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.

Keep Bringing Me Toads

Summer has sprung, and a couple weeks ago it was showing its glory through wildlife. Mae, my youngest, came through the kitchen with a salamander in hand asking, "Is this the kind that lives in the water?"...I explained that that was a wood salamander - that they need to be moist, but do not swim. There was a thoughtful pause and then "Oh...well, I just cooled him off."

The chilled and half-drown salamander was followed a few days later by both daughters coming in the back door with a big green tote, with a ginormous toad at the bottom. They were excited and wanted to show me. I told them they should take him back outside where they found him. Later Keegan asked me if I was mad that they brought the toad in. Such a tender little heart my Keegan has. I just explained that he was probably quite out of sorts after being manhandled and put in a box, that he was a beautiful specimen indeed, but we need to respect him and other life and think of how we'd like to be treated in a similar situation.

A few days after the toad, my husband found a nest in a bush while weed whacking up on the hill. It contained three very young dead baby birds. It was an interesting yet morbid find. What had happened to the mother? Surely she must've been killed and not just abandoned her tiny, featherless, hungry brood. The girls wanted to take the nest and babies for show-and-tell at school, but I convinced them maybe just the nest would be more appropriate, and we buried the baby birds in the garden.

My girls are funny and sweet, but sometimes I wonder, when they are giggling over potty talk, or leaving their wrappers on the living room floor after telling them hundreds (thousands?) of times to pick up after themselves, or "innocently" lying to stay out of trouble....is anything sinking in? Where and when did I go wrong? When did I lose my grasp? Have they completely gone bad, and is there any hope? And then I'm reminded that it's just childhood. I too was lazy in my action, sometimes callous in my words and behavior. I find random mini sticky notes on my daily planner..."Dear Mom I love you"..."Hi Mom Love Keegan"..."Thank you for everything." Yeah, maybe I'm still doing OK, and I cherish all their I Love You's because I know (tearily) all too soon they won't be so eager to give them out.

Life is hurried. But it seems like lately, maybe because of summer vacation starting or simply because of their age (Keegan is 9), that I've had more opportunities to try to explain tidbits of life to them, had instances where I needed to encourage them to do the right thing, and witness them showing fortitude even when they doubted my advice would turn out the way I said it would. This is bliss to a mother's soul. The other day alone in the car with Keegan after strawberry picking, our chat ranged from dogs and kids getting overheated in cars, to far-off starving/war-torn nations where women had no rights, to the question of "are girls born with seeds?", to a promise of a deeper conversation "about that" in a year or two, to how blood sugar spikes in comparison with natural vs white sugar. Can I dare to hope these exchanges go on forever? I can be stern and hot headed, but I hope my girls feel comfortable coming to me with concerns without fear of a hostile or lecturing reaction. That's the mom I want to be. "Mom, I feel like I get more lessons about life in the car than I do at school." As it should be, my dear.

When Keegan was 4-1/2 months old she needed surgery for a congenital defect in one of her ureters that was impairing her kidney's function. When you are new parents, surgery on your infant daughter is the last thing you want her or yourselves to go through. Nightmarish, right? I'm sure I worried a lot, prayed a lot. It was huge. But after spending an entire day in the presurgery room with countless babies, toddlers, and children getting prepped for, worst of all, brain tumor surgery, we were handed some serious perspective to say the least. We spent two or three days in CHaD, the smallest of cancer patients just doors down from us. I cried for them and was so very thankful for our little Keegan's very very minor condition.

Nine years later my girls and I now make dinner for David's House guests about once a month. We didn't need David's House during Keegan's hospital stay, as we lived close enough to travel, but it was offered to us and has held a special place in our hearts since. David Cyr also went to school where my girls do now. Volunteering in such a way is a good life lesson in many ways, I think. The girls also wanted to join me walking the Prouty this July, so even though it's "only 5K and hardly worth the ride up there," we'll go and have a good day together for a great cause (thank you all who are sponsoring us!)

Last week after 2 days of pestering, I finally indulged Keegan with some one-on-one time at the sewing machine. We made her a little handbag together on the table facing her bedroom windows. It struck me suddenly that, 15 or 20 years from now I could be sitting in the same spot, sewing in what would now be my hobby room or study rather than her pastel-infused bedroom. I so need to slow down...cherish these babes...tent in the backyard with them...swim in the pool with them...continue sharing with them the wonderful things in this world, and also the things that could harm them. Forgive me this somber heartfelt blog, missing the usual sass and spunk. I just wanted to write about my girls and perhaps my last summer home with them.

Adventures without Spawn

No, it's not the title of the latest horror flick...it's just my new term for "Date Night." Friday afternoon we dropped the girls off at the in-laws and a full 24 hours of freedom ensued. And I realized I couldn't remember the last time we were alone.

The romance began with our first stop at a small engine shop for some weed-whacker supplies. I sat in the car.

We then drove to Newport, NH, to Salt Hill Pub. I'd been there a time or two, but it was hubby's first experience. He had onion rings (I stole one), some tender still-moo-ing cow, corn on the cob, and fries. I had the portabella burger on marble rye, and fries (with malt vinegar, salt and ketchup - yum!) I spent our dinner pondering our waitress, as she looked like somebody I worked with almost 20 years ago...but later found out from a fellow past coworker that she wasn't who I thought she was, unless she changed her name (hmm...left eyebrow raised...veeeery suspicious...) Upon finishing our meal, hubby dumped his bowl of au jus in the crotch of his black Carhartts. The good wife bit her lip and repressed the giggles until the situation was fully assessed. Then the "junk au jus" lines and threats and promises of late-night au jus removal started flying. All in all, a great meal and when we walked out, hubby asked when we were coming back.

From there we stopped at Lowe's, as apparently a date that did not include a stroll through The Home Depot or the like would simply be faux pas. I know for fact we're not alone in this ritual. So, I dutifully followed the man through the counter tops, the lumber, the ratchets, the sanders, the toolboxes ("but this one has a fridge and stereo in it, baby!!!") until I felt the urge to use the ladies room (whether the urge was from testosterone overload-inspired boredom or from the iced tea I had at Salt Hill is up for debate). Our Lowe's is brand new, the restroom fairly pristine. Out of habit, I chose the first stall. The first stall, according to reports, is the cleanest of stalls since it's supposedly the least used. In this instance, I think the studies were accurate if only for the fact that the lock did not lock. The mechanisms were at least half an inch out of line of where they were supposed to be. I've witnessed this phenomenon before, and I think the word "phenomenon" is apropos considering that a stall door really only has two simple functions: To be low enough to hide the goods (am I the only one who has pottying-in-public nightmares?), and to stay closed. It's really too bad that Lowe's couldn't find a yard stick or measuring tape to make sure the two lock pieces lined up. Perhaps they should've walked over to The Home Depot.

