the giveaway

It occurred to me recently that I am getting older. Note: I did not say old, no time for that, and besides, I am pretty sure it is over rated, early bird dinner specials or no. The big clue is what one talks about and also the new habit of saying one which seems polite and a roundabout way to round up someone or maybe an entire generation whose name you have forgotten. Another clue is when it no longer matters that you have worn the same outfit for the past four days, or has it been five? or when you look in the mirror and think you look fine just fine the way you are; no self-respecting young'in ever does that. So there are entire conversations discussing how to brown a roast (dead giveaway) and whether or not arnica is best taken in pill form for those creaky joints or applied topically (serious dead giveaway), and just over the hill on the same road as the cemetery a brief mention of how regular one is; and that my friends is the most dead and no white light at the end of the tunnel to babble on about during bingo, if there ever was one. I am not there yet and in fact working on a new app for iphone Sr. with an alarm that will sound if that subject is mentioned. Yes there will be buzzer mode for those of us who are hard of hearing. 


However, there is still the weather and you know you are old when, besides finding the subject an interesting topic of discussion (A) you notice it, and did I mention what a weird summer we've been having and now blustery and fall and gray and not even September and that the tomatoes are begging for mercy? and (B) you begin dressing appropriately for it. A sad sad day, really, that last puddle jumped in or trodden through and in flip flops, the day beach cover-up sounds like a great idea, or when you choose the sensible shoes for the long day at the fair. Ah yes, the fair: loud, dusty, whirling paratrooper ride, the gravitron occupants staggering out beneath neon lights like some pint-sized zombie gang of third graders, carnies hawking three balls for five bucks and some very odd stuffed pink elephant as the prize which as a kid you somehow truly, really wanted, and had to have. And the animal barns, the crowds and a free for all of kids running and every food item with sticky as the second ingredient. Everything a boy ever dreamed about.


Or a girl. One day a dull empty parking lot and then the irridescent tail feathers appear and also the Funnel Cake van and while the moms are talking about whatever it is they talk about (see paragraph above), the girls tumbleweed together in spindly-legged clumps of shorts and my little pony purses and go from ride to ride, past the arcade of games, and around the circuit again. And there is something thrilling, and daring, the toothless guy who comes to close the metal bar across their waist for the ferris wheel, the tanned arm opening the gate and taking the ticket for the skymaster which at any other time or maybe in the library would be ick and old men and maybe somebody's dad so serious ick, but because it is the fair in a whole new light. The whirling of the rides helps, also the flashing lights. And at night when the music seems louder and the sweat of the horse barns rises from the dust and mingles with the sweet smell of cotton candy it is a heady, musky mix and somehow, intoxicating, and somehow, the so-called sensible shoes no longer make sense: but there is a need to run wild with friends through the chilly night, no sweater because this is about feeling things that ordinarily would not feel quite the same, and of course, tasting something soft and sweet as it melts on your tongue and hoping to keep it there as long as you can but knowing from the first bite, that's not how it will be. 

And that my friends is called youth, Papa Smurf cotton candy and all.

the arena

What we hope for is that they will do their best, not asking for first place or a blue ribbon, and who said anything about best in show? That's what we tell our friends, our in-laws, each other right after we turn out the light: we just want them to do their best. Still, we have our dreams and our dreams say something altogether else and already have the exact spot picked out on the mantel, the mantel dusted and ready; we picture the big game, the acceptance letter, the way it will sound when we say why yes, Stanford Med. Maybe it is some hormonal shift that happens, back when they are second fiddle to swatches of Lil Boy Blue and Princess Pink, when we think the perfect room, the perfect $500 Bob stroller, all the teensy details for our teensy soon-to-be child, will make all the difference. Then one day it hits us, there in the binky aisle or waiting for the ultrasound. Maybe because there are so many measurements, a numbers game from the get-go, due date and birth weight, six months and walking, thirteen months and reciting book three of the Aeneid, the next Tiger at age 5 with a seven-iron, one tiny step for mankind, all the way to the big finish line in the sky.


