A Mile of a Different Color

5:14 AM.  The phone is ringing again.  I was expecting it, but I hadn't been back to sleep for very long after the first time it rang around 2:30.  I wasn't sure if I should be grateful for it waking me from the strange dreams I was having or despise it for raping me of another hour or two of sleep on a Saturday.
"You comin'?" 
"I guess," I croaked back at my husband through the receiver.
"I'll be down there in 10 or 15 minutes.  Be ready."

The girls were at their grandparents'.  We had gotten a few inches of sleet and snow overnight, and it was still coming down.  I was going to get to ride with my husband while he plowed and sanded his town route, although at 5:00 in the morning I wasn't as eager as I had been twelve hours earlier.  But since he'd been up for three hours already, I couldn't complain.  I hopped out of bed, threw yesterday's sweater and jeans on, and headed for the kitchen with the dog.  I put the kettle on the stove, let Deacon in and out and fed him; sliced some bread and made a PB&J for a breakfast to go; grabbed a banana, my cell, my mug, and my camera too; donned a hat, my boots, and coat; and after receiving another impatient phone call, ran out the door and down the driveway.  No lights were on at the neighbor's.  The snow was thick and crunchy, so I didn't have to worry about slipping, even in the dark.  The air was crisp, and the snow whispered against my face and neck.

The behemoth green dump truck waited for me down at the road, growling, lights flashing seemingly from every angle of it.  I went around to the passenger side, reached up to open the door, threw my sandwich and banana up into the seat, and climbed into the cab via the arms of the plow wing.  I took my coat off, buckled, and settled in. 

We made our way up the hill in silence, and when he finally spoke he said that in the village earlier he had had to wait for a skunk to cross the road, that he could smell it from Frazers all the way up onto the Quechee Road.  We haven't had that much snow at all this winter and just came out of a particularly springy week, full of mud and sunshine.  "It was pissy...its balls were probably draggin' in the snow."  My husband has a colorful repertoire, especially on four hours of sleep. 

Most of the other vehicles we met on the road were personal plow trucks.  The radio was quiet too, except for the occasional state or town worker coming on to check in with the others.  But when they did speak it was so loud I had to turn my head to shield my ears.  No wonder he's losing his hearing.

I'm bounced around in my seat, cradling my licorice-mint tea while he tends to business.  The huge dash is full of buttons and gauges.  Within the 2- or 3-foot span between our seats is a line of 6 levers which control the two plows (front and side), the tailgate, and something else I can't remember.  To the left of those is a box with two dials and a push-lever on it, which controls the sander.  And then there's the long shifting lever in front of the sander box.  Sometimes he has his hands on the steering wheel and two of these other things at once.  I contemplate why he can't multitask like this at home (perhaps I need to put a strobe light and some knobs on top of the trash bin so he'll remember to take it out).  The truck itself is tall; the bottom of the cab where I had climbed in earlier is at about chest level.  The front plow is about 4 feet tall.  There's a constant low whine of the engine and other rumbling of mechanics taking place around us; there are chains rattling; and of course there's the scraping of the the plows against dirt, rocks, and pavement.  With every irregularity in the road or when he pushes into a snow bank at an intersection, we get thrashed and bounced.  It's a big cage of testosterone on giant wheels, really.  Which, I suppose, is what caused this girl to get out of bed and run down her driveway in the dark at 5:30 AM.  It's good to see him in his element. 

But there are other reasons I like this particular ride too.  It's sort of therapeutic...to look out my window at the snow shooting off the wing, the lights strobing, the trees whizzing by.  He says I talk even less than usual when I get in this truck.  And our daughters are the same way.  There's just so much going on, it's easy to get lost in thought.  But in the breaks of contemplating the universe, we chat about whose tap lines are whose...the GI bug of a coworker last week that went through him like "wildfire"...the logging of a parcel of land.  I roll down my window and push the mirror in or out on request, as it apparently gets rocked out of place.  It's still dark, but there are lights starting to come on in the houses we pass. 

After an hour I'm rubbing my eyes, wishing I had remembered my glasses.  The sky is starting to lighten.  A few more cars are on the road.

It's really a beautiful time, with the new blanket of white over everything, a photographer's dream (had the ride not been so bumpy and the pictures not so blurry).  Everywhere I look is a would-be beautiful shot...a majestic barn, an extra-still and silent cemetery, the sun and blue sky trying their best to break through gray clouds. 