In many ways, my husband has achieved sainthood over the last 18 years of sharing my company. I'd like to think it's due to my influence, but really he's just a good guy. For example: What other man would follow his label-scrutinizing, price-comparing woman around, without complaint for over two hours, through the freak show atmosphere that really only Market Basket and Walmart can provide? Yeah, that's my man. We also ran into Hannaford, where said woman was completely ecstatic to find a few items she hadn't been able to find anywhere else. He didn't necessarily share in her delight, but he didn't complain or even roll his eyes. Points were handed out (remember the au jus?)

Saturday morning I had to work for a few hours and then ran some errands, while hubby ran his own. Then we reconvened on his motorcycle in the early afternoon - our first ride of the season together. We've had the bike 6 years now, and I spent at least the first 4 fearing for our safety, or I should say, fearing for our children who would, I was certain, be orphaned before I could get my hair-flattening helmet back off. However, something in my nature clicked last summer...I lost (most) of my fear and am now able to ride with enjoyment. I still don't like how my husband drives close to the yellow line. He says it's to avoid deer and oil slicks. But frankly, I'd rather die by way of a confused deer coming out from the bushes than by some 17-yr-old twit texting her BFF. But that's just me. Other than that, I'm pretty carefree now, and I get to take in all the scenery. Yesterday, my eyes beheld shin-high corn fields, "strawberry supper" signs in front of churches (and really, it left me wondering what they actually serve for the entree - hopefully there is no malt vinegar or ketchup involved), and scanning the hillsides and trees for hot air balloons lifting out of Quechee. My mind also wanders. It's quite therapeutic, really - much like going for a walk or a run, only without all the sweat.

We stopped in at hubby's cousin's house and had a good catch-up with him and his sweet and sassy son, before heading back home...to the inevitability that was picking up the spawn and bringing them home. Truth be told, I missed them a little. Date nights are awesome, I'll get no argument there; but there must be a reason I can't remember the last one we had. It could be because the grandparents don't offer to watch them as often as when they were cute little toddlers...or maybe we're just too busy to plan ahead...or maybe we just like to keep our would-be orphans with us because we just plain enjoy their company (when they aren't raising our blood pressure with their bickering) and want to share our worlds with them...unsafe stalls, freak shows, and all.

Untamable Hearts

There is a beetle couple having sex on my window pane...And it's been approximately 28 hours since I first noticed them. Admittedly I'm impressed, intrigued, and...well, feel a little bit sorry for them all at the same time. "Beetle style" doesn't look like very much fun. Beetles, at least this species, simply back up to each other and connect in a line, facing in opposite directions. I haven't actually seen them move, but every time I check on them they are at a different spot on the glass. I wonder if they communicate when it's time to stretch all those legs, trying to look backward at the other without breaking connection, possibly hollering in romantic bug-ese..."OK, on the count of three we're going to move right...no, your other right...no, your other two rights also!...wait wait stop, baby!...we're headed for a corner!"

Over the past week I've often been looking out this window that they are coupling on. It's really a waste of time, but it's become second nature for my eyes to scan the shrubs; the dark spaces under the sugarhouse, the vehicles, the porch, and all the other random things in our yard. But in my heart I know she's not anywhere on the premises. My cat, that is...Annie.

Annie came to us as a stray. A neighbor up the hill had moved away and abandoned her. We figured she was a year or two old...which would make her about 5 or 6 now. She's a beautiful cat...medium to long hair that is white-based with gray and brown patches. We had her spayed and declawed (the latter decidedly after I found her dangling from a shocked and crying toddler-Mae's knees one afternoon...all in fun, but painful nonetheless). She was happy as an inside cat, living the lap of luxury, and soon became Mae's. Annie was leery of anybody on foot except for Mae, but she'll find the lap of anybody in about two seconds after they sit down. She's a love, and she's funny. Her favorite position is what I call "the sloth" where she'll lay her belly and chin on whatever she's upon (your leg, a couch arm, or even something as narrow as a crib rail), with her legs hanging limp at the sides. She does this to me in bed every night, pawing my face...or did, before she ran away.

The first time she got out was soon after we adopted her (and just after we dropped $200+ on her at the vet, of course)...I think she came home on her own that same night, it being late in the fall and pretty cold. The second time she was gone for a week, and then I spotted her underneath our shed. We caught her in the have-a-heart trap. She had a few ticks on her, was skinny, but had refused to come to us. But after entering the house she was in pure bliss with all her creature comforts.

Last year she got out in late June - actually fell out of a screen window - wasn't even trying to escape. But of course after she was out, she didn't think twice about STAYING out. We figured we'd catch her in the have-a-heart again and didn't stress out too much over it. But after several mornings of finding really pissed-off strange neighborhood cats in the trap (although they didn't actually have any reason to complain after a good feed of trout and tuna) and no more sightings of our Annie, our hearts started getting a little heavy. We put up a sign at the top of our road but got no calls. Mae cried almost every night for several weeks. We figured she couldn't possibly still be alive, out in the woods with no claws, and after finding her so skinny after only a week the last time. But wouldn't you know it, 4 months later when the weather was turning cold, we saw her cross the driveway one night in front of our car. We put the trap behind the neighbor's shed that rainy night, and at 3 AM I brought our Annie home...full of (I'm talking 20 to 30) ticks, scraggly, dirty, and wild-eyed. She camped out in our closet (next to the food dish and litter box) for the first one or two months while she regained her strength and personality. Surely she would never leave us again.

But she did (and don't call me Shirley). Last week my husband had opened our bedroom window, just a few inches I thought. I noticed Annie that morning eating at the food dish, but just moments later I let the dog out and noticed our bedroom screen laying in the walkway. I searched the house - she COULDN'T have gotten out...but she was nowhere. And when she didn't show up after my shower, to stand on hind legs on our bed and bite and nose my hands for attention while I dressed, I knew she was gone.

And so our days pass by with the domestic things that mark the beginning of summer...Making lists of things to pack for camp next weekend (Memorial Day)...smacking at no-see-um bites milliseconds too late...dusting off and experimenting with the ice cream maker ("Mom, what did you PUT in this!?")...grill-charred dinners eaten on the deck with family and friends...filling in the last spots around my walkways with perennials transplanted from a good friend's yard (who actually knows all their fancy names and characteristics, while I simply say "whatever, as long as it doesn't need any maintenance")...breaking out a fresh bottle of sunscreen and chuckling over sunburned outlines of hands that didn't quite reach everywhere on dad's back...frosting drippy birthday cakes in a too-hot kitchen (time to dust off the ACs too!)...