Oh the numbers, those pesky numbers, then we get it: there is one and only one that makes a difference, which is numero uno, one, or else nadda. We want it for them of course, the feeling of glory, top dog, hard work and the reward for mucking the stalls at six a.m., the late nights when you can hardly keep your eyes open then in the morning, your pride and joy. We are taught this by the ultrasound tech who announces her prediction, seven pounds seven ounces, and by the delivery nurse who says look at the size of those feet, the smug mommy-n-me Mommy whose two year-old plays a Brandenburg concerto on the playskool piano while his peers squabble over Spongebob. When the preschool teacher hands us the list of words our son can write and tells us he is at grade level we know instantly that is not enough: grade level! grade level! a voice in our head screams. And that is only the beginning, of a long line of coaches, instructors, teachers, neighbors, your father-in-law, scorekeepers, and SAT graders who will sum up, evaluate, grade, and judge our precious offspring. We have antibacterial soap for their tootsies and vaccinations for the bugaboos but do we protect them from the biggest threat of all--the threat of the dream killers, the finish lines that prove not fast enough, the red sharpie that clearly says not a high enough grade, the blazing lights with the score, the judges who shake their head no? The answer is of course, no, we don't protect them from this, this is life, and protecting them is a do-nothing bubble. And so with each kick at the goal, each trip up the high dive and out to the end of the platform, each tug on the goat lead, it is the passing of the torch: from us, to them, all those unfinished, unrequited, unachieved, never quite made it, always thought one day, could've been a contender, dreams. 


My child was not in the goat circle, nor did we have to sneak Henny Penny any special snacks before the judges walked through. Nonetheless like a dutiful parent I managed to find the arena, and I knew, just knew, this would be The Day and everyone would know what I already knew, had known since that first goobery bubble he blew, that my child was Special. And no, not in a Barney we're all special here kind of way or hurray! you showed up, here's your trophy. No, this was a timed event, and required skill, precision, planning, one part engineering prowess another part artistic ingenuity, and the assemblage of an array of small plastic bricks. This, people, was the lego competition. 


He built and I sized up the contenders. Goat Boy, who obviously came from a competitive lot, since he had shown not one but two goats, and I think, had an entry in the swine barn to boot. Then there were the usual suspects, small, earnest boys with ears that stuck out beneath their plastic yellow lego construction hats who scuffed their tennies on the dusty floor of the pole barn. Two girls, both in pigtails. And then there was The Friend, who we'd told about the contest, who waved and smiled as he built his airplane and large blocky lego man that in a brilliant spin he informed the judges was an old lady chasing a dragonfly, which meant Second Place, tied with some three year-old who was coached by his older brother. And the winner was! one of the cuties in pigtails, for her garden scene complete with compost bin that yes, looked mostly like a rectangular assemblage of brown bricks, also the rectangular blue watering can and the square flowers. She beamed, her mother snapped pictures, Goat Boy put his head down and cried, and the Gods of Marketing and putting a spin on things smiled upon the scene.


And our family? Back to the drawing board, hubby and son constructing an elaborate castle as I type, which we will call not something as mundane as a multi-level castle with moat and nave, but something a bit niftier, say, a Medieval Knight's Dream, like American Idol, but for knights and princesses. The judges of course, are all dragons.

tunnel vision

The problem with being an optimist is the limited sight distance. Most of us bright-side lookers are doing just that: looking at one side of the coin and forgetting there is a whole other aspect.  We defend this of course, and easily. We choose to see things in a happy light. It goes something like this: you say the dark ages, and I say tapestries, chivalry, and The Canterbury Tales, but no mention of plagues, famine, and hello, it was called dark for a reason. You say economic meltdown and I say time for a fresh start, maybe we needed to start thinking outside the big box and the yellow brick road does not necessarily have to lead to a Target. It never ends, that old bright side, it just shines down and in all that sunny yellow light we can't see the things lurking in the shadows. 

And this can be comforting, and also, keep us in the dark; and this is where I trip over the bright side and have to take a peek. Call me crazy but I like to see where I'm going and yes, even if that seems nowhere and the road least traveled is not on the top ten adventures to take before you die list.


A friend of mine recently told me that people do not want to hear the truth. They don't want it laid out for them or hung out to dry, or especially, served up with a nice dollop of you might wanna listen to this. No no no, people do not want the truth. Life is hard enough without being talked to about it, or having it pointed out loud and clear. So you see what I am up against. On one hand, little Ms. Sunshine and believing someday and also, each morning I do gaze at my dream manifestation board with the magazine cutouts, the chickens in one corner and in another, a very simple albeit charming home, smack in the center dead ringers for our family eating alfresco around a big old farm table. 