Back in the village we fuel up at the town garage, and stop in at the store for an English muffin and beverages for the driver.  We plow on through hour 2.  There's a trailer wherein lives an old friend who we can see drinking coffee in his kitchen. We give a long honk, and he cranes his neck and waves cheerfully at us. 


The bouncing in the cab continues.  The driver notes "this would be more fun if you weren't wearing a bra."  Fun for him, sure.  He gets the seat with the suspension in it.  I'm not about to put any more of my body parts at the mercy of this ride.  I'm already rubbing my neck, my back is starting to protest and dream of yoga positions, and my knees - which put on a few extra miles of running this week - are begging to be straightened.

At hour 3 the sun is shining brightly here and there, now and again, and people are out with their dogs on leashes.  We stop at the garage again, this time to take the front plow and tire chains off.  My husband has kin with a rubbish business who are parked in the lot, collecting from their Saturday-morning customers.  I chat with them while husband wrestles with his metal beast.  It's good to stretch my legs and feel the wind. 

Our next stop is the sand pile.  While the guys take turns running the loader and filling up their trucks, I doodle, jot some notes, and finish my tea. 

And we move on.  I have to get back home to do 4 or 5 hours of my own work soon.  I enjoy the last few miles of sunshine and scenery.

Back on our own hill, we take a left turn onto what probably shouldn't be a town-maintained road, as it's really just a driveway.  But an elderly couple lives there, along with some of their children who have recently built and/or inherited houses along the drive too.  This family once owned most of the hill we all live on, and the couple is endeared to the neighborhood.  A day or two before, the wife passed away...two months after her husband died, just before Christmas. 

"I usually turn around here..." my husband says as we pass their barn...but he continues on up the long driveway, right to the elderly couple's doorstep.  He's colorful; but he's a good, sweet man.

He drops me off at the bottom of the driveway with a kiss, where my adventure began 4 hours ago.  He still has most of his route to sand.  By late morning, he'll have been in his truck 8-1/2 hours, put on 116 miles of mostly dirt road, and spread four dump truck loads of sand and salt.  I hope wherever you traveled today, you got there safely.

So, welcome newborn snow.  Enjoy your brief end-of-February stay in our town.  Thank you for giving my husband some overtime....and thank you for enriching our landscape with such a colorless backdrop that the beauty of our fields, fences, branches, and streams can boast their simplistic splendor.

A Country Mile

The kids had spent the night at their grandparents, so this morning the Mr. and I drove into town for a coffee.  About halfway there we both spotted a white goose sitting on a grassy embankment not far from the guard rail.  Hub turned around up the road, and I got out and went over to investigate.  I approached, and it was defintely a tame goose as opposed to wild. In the back of my head I was thinking maybe it would be friendly and it would like me, but the front of my head was envisioning past encounters with geese, usually with a rake or the like in hand for protection. 

It didn't move til I got close, and then it started honking and lowering its head, walking around a bit, nibbling at the ground while it did so.  I figured this was nervous energy as opposed to actual searching for food.  But I'm not up on my goose psychology.  Anyway, it started walking farther down the bank but turned back and gave me a big open-mouthed hiss.   I didn't have my camera on me at the time to capture this special bonding moment between us, unfortunately.

We named it Cuddles. 

I got back in the truck and texted my animal control officer friend in town.  She replied that this goose probably belonged to a lady a few roads over who had 100 or so of them, that it probably just wandered off.  I suppose that's possible, but I wonder what would make a goose wander away from such a flock (other than some peace and quiet).  I worried someone had just dropped this creature off, maybe seeing the small stream that ran through at the bottom of the bank and hoped it would be ok until somebody found it...or maybe they didn't care at all.  We went on with our morning, got our coffee, went for a little ride around town, and returned home. 

A couple hours later I had hub drop me off about 3 miles down the road so I could jog home, rather than do my usual looped route...

On my short warm-up walk, I stopped and said good morning to these two.  They came out of their barn to say good morning back, probably hoping I'd have a carrot or an apple.  Sorry guys.

Just after I started jogging, I stopped to take a picture of this fine fellow.  I'm not sure how many hundreds of times I had trotted by without noticing him over the years, but I didn't until last summer.

Apparently he was just as shocked to see me.  I fear *he* may never recover, though.