Mae mentioned to her dad yesterday, "I wonder what Annie's doing today." I wonder this too, more often than I should admit. How does she spend her time now...out in the woods?...in a neighbor's shed or barn?...hunting in the fields despite her declawed front paws, desperate for something to eat? Does she have a place that she can sleep as soundly as she did while laying on Mae's quilt in the quietness of her bedroom? I wonder how many ticks she has on her already...how they must torment her, and do they make her feel lethargic? It's hard to think about...my sweet Annie-kins out there, alone, through rain and thunderstorms and chilly nights...when there are loving hand rubs, warmth, dryness, food and water dishes, and Mini (our 1-yr-old PITA cat and Annie's wrestle-with-and-race-around-like-demons-are-chasing-us partner) all here waiting for her, if she'd only give up the wild and come home.

The first teary night Annie was gone last week, I sat on Mae's bed and tried to comfort her, told her it wasn't that Annie didn't love us...kitties just love adventures, and she was an outside kitty once and hasn't forgotten all the fun things...that we need to just think of it as her being on a long vacation for now. She replied, between sobs and holding Annie's well-worn picture..."I know, I just miss her..." and in a calmer moment..."I think we won't see her again til it's almost winter, if she's still alive"..."Yes, I think that's probably right, sweetheart." Daddy told her some creatures just can't be tamed for good. But I just miss her too, Mae...so very much.

I suppose I shouldn't make fun of the beetles. They, unlike cats, don't have nine lives. This may quite possibly be their first and last enjoyable act, other than flight, which surely must be exhilerating. Enjoy the time you've been given to the fullest, I say...I promise not to flick you off my window for at least another 28 hours.

The House that Jack...or Somebody...Built

The kitchen door swings open. It's my 9-yr-old, with a very emergent seriousness on her face, shovel in hand that's taller than she is, spade gleaming. "Mom, Dad needs you to come right now...there's a snake!"..."I'm not going to kill a snake."..."He just wants you to come!" I don my shoes and go outside. It's a good-sized adder, hiding its head (but forgetting about its long body) under some boards that used to be the walls of our house...And my husband is surprisingly calm...no longer jumping around and squealing like a woman. I am so proud. We admire its spots, I touch it with a fingertip (the girls are aghast), and it slowly slithers under the floor, just as the dog comes over to investigate. All that is left of our house at this point is the floor, the roof, and the corner posts. But this is just a remnant of our old house, the living room...which has recently been serving as an eye-sore of a shed. The mobile home and the other addition were torn down and hauled off 5 years ago.

In the spring of 2000, my husband and I bought that mobile home (circa 1968?) with its additions, and moved out of our apartment. The first time we looked at it was in the winter. We had to walk up the steep unplowed driveway, peered in the windows, and then walked around the front of the house onto the deck. We saw the view of the river valley before us, and we both knew immediately that this was where we needed to be, in fact - why weren't we here already? To most of our friends and family this was a huge leap of faith. OK, actually they thought we were nuts. The view was great, but the "house" had actually been camp to a guy from Massachusetts. When he wasn't there, the squirrels and the mice ruled the roost. I spent the first week after the bank-closing cleaning up the mouse-turd runways in the kitchen and removing acorns out of all the nooks, crannies, and drawers in the rest of the house. There was a screened-in, warp-floored porch that ran the length of the trailer, which might've been nice to have had dinners on, but we really just stored all our extra big stuff out there. We were going for the white-trash look, and we did it well, I might add. But our 10 acres were private, in the woods like I had grown up in...the house cozy with its post and beam addition, woodstove, and brick fireplace. There was a big beautiful lawn and a little flower garden already planted. But most of all...it was just simply Ours.

In this one-bedroom house we conceived and raised our children through their toddler years. We hauled firewood from shed to porch to woodstove. We had little fans going all winter long to help insure that the warmth of it (and dust and soot) made it down the hall of the trailer to the bedroom, where our king-sized bed, and ONLY our king-sized bed, fit between its walls (later on we did squeeze a bassinet into the doorway).

There was a small room that housed the water heater and washing machine. After a year or two of drying laundry on racks in front of the woodstove and outside, I finally got a dryer, but that had to go in the kitchen. I didn't care. It was glorious.

Our bathroom was pink..the tub, the sink, the wallpaper...maybe even the toilet. When we moved in, there was blue shag rug in there too. This, not so glorious. However, there was a small rectangular crank-out window right in the wall of the bathtub. That was pretty cool. To this day I miss looking out while I shampoo...watching the sun come up over the valley, hoping to see a deer on the lawn (there were never any), and in the summertime smelling the warmth hit the abhorable and indestructible orange daylillies that grew (and still grow) on that side of the house.

We had a dining room. We served Thanksgiving dinners there and our very first Easter dinner just a week or two after we moved in. I think our families liked coming to our little ramshackle house. It really was cozy, if nothing else. That dining room is where I fed my babies their first bites of real food. Every day I'd set daughter #2's car seat on the table, turn the dryer on (in the kitchen), and watch her nap. In that room I stood and watched my oldest daughter walk (almost run!) to me for the first time (after I'd been out of town for the weekend), both of us laughing and proud. At our dining room table we sat and chose floor plans for our new would-be house.

The living room is where my desk was, where I sat and worked in the middle of the night so that I could be free during the day to take care of the girls. My fingers froze until the woodstove got pumping. Anybody who has had a woodstove knows it's either feast or famine (freezing, or so hot you're opening up doors to the outside). On the living room floor I watched my babies roll over for the first time. Daughter #2 took her first steps here, at about 10 PM after refusing to go to sleep until she did. Also on this floor was our king-sized mattress the last month before we moved into the new house (we had built another bedroom addition, but we had to tear it off so that the halves of our new ranch would have enough room to be hauled through the yard). On that mattress, what became the family bed, we watched the Red Sox break their curse, and during the day I would prop the mattress up against the wall and hope it didn't fall on anyone. It was in this living room that I sat rocking my 6-month-old baby girl, as I watched planes fly into the World Trade Center towers, watched them collapse...and I promised her, in all my uncertainty, that I would keep her safe, always.

The kitchen was the hot spot for critters. It was a constant battle for almost 5 years. D-CON, traps, and ant killer were staples on my shopping list. My husband and I can still recognize essence of dead mouse from two counties over. And I'll never forget coming home one fall day, about 3 months pregnant, to find a snake coiled up between kitchen closet and stove, which I manhandled back outdoors with tongs and oven mitts. This kitchen is where we blocked in Deacon when he was a puppy, til he was big enough to hop the gate. It was here that my husband rubbed my pregnant belly and told me how much he loved and supported me. The kitchen sink is where I bathed my baby girls (after I got the house warmed up to at least 65 degrees). It was here I made all our family meals, washed bottles and sippy cups, and baked little-girl birthday cakes. It was in this room that my husband came home from work one day to tell me he wasn't happy anymore, and I had turned and stared out the window above the sink, crying and asking why and how...but I knew...because I wasn't happy either.