And on the other, Ms. I can See Clearly Now and all that reading when I can't sleep at night, Greenspan not giving up the ghost yet and saying we can't see far enough to predict what next, the biggest wheat crop worldwide ever yet flour prices expected to rise, the indicators and no thumbs up as far as I can see. My question is, do I do it the way I did, all those fine days rolling down the river, Chatty Cathy regaling my clients with stories and a tall tale or two and then, with just enough time to batten down the hatches and make sure my sunglasses were stowed, spell it out to them: my way or the highway, or better yet, my way or we're all gonna die. Which wasn't all that far from the truth, given the power of the river and me knowing a thing or two and having been downstream before, and them, just helpless as kittens. So of course they listened and bucked up, held on and leaned forward, and if I shouted lean right, by god, they leaned right and pronto, and if I commanded hold on they did not think twice. And in the thick of it when their little bitty hearts were beating and the whiteout was like a blackout if I hollered hold er Newt she's a buckin! well, maybe it was all a dream.


After all, Trip Leader, professional boatmen's card, the scruffy gear, and those hands that only another boatman could love stacked up to something, if not bona fide credentials. The gal knew what she was talking about, is what they thought, especially after the close call which they did not know about until back on shore and the other guides high five-ing like no tomorrow. It had nothing to do with the college degree, the A in Chaucer, the poem read at the Baccalaurate services, or even the sashay through law school. Those things, anybody could do. 


Maybe it was the yin yang of it, beautiful scenery! dream vacation! adventure of a lifetime! the Grand Canyon! propped up against cold hard reality. Twenty-four seven, the elements have no on/off switch, E ticket rides are for pussies and the river was no Disneyland, and no, an unexpected helicopter ride out is not the best way to end a vacation. 


Maybe I just can't help myself. Maybe I found my way to water because it was a job meant for me, pointing out the bighorn on the cliff on one hand, the scorpion under the rock on the other, the slick of water like a lip smacking itself where our boat needed to go, the silken journey of the ride. Maybe it is my nature: land ho, but shark infested on the way and a long swim, the candy-coating part not coming as easily as open your eyes and see for yourself. 

I might be the only one in the water but the way I look at it, what a perfect way to enjoy the swim.

sleepless in (okay, down the road from) seattle

The reading before bed thing is still big for my son, and at almost ten I am thinking this is a good thing. The issue of course is what. That hasn't changed since Goodnight Moon, which was good and also, a nice way to end the day and head off to never never land, which I now realize, and thank you Michael Jackson, is truly a creepy place to think of sending your child. And yes there are all those helpful lists and Newberry et al and let me say this: thank god for E. Nesbit. The story before bed thing requires reading to thus requires staying awake. And critical to the key point of keeping this whole gig going night after night and for going on nigh ten years, not wishing to get it over with.  Or worse, wishing to beat one's head against the headboard which, after some of the children's lit out there, I have done, and is possibly responsible for the phrase take two before bedtime. And yes, at around age seven they can tell when you are skipping ahead and take it from me, do not forget to show them the pictures; I have missed entire seasons of Sex and the City because of having to flip back to see what Mole and Ratty were doing on page such and such. The inventor of Tivo was most certainly a parent who had a child to put to bed.


Since spring we have been reading the Little House books, and currently we are nearing The Long Winter which (and please cue the sad fiddle music) if you recall, is not such a good thing: given the state of things and the latest economic forecasts and the fact that every time Pa has screwed up and the family has to pack up the wagon (again) and move on down the road, I get a sick feeling in my gut. They leave a perfectly fine life in the Big Wood and all because Pa wanted to go west, Ma saying yes Charles in that dutiful wife way despite prairie fires and grasshoppers chowing down on the wheat crop they were supposed to sell to pay off their debts (gee pa, I thought it was you oldtimers who always said not to count your chickens 'afore they are hatched), and Laura describing the next sunset to Mary who is now blind from the fever, and believing there is always tomorrow (wait, different story), rather, that the next horizon will be better. Down the road, the next best place and a new life a waitin' them with all the salt pork their hearts desire.


