the sugar white sand beaches. Hopefully, soon...

Instead, we drove to New Orleans.
And saw the Mississippi way down the road from our previous stop. We walked a mile or more. Doesn't seem fair that New Orleans and the gulf regions affected by the hurricanes again face such devastation. Although, crowds shared the sidewalks with us and we found a great deal on a hotel in the French Quarter. A few oyster houses had no oysters to sell and some of the gumbo was missing a little of the local fare. But, we didn't care.

New Orleans - what fun!

Here's Ian talking to his dad on the phone with St. Louis Cathedral and Jackson Square in the background. I handed the phone to Ian after his Dad said, "I've never been to New Orleans," in one of those poor, woe-is-me, voices.

Yeah, and I've never been to Singapore, Malaysia, Japan, Taiwan, Seattle, or Prague. Here's a few photos I took on our walk.

I'm thinking we'll be back. Bring that husband of mine so he can say he's been here, too. Ian had his red beans and rice and I had some delicious craw fish quesadillas. Had exhaustion not permeated our minds from our two day stress fest, I would have made a fine dining reservation as Ian, the future chef, appreciates good food. But the meals we chose comforted our weary college orientation souls.

In answer to the title of this piece - What Every 18 Year Old Boy Dreams Of... A road trip with Mom, right? RIGHT! That's what you were thinking.

Wrong!

Every 18 year old boy's dream...

walking down Bourbon Street with his mother.

Go visit the south. They need us and there is much to enjoy.

At Last

2010-06-28T16:48:00.001-05:00

Leisure tends to corrupt, and absolute leisure corrupts absolutely.

Edgar A. Shoaff

Another Milestone - Another Deep Breath

2010-06-21T16:27:00.002-05:00

Do not follow where the path may lead. Go, instead, where there is no path and leave a trail.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

For those of you with children, or those of you who observe others with children, please know/recall/try to forget how the senior year of high school can often be one of the most difficult. Oh, sure, I remember the nights walking the floors calming a crying baby, or sticking yet another spoonful of food into their mouths. Not to mention how many diapers I changed awaiting both the day and their never ending energy to finally abate.

But as I look back, tending their appetite, cleanliness, and making yet another batch of Play-doh seemed much simpler. Defined. I didn't have to add in the deep emotion that arrives when it's time to launch them, making certain I get them to the 18year milestone. Experience the persistent worry that my husband and I have provided them with the necessary tools to create their own paths. Often, a tough mask covers my angst.

Last fall I said to my youngest son, Ian, "Get ready to not like me." Having had experience with his two brothers before him, I added. "Remember, it's all for you."

A little guilt never hurts.

"Much to accomplish this fall semester. I won't do any of it for you, but I will ride your ass until you get it all done."

Threat experience works, too.

His list:
Take SAT/ACT tests
Choose five schools to send applications
Fill out the applications
Write the required essays
Create a resume for college aps
Get References
Write thank yous
Pass high school.

I have to be honest. Maintaining the necessary vigor to get through this with the third child makes me glad I didn't have more. I doubt I could muster the energy or strength to get through another one, nor provide their just deserve.

But no excuse for not carrying the whip for Ian.

Alas, the year sped by. The whip, lost somewhere in the house, and there we were, Graduation Day.

Oldest brother and new sister-in-law joined the party.

A tired, relieved mom.

Two days of cooking for the party and last time the Orange and Black (school colors) tablecloths will come out except for Halloween.

Pies, instead of a cake. Rhubarb, Blueberry Rhubarb, Buttermilk, Apple, and a Blueberry Crisp.

How can this time have gone by so quickly?

And the next stop on his life trail?

Roll Tide.
His leaving my home in the fall already causing my heart to seize up, but that's a story for another day much too soon.

WOW - Blogger of Note

2010-06-08T23:22:00.004-05:00

I met a lot of people in Europe. I even encountered myself.

James Baldwin

Welcome to Midlife Jobhunter. A thank you to my long-time blog friends, Pam and Sandy at Words of Wisdom, otherwise known as WOW, for featuring me as a Blogger of Note on their fine venture. WOW supports writers and readers who appreciate blogs that promote thoughtful responses and insights. Hope I live up to the honor.

Midlife Jobhunter began on a five minute whim as I worked on my resume and panicked over rejoining the workforce. Oh, the camaraderie I've enjoyed while my clumsy gait meanders on this mapless ride.

The blog world hosts a vast group of hunters, just like me, complete with a myriad of road blocks and sites to view along the way. My followers know I’m a crappy housekeeper, throw a baseball much better than I braid hair, and could live in my hammock with a stack of good books. That this spring I collected a daughter-in-law (who throws one hell of a softball), a college graduate, and my last high school graduate.

They survived my miserable first job - grading high school test papers. That this year, my job wasn’t much better – substitute teaching. That I’ve discovered this midlife jobhunting is about much more than the receipt of a lousy paycheck. It is, instead, a search for self. A search for purpose. A discovery and gathering of the shavings that hold us together.

I get to choose three past posts to help you get better acquainted. How difficult this has been. What do I want someone new to know about me? Probably best to get rid of one of my worst attributes right off the bat.