It was in this house that too many changes all at once had threatened but ultimately failed to pull us apart. It was in this house that we fell in love with each other a second time, and even harder than the first. Love, lots of tears, even more laughter, and the sound of toddling footsteps had filled those walls, the walls that now lay in strewn piles across our yard.

Our new house isn't so new anymore, but I don't think we've started taking it for granted yet. I've sworn I will move or burn it down if I ever find a mouse in my kitchen. I love going over to the wall and adjusting the thermostat (not covered in ash dust). We kept our fireplace mantle and made it into a shelf on our living room wall. I painted all the rooms and decorated them myself...on the rare occasion I can even see and enjoy those details above the kids' clutter. This is our Home now. I cried my last old-house tears in 2005 when my husband crumpled the trailer with an excavator and stuffed it into an oversized dumpster. We still find bits of glass and the occasional treasure out near the driveway.

But today, after we stood watching the snake (which I thought was fitting as it reminded me of that tonged-and-mitted day in my old kitchen), my husband hitched a chain between his truck and what was left standing of our old living room, the last bit of that precious period in our lives, and...pulled it down. I'm not sure what was more thunderous...the sound of the fireplace and chimney crashing down onto the roof that fell before it...or the momentary aching in my heart. I'm pretty sure it was the latter.

Peeps, Pubs & Prose

PEEP PEEP PEEP! This is a blessed sound after listening to an incubator's constant obnoxious hum and whine for 28 days (in my dining room). An even more blessed sound after really doubting there was even anything alive in said annoying incubator...upon realizing after the first week of gestation that the egg turner wasn't turning...and then having two power outages, once with the incubator going below the proper temperature because it had to be plugged into your husband's pick-up truck outside for one whole cold night. I mentioned to some that if any of these 42 turkeys actually hatched, they were all getting named "Lucky." And wouldn't you know it, yesterday the first couple Luckys started sounding off, just as I was heading out the door to our town library...

A friend had informed me that Jo Knowles, a local young-adult book author, was giving a presentation on how she got into writing, got published, etc. Since I've wanted to be an author since, oh, my tween years or earlier, I was hoping it'd be insightful, and indeed it was. Jo explained all her college studies, her critique groups, her tools and tips; and the need to find an agent, who will find an editor - both of whom will help fine-tune and manipulate your work until it's worthy enough for a publisher to buy it. All this to get a measly, what!? 10% of the sales!? It seemed all very complex and stressful. In the back of my mind all these years I suppose I thought I could just be a hermit, here at my keyboard, drafting out my whimsies at will, maybe with a deadline or two, maybe just find a publisher's address in a magazine (who would of course immediately love my work) and voila! - I'd be the next Stephen King, Dean Koontz, or Patricia Cornwell. OK, maybe my hopes were not quite that high - I'm a realist after all - but still...who knew!? Now I do. It seems a bit daunting, but I was inspired nonetheless. Knowledge is power.

When I was young I wrote lots of short stories in school, even won awards, but I never actually thought I could go out and make a living at it, never considered going to COLLEGE for it (duh!). I did take a creative writing class my senior year in high school...well, only for one day...I just got such an uncomfortable vibe from the teacher (she was a large smelly woman, and far too happy - not dark and mysterious - to know anything about real writing) that I opted for a study hall instead. There was the Journalism class option offered in college when I was studying medical administration, but that sounded like newspaper kinda stuff, and that wasn't what I wanted to do. I wanted to write a NOVEL. That was the only respectable authorship goal...I thought.

After my comrades and I left the presentation, daunted yet inspired, we hit the local tavern for some grub and a brew (Guinness and UFO help with the soaking in of knowledge, I have found). We had front-row seats to open-mic night (but honestly if you're wondering if you really WANT front-row seats to open-mic night...the answer, my friends, is NO). Loud and crowded though it was, however, the singers WERE talented and ranged from hippy-inspired guitar solos to Michael Jackson tunes sung acapella. The acapella group was amazing, albeit a motley crew of college girls of all shapes, sizes, and sexual orientation...and I daresay very badly dressed (to think I thought Bostonians had clothing style confusion). I'm still trying desperately to give them the benefit of the doubt that perhaps they were going for a costumed look...oh please oh please? But back to the amazing part...they belted, puffed, spit, and serenaded their hearts out, in perfect harmony, together as one, even with all their differences, without inhibition. I was thoroughly impressed and should've bought one of their CDs. Each of them will go far on whatever path they choose, I have no doubt (except maybe clothing design).

Those college girls obviously have put a vast amount of time and perseverance into something they are passionate about and love to do...because they enjoy it, are proud of it, and fulfilled by it.

Jo Knowles puts YEARS into each book she writes...years of storyboarding, of writing and rewriting, of taking constructive criticism (and we all know a criticism is a criticism, no matter how constructive); and she waits months and months for a simple word of acceptance from her publisher, only then left to wonder if the actual reader will appreciate the end result.

And then there are my sweet little poults (those are turkey babies, to you non-poultry-loving folks)...Here they come after 4 weeks of wondering what the heck their foolish human mom was doing out here...so fragile and seemingly weak but strong of instinct, painstakingly pipping around the circumference of their shells, struggling out with their tiny little legs, flopping and flailing, wet and exhausted, finally free of their calcium wombs.

I realized I too need to persevere...to MAKE time for my passion...to find my war cry, as it were (PEEP?).

I've come to realize perhaps a fictional novel may not be where my real voice lies...maybe I need to find a little weekly newspaper to write a column for, or even a magazine someday. Until then, you few Followers will have to bear with these ditzels that encompass my blog...but even in this I find satisfaction. Thanks for your kind words of support. They mean more than you know. Someday soon I hope to have a real creation for you, something on paper, in ink that'll come off on your fingertips and leave black marks on your face because you had an itch. I will hug this creation, pet it, stroke it, and call it George (or, maybe since I already had a cat named George, something more original)...and be able to cross this one and only, tween-inspired, lifelong dream off my Bucket List.

Mine Mine Mine!