A bit farther up the road is one of my favorite barns in town.  The barn itself is nothing too special, but I just love this view of it.  It's especially breathtaking on a drizzly summer morning, when the grass is green and lush, and the red of the barn is deep.  In the summer there are sheep in the field behind it, and in the winter a flock of wild turkeys is ever present under an apple tree there.  I even once saw a young coyote prowling about the woods nearby.

At the end of my first mile I'm back at this morning's guard rail, peering over to see my friend, the ornery goose, bathing in the stream at the bottom of the bank.  I had hoped it wouldn't still be there.  But alas, it was and seemed content enough.  It tried to ignore me, but then got up after a minute and waddled about a bit, honking again.  My cell phone doesn't zoom or take especially clear pictures, but I think if you look really closely you can see Cuddles was actually blowing me kisses.

I hope it does return home, by its own doing or that someone else notices and is able to capture it.  I hope that it gets some shelter and the food that it's accustomed to.  I'm not sure how to catch a goose.  But having left my stealth helicopter and giant fine-mesh net in my other jacket, I had no choice but to wish it well and move on.  There's a nice lady that lives up the other side of the bank, and she has a big raspberry patch in the summertime.  Maybe this goose will soon be living the good life.  Who knows?

And there you have your first country mile. 

I'll leave you here and trod on a couple more...finding my own way back home.

Resolution Schmesolution OR I want to be like Dolly Parton

I do not wish to have circus freak-show-caliber breasts; but it got you here, so I hope you’ll stay for a wee spell.

I’m not a resolution maker, per se. But I’m big on improvement. If you want to call it resolution making, or goal setting, so be it. 2011 was a silent rollercoaster ride for me personally. I’ve been taking stock and have made a short list of, well…some schmesolutions – some are basic things that I want to and feel confident that I can make more time for, and some are more noble developments within myself that I’d like to see grow, with a little less manure and a lot more sunshine:

1. Blog more.
‘Nuf said.

2. Make more soup.
Not just soup, but more dishes in general. There’s nothing better than cooking on a Sunday and having two or three go-to meals in the fridge that I can heat up quick during the week. I too often find myself reluctant to give up work time to prepare a real lunch and go running to the peanut butter jar with a spoon to get me by a few more hours. As a vegan in a mostly omni family, I tend to just throw together “whatever” rather than make nice meals for myself. So, ”make more soup” = make more time for my own tummy. Yeah.

3. Run more.



The last four years I’ve done a lot of long-distance walking and considered myself a bit of a sporadic jogger as well; but when I took on the 9-week Couch-to-5K challenge in September I realized just how much of a jogger I was not. The first week consisted of running & walking in 60-second intervals for 20 minutes. I thought it would be a breeze, that I could probably skip to week 2 or 3...It whooped my ass. I couldn’t even begin to imagine running spurts of 3 minutes, 10 minutes, 30!? But I kept going, religiously, figuring if this program didn’t work, I was just genetically unfit to run. It was my last ditch effort to grow some stamina. I had two pals in town doing the C25K as well. We kept tabs after each run, building each other’s confidence, exchanging helpful tidbits…from muscle fatigue to cold nipples to frustration on the lack of time before dusk. We ran our first official 5K together on Thanksgiving day. I’m now a runner, with firmer legs and a healthier heart and lungs. I'm so proud of myself and my friends. So, schmesolution: Increase my speed and distance…perhaps a 10K in 2012? Yeah.

4. Be nice.
Love. Patience. Acceptance. Forgiveness. It sounds like weed-puffing ideology, I know. I’ve never seen “Steel Magnolias” from beginning to end (and have no plan to, honestly) but I read somewhere recently a quote from it…perhaps in another blog…where Dolly Parton’s character says something to the effect of “I’d rather walk on my own lips than say something bad about another person.” I’m the first to scoff. Phhht. How ridiculous. What a simpleton. Who’s that honestly righteous? Right?.....right?

I’ve never been a very sympathetic person. I’m a believer in making our own beds and sleeping in them. But I’ve been bombarded with notions of late, loving lofty notions, in different forms, from various sources, that are working their way into my cold cold heart.

