Funny How Things Work Out

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

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.

I'm a Home Wrecker

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.

This is Going One of Two Ways

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

One day remains before the festivities of the next four weeks begin. All that stuff that's collected on my mantle the past few months take place starting next week. (I'm so glad I took that picture. Reminds me I need to get the Spring painting and pictures up there.) Tomorrow my mom arrives for the wedding, my youngest son goes to prom, two baseball games before that, and I must get my shower cleaned. My mother would probably appreciate clean sheets on her bed. I promised myself I'd get the bookcases in the living room dusted.

(In other news, middle son has landed a job after college graduation in May. Working on a deer ranch. Will only have 5 days to get home from Flagstaff and begin new job in Texas. So glad he will now live within a couple hours, however, with 128 fawns ready for his care come mid-May, probably won't see him until September. Most proud of that boy.)

I must say other than a brief meltdown Tuesday night and a butterfly stomach on Wednesday, I have weathered the planning for a wedding, two graduations, college visits and choices, high school senioritis, and an Eagle Scout Court of Honor - I think. Remaining on my list of things to do is checking in with the rehearsal dinner crew and putting together a small book of information for the honeymoon trip.

My husband and I looked at each other a couple days ago and said, "We need a vacation."

Too bad we can't afford one. Damn kids.

But, my meltdown - not quite sure what that was. I had to pick up my dress on Wednesday morning. Took myself off the teacher list for the day. The wedding will take place in the country, on a ranch. Outdoor for the ceremony and a restored, rustically elegant barn for the reception. However, it is located in a remote area and I decided to spend the morning finding the best route there for our families staying at the lake. One where when driving home at midnight, they might not get lost on country roads. Looked very easy on the map, but after driving for hours through the hill country, winding this way and that, dipping down to cross one lane creeks beds already flowing with water over the road, I decided sticking to the main highways might be best.

I arrived at the lakehouse to find trailers and trucks parked in my driveway. The new neighbors are extending their dock. The workers decided my gravel driveway was the best place to park. Wrong day to make that decision. Women running away from home to settle their minds and find a little peace do not fare well when a trailer loaded with pipe found in their parking spot. Not to mention the noise of the generator and the pounding of pipe driven into a granite bed. So loud I had to shout at the guy to get their vehicles out of my driveway and park where they worked - not at the neighbors. To be honest, the shouting didn't bother me. And I wasn't a complete bitch. I smiled while I said it.

But the noise. Incredible. I found some ear plugs I keep in the bunk room, in case a snorer bothers the other sleepers, and poured myself a vodka tonic. Went into the small bedroom where the noise traveled the least and pulled out my library book. Read for four hours. Didn't get any work done other than a few plants potted and I moved the swifter around the floors a bit when I'd get up to get a refill.

I took this after the workers left for the day. Tell me they will be done by the time we have 20 people in and out at our place next week.

I did venture also to take a photo of the ducks. The males are enduring a lack of female companionship as the mother duck sits in a pot at the end of the dock, nurturing 8 eggs.

The point of this story? I felt much better when I drove home to work on Thursday. And, with all the activity of next week, my blog life is going to go one of two ways. Either you won't hear from me for a while or I'll be on here every day, seeking solace.

Everyone take good care while I enjoy my company, these most blessed events, and welcome a daughter in my life. As much as I love all my men, having female camaraderie, other than my cat, makes me most happy.

My azaleas have chosen to bloom just in time. This time next week - full bloom.

Dancing in the Night

renewal |riˈn(y)oōəl| noun

the action of extending the period of validity of a license, subscription, or contract : the contracts came up for renewal | a renewal of his passport. • an instance of resuming an activity or state after an interruption • the replacing or repair of something that is worn out, run-down, or broken

One evening when I was a little girl, like four, I became angry with my family. They were tickling and teasing me and I hated it. Cried. Packed my little pink suitcase and ran away from home.

I rang the doorbell at the neighbor's and the mom came to the door. I told her I was running away and asked if I could stay at her house. I remember her standing there, probably holding back a laugh, and saying that it wasn't a good night for her. She had company. That maybe if I came back the next day, there would be a place for me then.

That rejection only offered one other door to approach, one other home where I would have chosen to reside. Certainly not to the Greenlee house as they had a bunch of boys, and I couldn't cross the street by myself. I walked back past my own house to the Dunfee's on the other side. I knocked and knocked at their back door. No one answered. No one wanted me. I had to go home.

I don't recall what happened after that nor anyone teasing me for having run away. I imagine my humiliation of having to come home offered them an opportunity to let me return in peace. Or so I hope. But with my running away at that age, I set a course for myself. One I've come to depend upon.

Yesterday, I ran away from home. All the years of occasional upset with my husband, or needing to breathe while caught in the mire of raising three kids, or just life itself, an escape plan became necessary. Often a walk around the block sufficed, or a trip to the library, alone. Maybe a visit to the greenhouse to finger the delicacy of a new plant.

Often times I escaped to the safety of my women friends, to the comfort of their kitchens or conversations, sharing our woes or asking unanswerable questions about why life makes us have certain feelings at uncertain times.

I did that Thursday afternoon. After a sluggish swim at the YMCA, I gave up on attaining my normal mile and quit at 3/4 mile. While making phone calls to several friends to meet at the bar in 45 minutes, I knew that wasn't what I should be doing. That I had projects going at home that required my attention. But I simply did not want to do them. So I ran away to the bar to join four friends who all in a small window of notice, showed up for the companionship also.