A whoopie pie is irresistible is it not? But then after it's consumed, the sugar makes you high and icky feeling, and all that shortening seemingly sits in your gut for the next 6 days at least. Bleck. I've vowed (for the last 10 years or so) not to let a single one tempt me again into buying it. But they just look so big and buxom that I fall for it every time. There is only one whoopie pie in existence that actually tastes as good as it looks (and it looks pretty damn good, ay?) and doesn't make me feel violently ill afterward, mentally or physically. They come from a little store in Island Pond, VT. Hubby and the girls bestowed me...just me...with one for an early Mother's Day treat today. These gems are filled with whipped cream...probably the industrial stuff from a bag...but it's light and fluffy, not overly sweet, and my hips don't seem to mind it as much as they do the Crisco. I ate half of this one after I got home from being treated to breakfast by my mother-in-law this morning. I had had a fruit-granola-yogurt bowl, so the extra bazillion calories of whoopie afterward was totally legit, according to my calculations.

Speaking of my mother-in-law, she's a gem also. She and my father-in-law are really great and seemingly love me as their own, and I them. Keep in mind that my husband is an only child, so I really beat the odds here. Not to say we haven't had our rough patches, but somewhere along the line over the last 18 years I grew duck feathers that have served me well.

They say men are attracted to women that are similar to their mothers and that women are attracted to men that are similar to their fathers. It's nothing incestuous; it's just nature, and I buy it for the most part...but my husband may be the exception to the rule. His mother is short; I'm tall. She's very dependent; I'm painfully independent (other than mechanical work on cars or appliances, I can pretty much get it done on my own without it turning into too much of a horror show). She's very particular...the woman actually has a methodical way of folding and storing her used grocery bags; my used bags are crumpled and crammed into my "bag bag," bulging and falling out of its ends that no longer have viable elastic. She sometimes has her car professionally cleaned; I like to keep at least one layer of debris on the floor of mine at all times - a poor-man's carpeting, if you will. She lays her husband's clothes out on the bed for him every morning (that's every morning for the past 40 years), and she adores ironing; my husband has to walk bare naked down to the laundry room in the cold basement every morning to dig through the 6-foot-tall pile of unfolded laundry to find, hopefully, two socks that match, and a wrinkled T-shirt. I sometimes wonder if she has to pop a couple Prozac before entering my house, and maybe spray herself down with Lysol upon exiting. But God love her, she never lets what must be her true disgust show - she never says anything (my father-in-law does that for her, but that's why I'm a duck). I can only hope to be so organized someday...until then, I'm just grateful their hearts are made of gold.

Back to the only-child thing...I think only-children get an unfair rap, to be quite honest. The stereotype is that they are spoiled, sniveling, selfish children who grow up to be only slightly less spoiled, sniveling, selfish adults. Maybe that's the case in some instances, but I really got thinking about it today, and it occurred to me that *I*, the middle child of three, do not like to share one bit. And this is my theory why that is: Survival of the fittest (or at least the one with the quickest tongue...oh yeah, admit it...you too lapped and/or spit on that last hot dog to claim it as your own - didn't you!?). I grew up with two brothers. What's mine was mine, what's theirs was theirs, and if there was any fuzzy middle ground, you can bet there was bickering, biting, punching, pulling of hair, gnashing of teeth...you get the picture. I didn't like to share even with my friends, and the thought of letting a friend BORROW one of my possessions was enough to strike fear and dread into my very soul. I still don't like to share food. I'm like a lone wolf gnawing the marrow out of the last elk femur, growling at any other beast that dare approach. In the high school cafeteria I had a friend or two that would ask for a bite of whatever I was eating, on a daily basis. "No! Geez...here's a dollar - get your OWN slice of pizza." "But I just want a bite..." Urrrrrgh! To this day, don't come near my plate for I will stab your hand with my fork, for real. I HAVE mellowed considerably as I've aged, and having children has helped too, I'm sure. It still takes every cell in my being to split a dessert with a friend at a restaurant, but the fact that they are getting half the fat and calories helps me sustain the ruse of charitability.

My husband and his parents spent their years living together sharing what they had in a peaceful manner. It was the three of them against the world, not against each other. Does my husband have SOME stereotypical only-child attributes at times? Sure, but he's a loving, extremely confident, generally easygoing guy; and I've found the pros outweigh the cons. We are the focus of his parents' lives. We got the supersized TV as a wedding gift. We got the supersized fridge as our housewarming gift. On a somber WAY-down-the-road-I-hope note, there will be no sibling disputes over their estate. And most importantly, our daughters get every ounce of their love and attention.

So, this afternoon after buying my mother-in-law her annual Mother's Day gift of a big, beautiful basket of flowers to hang on her porch all summer, I came home to that other half of the whoopie pie. I took pictures of it, I lapped it with longing and affection, and I nibbled the chocolatey morsels. The family started to gather...the girls (and even the diabetic husband) teased with their outstretched tongues...I told them it was MINE, that they had bought it for ME...that they should've gotten their Own.

There was pouting...there were even tears...and then the bristly hair on the wolf's back relaxed, and it stretched out its paws and gave them the last two bites.

1-800-MOMMY

"Mom! Dial this number in the next 3 minutes!" My youngest slams a notebook on my desk with a big red 1-800 number written on it. "We need Proactiv!"..."Honey, Proactiv is for zits, and you don't have any." She's jumping in and out of my lap giving me long, draggy, yet energy-filled hugs (musta been the quart of strawberries). "But you have wrinkles, and it'll make our skin smooooooooth." And she's off again. My kids love to write down infomercial numbers. Vacation weeks are the busiest seasons for this, as they see them all on rainy or extra-snowy days, while I sit at my desk and transcribe pathology reports (yeah, if you've had it surgically removed, passed it out of (or got it stuck in) one orifice or another, or traumatically chopped it off, I'm probably the gal that typed the down and dirty of it). The infomercial numbers the girls have scrawled down for me are for (to name a few) the gadget that cooks mini burgers, the giant cupcake cake pan, and the running favorite - the automatic toothpaste squirter. All must-haves, I couldn't agree more. I just keep forgetting to call within the allotted time.

My kids make me laugh on a daily basis, and it's probably not the stuff I'm supposed to laugh about; but whether they are happy, crying because of some ridiculous thing they did to themselves ("I bit my finger!"), or arguing with me...they are just so brimming with life that I just can't help feel joy about it. I love being a mom. Ask me again in the next 5 minutes ("I said GET INTO BED!")