The first heart intruders…some dear friends, a reverend at our local Unitarian Universalist church and his wife. Our daughters are best friends, their stars first aligning 11+ years ago in our childbirth class. But that's another story.
The UU church's philosophy is love and community. Not fire and brimstone vs salvation, not self loathing vs self righteousness. Just love, acceptance of all beliefs and believers, and enjoyment and wonder of all things natural in this world. Well, at least that’s my take on it so far. This was a very new concept to me, having grown up in a Pentecostal vs Atheist household. However, I dug my heels in good. No organized religion for me ever again. Bah! Until I sat in the pew this fall for the first time and found my eyes brimming with tears through the whole sweet service. How comforting, how nostalgic, how healing. I’m not a regular yet by any stretch, but I think there’s something to be said for craving church instead of feeling burdened by it.

My best friend e-mailed me one Saturday asking if I’d like to go to a concert with her the next night…her daughter was sick; her husband had to stay home. I’d listened to a couple of The Avett Brothers tunes on YouTube previously, and they sort of put me to sleep, it’s true. So, I wasn’t expecting much from the concert, but was excited to spend the evening with my besty. As it turned out, it totally rocked, and I’m now a major TAB fan. Call it hippy, folksy, what you will. But those boys are filled with a light and have a way of kick drumming it into your soul. And who knew banjos could be so damn sexy? Ahem. Moving on…

I can be a vindictive bitch. In a yikes sort of way. No, it’s true. And I let it shine a couple times this last month, to a coworker and family, and although I relished the evil mah-ah-ah-ah “take that!” moments, in the end it felt so good to reconcile. Anger and hostility take so much more energy than acceptance and forgiveness and understanding (those whacky-weed words again). But it’s true. What a load off the heart to be kind instead. I decided I needed to start thinking positive and less smarmy in my own head and heart, not just wearing it on my face. It would save me from those snarky moments to begin with.

So, I’ll try to keep Dolly’s words (that’s “words,” boys) in mind each day, as a reminder.




Happy new year. Help me grow. Fertilize me. And I will fertilize you. Be kind, to yourself and to others...and don't forget the animals. (Puff Puff...Ima needin' somethin' munchy!)

Skin

Tomorrow we celebrate the first day of spring. Tonight I have a house full of 10-yr-old-ish girls...because in 2001, with the first day of spring came the birth of my first baby girl. My best friend and I chaperoned this horde of estrogen to the local indoor pool this afternoon, and in looking around at the other patrons for two hours, I couldn't help make the observation that nobody looks attractive poolside...in March...in Vermont. Not even the "beautiful people" (as my dad calls them) can find favor in a bathing suit...what with nothing but blues, greens, and whites of the room casting their sallow glow upon all that pasty, waterlogged skin. And pasty, waterlogged, hairy man skin is even worse. Oh, and then add jiggling cellulite and/or wrinkly folds...Acne in odd places...Snotty nostrils...Calloused winter unpedicured feet. Hm?...What? Oh, you're eating. Sorry. Hey, you've got some popcorn in your teeth there. Anyway...I chose not to be part of the scantily clad today. And I think I heard a gentle whisper of Thank You from the Universe.

While we're on the topic of the cutaneous, there's a question I've been pondering for a few weeks now. And let me preface (for those of you who don't know me or my usual attire well) by saying that I've been working at home for 9+ years (since that spring bairn was just a wee 7 months old), so I've been out of the mainstream dress-clothes loop. I've been obliviously wiling away the days at my desk, headphones in place; clad in boxers, sweats, hoodies, jeans...and yes, oftentimes unshowered and braless. Don't judge me. You're just jealous. My life is grand, after all.

I digress. My question is (drum roll)...Do people still wear NYLONS? And by people I don't mean grannies in church with their favorite reinforced-toe nudes bunched around their kankles. I'm talking 30-something stylish work-a-day women who just might watch What Not to Wear faithfully. I just can't imagine putting on a thin layer of tan-colored fake skin, as it were, for the sole purpose of trying to convince the world that you're tan, when you and said world clearly know you are not. Aren't nylons really just the original spray-on-tan? And aren't spray-on-tans the tackiest thing next to...oh, I don't know...toupees? Should I find some matching arm nylons? What about my neck?

Tights are ok...at least they provide warmth. Stockings with garters...they serve their purpose, if ya know what I mean. But nylons, dear nylons...so lame. But again, feedback for the out-of-the-looped...please...just in case I have to wander out into the world anytime soon.

As I type this there are half a dozen prepubescent girls banging on the window behind me, out there in the chilly dark of night, with that super-big, once-every-20-years (or whatever) moon as their backdrop, faces alight by flashlights, moaning and giggling, faces painted zombie style (beauty make-over sleepovers are so last season, apparently...but you may want to check in with Stacy and Clinton on that).

