And Then the Rains Came

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

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.

On Leaving Footprints

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

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...

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.