But seriously, even the most sincere of us enjoy a moment of solitude now and again. We work full time, we take care of EVERYTHING in the house - the kids, the cooking, the cleaning...I'm talking 100%. We are the housewives of the 1950s rolled in with the career women of the new millennium. I'm not alone, right?....Hello? (are those peepers I hear?)...Tell me I'm not alone! OK, I've heard tell my family is spoiled, or at least the husband...my fault, from back in the day when I actually had TIME to do everything, when it was just him and me...but I'm trying desperately to reverse the spoilage, with little to no avail. I get a lot of flack from my femi-rights-loving friends. To his credit, hubby does do a lot with the girls. And if he wants to get them out of my hair instead of doing dishes, I guess I can live with that. For instance, tomorrow night the three of them are going to our family camp up north for the night. They go fishing, play cards, play in the fire, and eat garbage that I won't let them eat at home. They take these weekend excursions pretty frequently during the summers, as I have to work Saturday mornings and also take care of the occasional extra-needy flock at home. But this is the first time this season, and I'm thinking it's a pretty good start to Mother's Day weekend!

I just got back from a hurried bout of grocery shopping, and I'm all geared up for my night alone:
* My first indulgence to be slowly savoured...A Ghirardelli Midnight Reverie 86% cacao bar. I'm really not a chocolate girl, but on occasion the mood does strike.
* Indulgence #2...The latest issue of Cosmopolitan magazine. Seriously I haven't bought a Cosmo since like 199...4-ish? But I couldn't resist because there on the cover in all her sultry badass glory - my girl, Pink! Of course there were also the usual article titles in big boxy print: "75 Sex Tips from Guys"..."Girl Traits No Man Can Resist"...and most interesting, "Orgasm Guaranteed." But I bought it for the Pink interview...(really, Mom, I did...no, now, don't cry...save that for dog and grampa stories).
* And lastly...An unopened Netflix movie that's been hanging around for at least 2 weeks, probably 3.

Back at the present-time ranch, my daughters are finally tucked in for the night...but not before Mae tells me in a little sad voice her latest "why I'm scared." Tonight, it's windy, and a tree might fall on the house. When rational reasoning runs low, I give the "it's all good, now go to sleep" statement in my best mommy baritone. Keeg was tucked in but comes out to ask me where her appendix is because she has "a pain right here" (nowhere even neighboring the appendix) and reminds me to put dinner away...you just KNOW what she's going to grow up to be...

So...so what if tomorrow night I limit myself to only a square or two of the dark chocolate because I can't fit into any of my summer clothes...and so what if one or both cats end up curled in my lap on top of the Cosmo so that I can't browse more than the first 5 pages (who needs all that climaxing anyway, am I right? After all, isn't that the sort of thing that brought on all this mommy business in the first place? *sigh*)...and so what if I fall asleep 26 minutes into the movie because the plot is poor and my weekday schedule just doesn't allow me the energy to stay up beyond 9 PM when Friday night rolls around? It's really just the notion of peace and quiet, isn't it? And quite honestly when I watch their taillights as they head down the driveway tomorrow, I'm sure to feel the inevitable emptiness that moms and wives feel when what we live for every moment of every day is not within our nurturing grasp, and I'll wish I had a 1-800 number to call them back home.

Yeah, OK...check with me again in 5 minutes.

Bumpkins in Beantown

I had heartburn, an ink stamp of Curious George looking at me from the back of my left hand, and hair so tangled that I squealed like my 7-year-old when I tried to brush it out. Oh wait...that's the end. Let's start at the beginning...

In 1993 I graduated high school alongside my lifelong best friend, Jessica, and several other close friends, including Barbara. Jess is still my best friend - we live an hour away from eachother, get ourselves and our girls together as often as we can. Barb I've seen twice since high school...that's twice in seventeen years. Ouch. Back in the day it was all about good tunes, riding in cars with boys, and lots of shinanigans I'm not sure if I should feel fortunate or unfortunate to have forgotten most of. What I definitely can't remember is Barb without a smile on her face. Thanks to Facebook (dontcha love Facebook?), we reconnected over the last couple years. Barb's now happily married with three kids (and a 4th in the hopper - bless her) living on the outskirts of Boston. Jess and I agreed we were due for a road trip.

The road trip started out at 6:30 yesterday morning. I hadn't been to Boston since high school, it was humid and hot already, and it was supposed to rain too...I had changed my clothes a half dozen times...we were running barely on time to meet Jess at 7. I put my hair in a barrette, but it promptly got stuck in poultry netting when I hurriedly watered my chickens before we left. The hair stayed down.

On the way to meet Jess and her daughter, Emily, I made the threats and statements any good (?) mother makes before a public outing when her children are already antagonizing eachother in the backseat..."I am NOT dealing with this ALL day...at least TRY to PRETEND to behave!" But the show hit the road in lighthearted manner when we picked up Jess and Em. The backseat was very loud that first hour with the three banchees teasing, laughing, poking, and I daresay, licking? Jess and I just leaned in and yelled toward eachother when we wanted to chat...at a certain point in motherhood you start to unwittingly tune out the happy noise, as long as it stays happy.

We then boarded a bus in Concord. The girls were antsy...Jess and I needed a second wind already...it was a long ride. They played with some of Em's little figurines(little animals with abnormally large heads), they ate crackers and peanut butter, and they resorted to more teasing, laughing, and poking. I finished tying off a baby blanket I had last-minutely thrown together for Barb and had just gotten a Tetris game started on my cell for Keegan, my 9-yr-old, when we entered into the city. The girls were awed by the tall glass buildings. At South Station, the escalators were the big thrill (a reminder to other bumpkins - tie your children's shoelaces). On our walk from the terminal to the Boston Children's Museum, I kept track of my ducklings while doing some people watching. I found it all rather amusing. Aside from lots of men in suits going hither and tither, the vast majority of locals seemed to be suffering from clothing style confusion. I felt oddly put together in my simple top, skort and sandals. The storyteller/historian in me couldn't help but note a few "bums," one very happy man with a yellowed gray beard who reached out and gave us the peace sign and a surprisingly trustworthy smile as we walked past. I wanted to sit down with these people...I wanted to ask them about their birthplace, their childhood, the places they'd been, what they've done, what long litany of small and big adventures, successes and struggles had brought them to be sitting here on this city bench, with us walking past...and I wonder if they are there again today. If the girls took in any of these things, they didn't mention them...instead they seemed mostly enthralled, sadly enough, by...taxi cabs. "There's a TAXI!!! Mom, what IS a taxi exactly?"...."Well, it's kind of like a bus, only it carries just a few people to wherever they need to go."..."Like how many people?"..."It's a CAR, Keegan, however many people can fit in a car..."

Mae remarked a couple times during the day "I want to live here!" I told her there were probably no chickens in Boston, but she could live anywhere when she grew up. She seemed alright with having to make that poultry sacrifice. After all, while waiting for Barb and family at the museum, the girls got to share their snack crumbs with geese, seagulls, ducks, and random little birds along the rail of the river...oh, and pigeons...which, apparently in Boston are vile, red-eyed, toxic, trash-eating devils. I secretly still love them tho, as they must be related to doves, and doves are my favorite wild bird.