I have two new pairs of sandals waiting patiently in their boxes in my bedroom. My ungues are freshly painted Frosted Fuchsia. And so I'll leave you with a wish for a Happy Spring Equinox. And a Happy Start of Skin Season (I've officially banned pullover sweaters and dress boots...the mud boots won't be leaving my side til the sap stops running). And since we're just days out from St. Patty's Day, I'll throw in an Irish blessing as well (even though I may be more -ish than Ir-): May you and these beautiful girls enjoy flawless skin and countless more moon-filled evenings full of laughter and friendship. Happy birthday, my sweet Keegan, my "little fiery one."

The Goo of It

It's January, colder than a witch's *%#!* outside. There's snow on my deck, more to come. The Christmas paraphernalia is gathered in the middle of the living room waiting patiently to be hauled downstairs when I get a whim. And I can't stop thinking about s'mores - the crowned jewel of August campfire fare. I'm not even a fan. I enjoy most of the components, but not necessarily together (much like a BLT...only BLTs are completely inedible). The grahams are crisp and dry (or oftentimes stale, the summertime box residing in the pantry a month between trips to camp), the marshmallow charred and sticky, and the chocolate hard and cold because you just can't let the whole concoction sit long enough for it to soften due to its messy nature. I hate a food that I have to gobble down in three seconds simply because if I don't its ooze will encompass my hand or skid down the front of my shirt. I like to linger. I'm a lingerer-er-er.

For friends that came to our New Year's Eve bonfire last weekend, I made a s'more pizza pie. Pizza crust topped with some of that schmancy white and dark chocolate peanut butter, mini marshmallows, and chocolate chips...then baked to perfection. I think it could be improved upon, but it managed to disappear into the mouths of the seven dreamy-eyed children (and some wine-eyed adults as well).

I once accidentally sent a fiery ball of mallow flying onto my husband's jean-clad leg up in Pittsburg, NH. He had to put out the fire with his bare hand. He wasn't pleased. He's still not pleased, some thirteen or so years later. But it's hilarious to this day. Jess and Steve (my BFF and her hubby) will back me up on that. They gave us a s'more Christmas ornament that year, so we wouldn't forget (we wouldn't). They'll also tell you my husband sounds like a wild gobbler when he's vomiting (repeatedly) lakeside in the middle of the Vermont woods. That earned an ornament too (Jess, she's a crafty one). Ah, good times...

Jess and Steve didn't make it to the bonfire last Friday. They celebrated in a hospital room instead, nursing Steve's broken hip and forced to ponder the possible cause, hoping it was no more than coincidence and an icy patch. Sometimes life just craps in your party hat and hocks a loogie in your kazoo.

I hate it when someone you love so much is the one to give you perspective, to make your own daily trials seem trivial. That job should be strictly held by strangers on the evening news or friends of friends of friends...the victims of fires and floods and tragic accidents. Because when its somebody close, you don't care about the perspective...you just get worried, you get angry, and you get remorseful. Remorseful because maybe you haven't seen that antagonistic, funny, sweet, stocky, red-headed guy in a year. A whole year?! Is that possible!? Yeah, it's possible, because you also went 6 whole months without seeing his wife, your best friend, when they only live an hour away. Pardon my French, but if there were ever a need for a "WTF!?" it's when you realize THAT.

But out of the worry, the sadness, the anger, and the remorse, grows a determination...to help where you can, even if it's just a daily e-mail of encouragement, a (heaven forbid) phone call, a dinner delivery now and then, some dirty dishes scrubbed...to let them know you care and that you'd turn the world over and make it all good again if it was within your power.

And so, this year, my #1 new year's resolution is not to a have a trimmer waistline or be in less debt (those'll run a close 2nd and 3rd, of course)...but to spend time with those that matter most to me. Having drinks and lunches and dinners , watching movies, sledding, shopping, swimming, sitting around campfires (with or without flaming mallows), together laughing and making memories.

Life is short, and that's the stuff o' life. I want s'more of that.

TMI

TMI ALERT!

I'm in the grocery store (I'll keep the chain and town anonymous to protect the innocent) last night, cart full to the brim, heading out of the last aisle...when I feel it coming on. OH NO. Isn't GI distress THE worst feeling in the world? Yes it is. But like childbirth, you forget how bad it really is until you're in the moment - it's just the stuff of jokes. And you all know how I love to laugh...but, friends, I thought I was going to die. I was confident (well, not really) that I could make it out of the store though. I mean, I couldn't take the risk that my kale and Fig Newmans would be stolen out of the cart while I was in the restroom, could I?! And perhaps it would pass. So, I got in line for the register.