Circling the Stupid

Ode to the One I Didn't Hire

The Art of My Essays

Join the ride and Happy Trails.

Flying Studs

2010-06-06T15:24:00.001-05:00

It is in his pleasure that a man really lives; it is from his leisure that he constructs the true fabric of self.

Agnes Repplie

For the past week, I've been in hibernation at the cabin. Lying dormant, holed up, withdrawn, retreating. Cocooning in my hammock.

School's out. No teaching to be had. A brief respite before the last two giant activities of the spring - freshman disorientation at my youngest's university and an Eagle Scout Court of Honor. I'm living the life of a vacationer with a few putterings along the way. Hiding in my hammock with five library books and a beer. Occasionally rising to put in another load of laundry or wash up dishes. Sweep the floor. Water a plant. Grab another drink or a handful of strawberries before retreating back to my cloistered abode.

How lucky I feel. But the week hasn't passed without excitement. Our Internet has been sporadic at best, so much easier to read without the distraction of the computer. I had thought it might be a week to catch up with everyone, but, alas, my emails either take forever to send or don't go at all. Library books prevailed.

Perfect Summer Reading for a someone who hasn't had a brain that might concentrate on words on the page for many, many months. Here's my accomplished list for the week.

Jane Green - To Have and to Hold
The condition - Jennifer Haigh
The Story Sisters - Alice Hoffman
The Cottagers - Marshall N. Klimasewiski
Songs Without Words - Ann Packer

My youngest son joined me most of the week. We ate frozen pizzas and he made spaghetti one night. Green chili macaroni and cheese another. Middle son came home on his day off from his new job 3 hours away. And one morning, my oldest, now married son showed as well. He's working out this way two days a week. Came by to use the bathroom and invite me to lunch. How fun was that - lunch at the Bluebonnet Cafe with all three of my sons. Can't tell you when the last time that happened.

But, life does have it exigencies as well. Wednesday night I sat reading on the front porch as a cold front blew in. The wind changed direction and gathered speed. My hanging plants rocked back and forth, then began to swirl. The sky filled with ominous shades of blue and those marshmallow-like clouds you imagine reaching up and plucking.

I gathered the chairs and took them inside, the wind gaining in force with each re-entry to the porch. I picked up the hanging plants and as I came around to the breezeway of the porch, the wind's power almost knocked me over. I recalled Auntie Em, hand on forehead, screaming for Dorothy.

Safe in my big blue reading chair looking out over the lake, my chair began to shake. The entire cabin shook. Then, flying at my window was the roof of the neighbor's dock. Smashed into the railing on our porch. Rattled the crap out of me.

The rain arrived, and the thunder, and my son and I watched the remainder of the neighbors roof flap in the storm, wondering if that, too, might join our yard. As the storm subsided, the neighbor rushed over. We viewed the damage, thankful no one was hurt.

Yes, that is a two by four slammed into the wood. The wind, an unforgiving force at times.

The missing roof section.

The storm passed and this most beautiful sunset took its place.

Had to leave the stud in the wall for a few days - at least until my husband, my stud, arrived to see it. And all the neighbors who came down for the weekend had a chance for a view. Always something to fix at the lake.

Now, two New Yorkers left to catch up on and then I'm back to my bookclub selection of the month - The Speckled Monster - A Historical Tale of Battling Smallpox. Fun summer reading. (Searching my shelf for smut.)

Tomorrow, back to reality and all those piles of paperwork requiring my attention. I stuffed them all out of sight before the graduation party. I wonder where?

Pondering Lost - Assistance Welcome

2010-05-27T09:36:00.020-05:00

Some people get lost in thought because it's such unfamiliar territory.

G. Behn

I don't watch much TV. My favorites? Jeopardy, The Daily Show, Deadliest Catch, and Lost. Every Tuesday night since Lost returned to the TV screen in January, I've missed the show. Baseball games. My youngest son, Ian, and I have kept watch on www.abc.com. Baseball's now over. Last Sunday night, I saw the finale in prime time. I'm still thinking about it.

What was that all about? Any enlightenment welcome.

Were the passengers all killed in the original plane crash - the plane found filled with all dead in the ocean far from the island a true scenario?

Was this island a purgatory "the survivors" endured until death?

Why were women not able to have babies on island? No new life because everyone was dead? Except the Dharma people weren't dead, were they? What was the point of them, anyway?

Who are the rest of the lost souls, like Michael, that whisper in the forest.

With the ending focusing on the characters, does it seem like the island's mysteries were immaterial to the story?

How come nobody ever came across that cave with the light? And the Man in Black couldn't ever find it again? If it were just beyond the bamboo?

Did life go on at the island with Hurley and Ben in charge after Jack died?

Desmond? How did he fit in there?

Was the gathering at the end just a gathering for Jack's demise? That the rest all lived their own lives and died at different times? Had Ben not died yet and that's why he sat outside?

That it has provoked such thought suggests that our invested time was a worthwhile venture. The ending focused on the characters, which is also what makes a good book. The scenery and the workings of the island used as the vehicle to aid the characters in their search?

That these lost, troubled souls gathered to put their lives together and all found their own peace.

Aside from my questioning, I enjoyed it. Did you?

Now, back to my date with my vacuum.