It was windy...did I mention it was windy? I was pulling hair out of my face all day.

Barb arrived with two of her children. In a word...adorable. In more than a word...sweet, well mannered, take-home-able. Barb said, "just wait"; but I never did see their mommy-draining sides. I don't believe they exist. As far as the adults, we came together with surprising familiarity...seventeen years apparently is like two minutes between true friends, and frankly I was both proud of and perplexed by the serene, mature woman and mother Barb has become. I'm sure she won't take offense when I say that back in the day, I wasn't so sure what the future would bring to my happy-go-lucky, good-timing friend. But it's done her very well indeed. Love you guys.

The kids had a blast on all three floors of the museum. Even from adult perspective, it had it's cool parts, all five hours of them. At one point, we three moms were all resting on a...culvert...in the construction zone play area. We had our eldest children take a picture of us with all our cameras. When we checked for "Facebook worthiness" there was a momentary pause. We looked...less than vivacious. So, maybe time and motherhood hasn't been ALL that kind...I'm pretty sure we're leaps and bounds better on the inside for it though. We said our fond farewells with hopes to meet again soon, maybe in the "homeland" of New Hampshire.

On the bus back to Concord, Mae noted the emergency hatches on the roof. I pondered what situation would make you require such an exit. I tentatively suggested to her that maybe they'd be handy if the bus was to tip over..or something. And I had scenes of the convict bus crash scene in "The Fugitive" playing over in my head...excellent movie, by the way. Jess and I sat together on the way home. It had been a day or two since we'd giggled in the back seat of a bus. There was a man seated in front of her, who was rude enough to tilt his seat way back in her lap. Although this allowed me to see into HIS lap from my seat. He spent awhile doing some mundane work on his laptop, and then when he was finished he simply held his MP3 player (probably something far more advanced than that, but that's what I'll call it). I soon realized he was cracking his knuckles, and in a methodical manner...and all his knuckles on each finger. And I could hear the popping. All this made me want to cover my eyes and ears and curl up in a fetal position. Jess and I laughed at my new middle-aged sensitivities. The girls were remarkably quiet behind us, only asking for snacks and taking turns going to the novelty which was the bus bathroom. They ate astronaut ice cream and read Diary of a Wimpy Kid (both purchased at the museum gift shop, and surprisingly both well worth their exorbitant pricetags).

Back in my car, we stopped at Arnie's Place in Concord for dinner...your typical order-at-the-window sort of joint. We ordered all things greezy, complete with ice cream (real - not with the life sucked out of it for space travel) for dessert. I got frozen pudding and rum raisin, some old favorites of my mom's. The heartburn hit when we finally got home from our Beantown adventure...

The city is a cool place. I've certainly been to bigger, more interesting ones; but I'd like to go back to Boston sometime to re-travel some of the historic sites that I walked in my youth and have completely forgotten. Otherwise, it's kinda dirty and a little too busy. Jess and I chuckled in a sad sort of way at the "nature walk" in front of the museum, with it's random shrubs and plants in the middle of all that pavement and structure...no contest to our country homes. In Diary of a Wimpy Kid (which Keegan and Em narrated to us most of the way home) the wimpy kid is involved in a terrible rendition of The Wizard of Oz. So, I'll simply leave you with this...There's no place like home.

Can't You See I'm Trying to Fish?

We were down a child this evening, so my husband, Skip, decided it'd be a good night for us (that would be me, him, and our 6-hours-from-being-7-years-old daughter, Mae) to slide the boat into the truck, grab some chicken tenders and tator logs at the local store, and head to the pond for some fishing. On the way, he reminded me that I *could* get a fishing license this year. But I merely replied, "I'm good...I have my camera."

We arrived at the pond, stuffed our hungry faces with partially hydrogenized horrors untold in the cab of the truck, then unloaded the boat and all our gear. Mae we placed on the wooden bow seat, which is cracked and threatened a good hiney pinch for anyone weighing more than 60 pounds. I threw off my flip flips and waded in, pushing the boat off the little sandy landing. Hubby was in the middle rowing seat, and me at the stern (because I'm stern, according to the rower). Immediately we saw a bald eagle fly over the pond. My zoom would have never captured the image, but it got my juices flowing nevertheless. I was soon photographing every aspect of our aluminum vessel - its passengers, its contents, and the oars propelling it along. "Could you hold the oar still for a minute?...no, paddle once more so it drips...yeah, ok...stop"...."tilt your head down just a smidge...yup, right there...nope, it was too low - do it again"...."could you move over a bit so I can get Mae?...duck down farther...could you hold her hook up for me?..."

I began getting 'the look'...and finally the good-natured "can't you see I'm trying to fish here, woman?" Yes, I could see he was trying to fish. And Mae too. Since we were on Kennedy's Pond in Windsor, VT, I couldn't help chuckle every time she'd insist on precariously casting her own pole over our tight quarters, since on that very body of water, Chevy Chase was filmed hooking a fellow boater in the neck in the movie "Funny Farm," then trying to beat him unconscious with an oar so he could get the hook out. That's just good stuff, right there. But I digress...

Since we were out in the middle of the pond, I soon ran out of subjects to photograph. There were ducks and geese a'plenty flying and floating just far enough away so we really couldn't take them in, but their noises were all too detailed. The scent of a BBQ from somebody's home nearby wafted over to us, and the musty smell of the water (algae?) reminded me of the cottage on a lake my grandparents owned until I was in my early 20s. This cottage was where I spent all my summer weekends as a child, where I learned to swim, fish, water ski, and quite possibly play poker or the like. To this day, it is the place that occupies my nighttime dreams, more than any other house I have resided in. I remember every detail of every room, its sounds, even its woodsy smell. I remember late-night chats with my aunts, uncles, and cousins while we listened to bullfrogs in the cove and innocent moths being fried in the bug-light. I remember mornings that showed a lake so calm you wouldn't dare touch it or else make a ripple. I remember dinosaurian rocks out back that we kids would climb on, make forts out of, and apparently never fell from. I remember Jiffy muffins made by my grandmother, with blueberries from the bushes just feet away from the front steps. I remember my grampa cutting up fishworms for us out on the picnic table, helping us hook them on and take fish off. Back then the lake was chock full of hornpout, sunfish, and perch. When I wasn't fishing, I was in the water. My grampa called me a mermaid, and I'd have to practically be dragged out when it "was time." This camp is the place that in later years, my future husband and I would go to, alone, for simple Sunday dinners. We cooked in its kitchen, we sat on its deck, we fished and swam, we boated out to watch fireworks, we watched movies and slow danced in its living room. And at this beloved camp, perenially tied to the dock, had been this very same rowboat we now floated in with our youngest daughter, our own little mermaid. Mae never got to run through the camp, count the knots in the wooden walls, drink raspberry gingerale on its deck with her great-grandmother, or jump off its dock (wow, she and her sister would've had glorious times there like their mom!), but she did have 4-1/2 years with her great-grandfather, "Grampa Bud," the quiet, gentle, but very funny, whiskered man who used to cut my fishworms, the man I hope was looking down on her tonight with her little red life vest, pole, and big grin, sitting proudly at the bow of his rowboat...