A man was in front of me. I thought he was almost through, but then wifey showed up with more. By the time it was my turn, the situation had gone from bad to, well, thoughts of needing a bucket and a mop. I tried to distract my lower intestines with trash-mag headlines...Oh look! Oprah's looking beautiful all in white. Quality girl, that Oprah. I wonder if she reads all the articles before they are published. How could she not? Tom Cruise...a pretty boy, not my type...good actor though...see Valkyrie if you haven't - good flick. He should wear an eye patch more often....maybe go unshaven for a day or two, get some dirt and scuff on his boots...then maybe Katie won't want to sleep in the guest bedroom. Some chick whose name I can't remember... a model maybe....anorexic...her sad tale. I could show her a thing or two about how to plump up (just stay away from the Black Bean Soup for lunch if you're going grocerying later, girlfriend). The spasms and quiverings and rumblings continue.

Check-out boy is ultra chatty with me, with his coworkers, anybody who will pretend to listen. His dad's family is Italian. His mom likes salt...so much so that she likes "food with her salt". Ha Ha...such a witty boy...and to think I'm only the 224th person he's shared that with today. He commented on all my organic items. I told him I ate a vegan diet, and that I had to keep the rest of my family happy and healthy too. He said he was vegetarian. We talked about his fondness for goat cheese...Nice boy.

I wanted to jump over the counter, grab him by the collar with both hands, and roar with spittle flying...."SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP! CAN'T YOU SEE I'M PALE?! CAN'T YOU SEE I'M SHAKING?! I'M NOT GOING TO MAKE IT OUT OF THIS STOOOOOOORE!"

But I did finally make it out, and while frantically throwing the grocery bags into the back of the Trailblazer (not with my usual Fragile-Items-Go-On-Top care), I considered all my options...

#1 - I could go back in the store. I'd have to traverse the parking lot again, and the restroom is way in the back. I'M NOT GOING TO MAKE IT.

#2 - Maybe it would be better if I sit...I could drive down the road to McDonalds and use theirs - it's right inside the door (poor McDs - they get all the good stuff, don't they?). I'M NOT GOING TO MAKE IT.

#3 - I'll just empty a plastic grocery bag and bring it up to the driver's seat with me and....ok, that would just be BAD (but yet, somehow still a contender).

I went with #1. And I DID make it across the lot and through to the back of the store...and in the sweet afterglow I was tempted to kiss that white porcelain. Yay for sphincter muscles working properly. I'm sure Martha's been there and would agree...it's a Good Thing.

I drove home, my tummy tight from the ordeal, still making bubbling noises but content to just bubble (remember the sound the fat kid's stomach made in Stand By Me right before he barfed pie on everyone in the crowd?) True story.

I laid my head back on the rest, relaxed now, singing along to the stereo, and after I arrived home and hubby came out to help bring in the groceries, he asked...."What happened to the bread?"

Sugar & Spice...with a Dollop of Snail

Mae comes strolling out of the bedroom...oops, I mean dressing room...across the dining room floor...oops, I mean cat walk...wearing several layers of pop-star-inspired clothes and lip gloss (covering cheeks and chin as well). She stops in front of me, swings out one knee on a pointed toe, kicks out a hip and places one hand on it, cocks her knitted brimmed hat, and gives me a grin that shouldn't be allowed on a child of only 7 years. Next is Keegan, slightly less confident, shuffling more than strolling. She stops and stands straight and still in front of me with an unsure smile for just a second before she shuffles off back to the...uh...dressing room. This goes on for three or four outfits. I smile an encouraging smile at them as a good mother should, putting on the facade that she is happy that her children are A) playing contentedly together for once, and B) using their imaginations...But a little part of me...ok...a big part of me really just wants to throw up a little. Can't you go outside and find a tree to climb or something?!

My daughters fish with their dad, play wiffle ball on occasion at camp, and ride their bikes (if the conditions are just right), and I've always considered them tomboys, maybe just because we live out in the woods where it's dirty and wild. But after a visit a couple weeks ago with some friends of ours who have two boys of similar age as our girls, I realized just how girly my girls really are. And I sat and pondered my own little-girl upbringing, realizing they really are lacking the necessary roughness to hold such a title. I think maybe a brother (or two)...throw in a boy cousin (or two) that live next door..for influence...and then you might have the makings of a genuine tomboy.