I am most grateful for those women, but there is something in me when I get in these moods that also requires solitude.

Yesterday afternoon I ran away to my cabin at the lake -- a much appreciated haven for this soul of mine. A settling place for my wits, a privacy I seem to require every now and then. Should I have been at home to cover what was needed there in terms of motherhood and wifedom? Absolutely. But I wasn't.

Last night, I sat in my blue chair, cranked my Ipod as high as I wanted. I stared out the window at the lake, a few lights across lighting the water's edge. With a glass of wine, I sang out loud to my heart's content. Brown Sugar, The Freaker's Ball, Songbird, Dream a Little Dream of Me, Brand New Day, Field of Opportunity, Shining Star, Green River, Hernando's Hideaway, The Trouble with Love is, Revolution, Amie, The House is Rockin', Give up the Funk, I Wish, Highway to Hell, Voodoo Cadilac, Twist and Shout, Freeway of Love .... and on and on. Name that tune. I sang it last night.

I finished the evening seated in my chair with eyes closed. In my mind's eye, I wore the white satin ballerina outfit I wore when I was 12, complete with the flowing net of a long tutu , the music of Frederic Chopin's Les Syphides filling the cabin. This ballet has no plot - only the mystical movement of white clad dancers floating in the moonlight, just like me. Sleep arrived.

Never would I do that with others in the house. But, now I'm sung out, danced out. Need to pack my stuff and head home as soon as I finish this rambling post. We will gather as a family (less the Arizona boy) tonight to celebrate my oldest son's birthday. I will attend, truly happy to be with all of them. For the time I've spent alone has proffered the privacy I required. I've become accustomed to gathering it as quickly as I can.

This morning I made a new list in my journal of things I need to do, goals I need to set -- become more organized, better read and more rested. I have a plan. That's what running away does for me. I am thankful not only for those friends and the cabin which offers the solace, but for the night.

The Man Wall

Beauty in things exists merely in the mind which contemplates them.

From David Hume's Essays, Moral and Political, 1742

See that big white wall out there? When we built the dock, that baby was just a narrow rectangle on the plans. A small storage area. Turned out much larger and I didn't recall the odd "fit" with the roof. I first saw it toward the end of its construction and I wanted to throw up.

"What the hell is that?" I asked my neighbors.

They shook their heads. We stared at it further.

"Sometimes we get a hard west wind," one of them said.

I laughed. "We can hope."

Further discussion with my husband only wrought an indignant attitude. To him, the beast was aesthetically perfect. Beautifully constructed. Masterfully planned.

"An eyesore?" he said. "It's functional. Serves it purpose completely. Paint a cool mural on it."

"I had a cool mural there," I said. "A real one. A view of the lake."

The past two years, I have provided hints on how to mask its beauty. I suggested a neon Blue Moon beer sign. He nixed that. Hates Blue Moon beer. I suggested a sign like the little resort in Minnesota my family has visited since 1958 and where we took our kids for 20 years. Maybe something on that line.

ONE , big, round sign.

I think all he heard was the word "sign". Next thing I know, packages arrive at the house. He has ordered the wall's new design. He spread his purchases out on the fireplace. See for yourself.

Our very own Man Wall, complete with a see-through nightgown.

I asked if I could order a few signs, to break it up a little. He agreed. Not sure he likes my choices (Blue Moon silk stockings, Schwinn bicycles, Popsicles, and the Twilight Lounge .)

At present all the signs are laid out on the floor with the precise spacing only an engineer can bring to the party, ready to be drilled for eternity into the white wall. I guarantee, the wood wall will rot or blow over before any of those signs move even a squinch.

I'll send a picture after he gets them up.

Musing the Morning Away

In summer, the song sings itself.
William Carlos Williams

Saturday morning. Alone at the lake. I'm sitting on the porch facing the water. In the morning, we have the shade and despite the heat that may lurk out there, I am cool. Still in my pajamas, I survey the theater before me. A cicada whines. A lone lawnmower completes its circuit. Boats, that have been out for hours trying to find the gentle waters before the influx of many pleasure seekers, intermittently parade by the cabin. I've brought my bird out to sit beside me in his cage. Birdie likes it out here, productively tweeting with those who harbor in the nearby branches.

In a few hours, my husband will arrive. Then a couple of friends. My boys are dispersed throughout the country. The youngest in New Orleans for a National Youth Gathering, the middle one at work with the baby deer in south Texas, the oldest in Colorado with his fiance's family. Soon I will move from my perch to the dock. To my hammock, to get in the last few moments of alone time I seem to crave, perhaps too much.

The beauty of this morning is not lost on me. The sky is clear, not a cloud in sight. The waves of the boats are lapping against the break wall and even though the roar of a passing boat dares to disturb my peace, I excuse the noise that will pass with the moving motor.

I love the month of July. As a kid, it meant vacation and a complete month where no school bells interfered with the day. Now, a complete month where I disregard the norm of the year and make new rules for how my time is spent. Often not very productively, but that assessment may live in the mind of the one creating their own rules of productivity. I try not to let it linger in mine.

A Saturday in July - summer at its best. A deep breath. I set aside the things happening in my personal world, and the country and world at large, that upset me. For the day.

I've added some chairs to the porch. Come sit for a spell. Enjoy the view.