Our evening was full of laughter, chiding, and lessons only to be learned while, I believe, fishing alongisde your dad:
Lesson #1 - Geese don't land in trees.
Lesson #2 - Fish don't swim in flocks (she was raised a chicken farmer, what can I say?)
Lesson #3 - The reason Dad is facing Mom is not because he wants to see her beautiful face (although it was thoughtful of him to give that as his first answer), but because it's simply the most effective rowing position.
Lesson #4 - No, we don't have to check you for ticks when we get back to shore.

My best friend passed on a quote awhile back, a quote which really says it all about me and my camera-loving philosophy..."When you photograph people in colour you photograph their clothes. But when you photograph people in black & white, you photograph their souls!" ~Ted Grant

So, the question is...does an old, tattered, dented aluminum Montgomery Ward row boat have a soul? You tell me...

Green Apples Deacon

Why would a girl...as simple as she is complex, medical transcriptionist, mother of two, wife... choose to write about her old dog on her very first blog? Perhaps because, out of all the creatures in her midst, human or furry or feathery, he remains in her periphery most every moment of the day and night. And perhaps it is because he has taught her the most out of anyone else these last 10 years...true Patience and an Understanding of those who are unable to change despite their best intentions. Oh, you say? Well, for those of you who have ever owned a German Shorthair Pointer, no explanation is needed; but to the rest, let me try to explain...

It wasn't a great beginning, to say the least, and it threatened not to end well either. I was in the first trimester of my first pregnancy. My husband wanted a hunting dog, a dog that would ride in his truck with him Everywhere, a constant hunting and general companion...and a GSP was the answer. He was so very excited. Imagine my trepidation, however, as I heard story after story of GSPs being "puppies" the first 3 years of their lives (and not ordinary puppies at that), a friend even having one that chewed up one of his WALLS. I disgruntingly agreed but on the terms that I would choose out of the litter and that it had to be a boy. On the way home, riding in my lap, uncertainly traveling away from his littermates and parents, said boy barfed up the green apples he'd apparently been munching on in the yard. Thus, Green Apples Deacon was born. Later, my father dubbed him "Deacon Louise," and he didn't seem to mind, although he may have reaped revenge many years later by stealing a recently purchased sub right out of my dad's hand. He's had many other names along the way too (but seeing as this is a family show, I'll refrain from mentioning them here). He is, more often than not, referred to simply as "The Boy."

It was a rough and rocky road...when I wasn't chasing him with the spanking stick for chewing my shoes, litter box contents, drying laundry, or soap out of the bathroom, we could be found napping together on the couch...me very pregnant, him lucky to be alive. One afternoon I awoke from my nap to see him through the window frolicking around a yard littered with white feathery objects. My first sleepy thought was he actually got into the neighbor's house and stole their pillows! But, it was just some old life jackets out of the shed he had torn to bits. To this day the first question I will ask you when you come to my door is "are your windows up?" It only took one sister-in-law's Subaru to be scratched up because of his scrounging ways...

As far as general temperament, however, he was and is the perfect dog. He never peed or poo'd in the house unless under duress ("I'm standing by the door! I'm standing by the door!"). Our two daughters and our two toddler nieces (who I day-cared for) could at any time sit and play in his food dish, crawl on him, pull his ears, and even (as my husband describes it) "stick her finger in his eyeball up to the first knuckle" without more than a green-eyed glance our way as to say "is this Really necessary?"

Nice to kids or not, I lived in a constant state of anger for, oh, the first five years or so of Deacon's life. Simply put, he needs constant surveillance. I spanked him constantly, I bellered, I chased, I threatened, I shocked his collar, and then there was the BB gun afternoon (oh, don't go calling the ASPCA- it wasn't strong enough for the BBs to actually reach him...geez). And then, I guess, one day it subconciously occurred to me that he was never going to change, so I needed to. When he steals the freshly baked cake or loaf of bread off the counter, I just sigh and set to making another. When he strews garbage across the lawn and walkway because we'd forgotten they were both outside, I simply pick it up. When he's killed my favorite chicken, I've sat barefoot in my barnyard crying angry and sorrowful tears, given him the silent treatment for a couple days, but then can't help give in to his droopy ears and his eagerness for a loving word from me. He knows he's being naughty...it's just his nature to scrounge..."but mom, I just can't help myself..."

I have uncontrollable natures of my own. That is the simple truth of it.

I can count on one hand the times he's ridden in my husband's truck...he's never spent more than an hour hunting (rabbits, I think?). He's been my constant companion, an 80-pound lump of dog love in my lap. We've run together, swam together, cried together. The wetness from his nose covers the passenger side window of my Chevy. He's my boy.

Just the other day, I wandered over to the sliding door, with a spoon and a jar of Smucker's Goober in hand (I'm a semi-recovering PB&J addict...one of those "natures") to take a break from a particularly long day of work. I wanted to watch the wind moving the trees (one of those said trees later came down on a power line, ending my workday for good)...when I quickly noticed Deacon sprawled out on the deck, sound asleep, perfectly still, soaking in the warmth of the sun. Laying on the deck in the sun is his favorite pasttime these days. I pondered his weathered, gray muzzle; his abdomen pocked with cysts and tags and other lumpy signs of an aged canine. His eyes then opened ever so slightly, and his nose started twitching and sniffing, the only moving part on his entire body...surely there must be a bag of rubbish, an ornery brave squirrel, or a red-headed meter man in the air. Or maybe not. He then rolled, for just a few seconds, balanced on his back, feet playfully pawing at the air, then promptly flopped onto his other side, contentedly still again, and no doubt saying "oh yes...this is gooood."

GSP's, I've read, have a lifespan of 12-14 years. Typing it now makes my chest heave and tears spring to my eyes. A couple months ago hubby reported of one living to the ripe old age of 17. We both joked and feigned disheartenment at the thought of another 7 years of chasing him away from the cat food dishes, of "Leave it!" and "Off!" being the most spoken words in our vocabulary, and letting him out in the middle of the night because of his "old man bladder." But in reality, we've actually talked about getting another GSP. Will we? Probably not. That would prove we have completely lost our marbles. But, if I could, I would keep this friend by my side forever and a day.