Let's take a walk down memory lane to a few parts of my childhood I remember with fondness: Romping with the boys in the hills of Unity, NH. I grew up on roughly 90 acres with my two brothers. When we'd walk out the door in the evening, ready to ride our bikes (it was all about the bikes), we'd cup our hands around our mouths and do "the call"...this sounded something like "AAAAW-UUT!" And wouldn't you know it if my cousins, Hugh and Charlie, next door (by next door I mean across about 10 acres of pasture and trees) heard it and hollered it back. Must be they were playing outside. Amazing. If that was Cousin A hollering to Cousin B in 2010, you better hope you aren't disemboweled or on fire, 'cause Cousin B is sure to not only to be deeply embedded inside his house but also his iPod is deeply embedded in his ears and up so loud that you can rest assured he won't be able to hear his grandkids calling him someday either.

But I digress (by now you know I enjoy digressing)...So we'd all head down our driveways on our bikes, meet, and do lap after lap along the stretch of dirt road in between, making adventure where we could, up banks and through water, racing, and playing Chicken...and of course making alterations to our handlebars, pedals, seats, and chains when necessary or unnecessary.

When we weren't riding bikes we were picking berries or apples, hanging from bendy birch trees, swinging on the tire or 2x4 swing near our clubhouse in the woods, playing ball, limbo, or badminton...or having rotten tomato wars. The latter sounds fun, but when you're the long-haired girl of the bunch, that sort of smelly and unpalatable thing sticks with you, literally. We'd look for worms in cow patties, make paths and forts in the woods, and climb trees. I can't get my girls into trees (or out) without drama, or at least having to help them down those two whole branches they climbed. When I would "run away from home" I would always climb the pine tree at the right-hand corner of our yard, where the woods began. Nobody ever noticed I was gone, though (another sign of the times), so I'd just climb back down and into the house at dusk, disappointed I hadn't made my point..whatever it may have been. Maybe the self reflection sitting in that tree did me good anyway. And I loved the challenge of simply climbing. Using my strength and strategical sense to move my feet and hands to the limbs I needed to next. I hope my girls find that simple physical kind of pride in something that they do. They must - I have two very confident and strong-willed girls. It's just different.

Back in the day we would also ride our bikes (when we didn't huff that 7/10 of a mile on foot) to the bus stop and conceal them in the woods nearby. On the walk home from the bus my cousin, Hugh (5 years my senior) walked with me; while my older brother, Jim, and Charlie would lag behind. We'd toss things in the brooks to see if they'd make it through to the other side of the culvert (something I do with my own girls now), check the minnow trap, and entertain ourselves on the meandering walk back up the hill. In the wintertime we'd give each other whitewashes and in less violent moments just make "chains" in the snow on the road with our feet.

In our grandfather's barn we'd swing on ropes, climb the ladder to the hayloft (many times falling and knocking the wind out of ourselves), tease the bulls, and help our grampa harvest his fields. There's nothing like the smell of hay, and you just can't forget the chafe it gives you either after you've been jumping in it with your cousins. Good times.

When I was very small I had an innocent crush on Hugh. To this day he still calls me Baby Amber (a name I apparently insisted he call me, jealously, after my baby brother was born - although I don't recall). Hugh and Charlie both have almost-teenage sons now, and I adore their wives and have built strong friendships with them. Charlie lives just a couple towns over, but Hugh lives way down in Louisiana. I'm so proud of them and I think it's safe to say we still have a very kindred spirit even though we aren't able to get together very often. Cousins are cool. I just wish Hugh could hear my "AAAAH-UUT!" from Vermont to Cajun country.

When my first daughter was in the womb I started having urges to wear pink and be more feminine. And it's just gone downhill from there. My favorite thing is to clothes shop, and now I can take daughter #1 along with me to my favorite store. I love to dress them up and do their hair (although most days they leave the house looking pretty scraggly, wearing caps and mud boots...maybe there's more tomboy in them than I give them credit for). In the summertime, I'm all about painted toenails, flowy hair, and cotton dresses. But September through April you'd be hard pressed to get me out of my jeans, hoodies, and Chippewa boots. September is coming fast, my friends...and although she hasn't soaked up nearly enough sunshine yet, this girl is ready.