Lies, I tell you, lies! And here is where it begins I suppose, spelled out in a simple and charming children's book. Whoever invented the happy ending was obviously and clearly, an optimist and also, off their rocker. Or had not lived through the Inquisition, the Holocaust, the Great Depression, you get my drift here, or the recent bank meltdown. Or maybe never lived on the side of the coin that is the looking in side, which means from the viewpoint of the character who is doing without. I say this because there is Laura, barely standing on the shores of Silver Lake when she realizes that, despite having no desire to do so, she will have to be a teacher someday because "that is the only way she will be able to earn money." So much for dreams, childhood innocence, and free will. And there it is even further back, right there in all that Jane Austen, which I thought would be a pleasant diversion for this ma for the summer, goodbye Little Bee and Hunger Games, all that hand wringing, and angst, hello fluff. Something to lull away from the stress and the stack on the desk and truthfully, from having to think think think and figure it all out, clear the next hurdle, and maybe a good way to drift off to a few restful hours in la la land. But no, the wheels and cogs were in motion, even back in those days, and right off the get-go all Austen can chat about in her very British accent is who has the goods and who does not. 

Of course, this is what reading does best, the instant transport thing, out of our life into somebody else's story and then sometimes, finding ourself. Still, it has not made for a restful summer, Ma whipping up corn mush night after night and not an organic artisan sourdough loaf in sight. Like I said, a little too close to home.


I guess I was thinking fairy tale and tall tales, not so much cold hard facts and dog eat dog, or that's the way it is kid now suck it up. Maybe a bit of  human nature slipped in for good measure, dear old Phoenix whisking the children to places they had never dreamed of on that fabulous, and so shabby chic, carpet. Maybe something sad once in awhile, something Old Yeller or Heidi, because reading takes us places that Spongebob and Scooby do not: places we imagine in our dreams and feel deep in our heart of hearts, but can close the book when it gets too much, or when it is really really good, read it again and again.


But who was I kidding, or maybe, I had just forgotten the part and all that huffing and puffing where they blow the house down. Which might explain what I am doing up at this hour and why I never taught my child and pray the lord my soul to take. Perhaps, however,  it is time for a lesson in conjuring his Patronus. Dementors are one thing, and as long as you can think a happy thought, you're safe. Reality, however, is another story.

potluck

In the small print, my favorite part; activists right alongside vampires and witches. Someone told me yesterday that the problem with lack of community, or really, the reason for lack of community, is that we are not all eating together. And at first that seemed funny to me, so simple and a throwback, images of long tables laden with pies and big bowls of potato salad, the menfolk wiping sweat from their brows and the womenfolk wearing aprons. Very barn-raising. Very simpler life, which as you know, if you are trying that on for size, does not come easy and simple is not a stand-in for without a hell of a lot of work too. 


Maybe the bloodsuckers and witches, their fist raising buddies marching down the road have the right idea: one teensy bite can't hurt now can it, thus the lure and again thusly, the allure. Charm, wit, a set of nice teeth will get you dinner for one, a pain in the neck, and that mortgage from signing all those pages for the 4 br/3bth masquerading as echo chamber. The heirloom graventein so lovingly polished and proffered, just one widdle bite, a closet full and a life chasing the latest must-have around the next corner, the organic free-trade sustainable vegan gluten-free gas electric hybrid Jimmy Choos making it a wee bit harder to run, plus having to haul all that stuff. But the activists, oh those cunning, sly devils the activists. One day it's polar bears, the next an oil slick, by that afternoon school lunches and PETA against pet parades. And Howdy Doody retro-sized as the latest trojan horse with a good speech or two and saying whatever the people want to hear, even a yes we can on its own replaying reel.


Which is why I am reading Jane Austen this summer, trying to make some sense and hoping for anything plain and sensible, one minute you go Mr. Darcy! and the next, what a shlemeel and please grow a spine, those manners and who can talk with whom and whom has the biggest endowment thus whom can one marry, or sit beside at dinner. And how the line between pride and prejudice is such a fine one, and probably spelled out in the fine print between bloodsuckers and march holders, and american as apple sunbaked and drizzled with free-range lavender honey. 

european vacation

Sometimes you just need to get away and so we did. And it was wonderful, and a beautiful day, and with the perspective that getting away provides, the view back across the strait and home shining in a bit of a brighter light. For one, we had no idea so close and really, so easy to just walk on the ferry and across you go. A day without the car meant walking downtown and to uptown and a really wonderful smallish farmer's market, a tour of the boathouse after we pressed our noses to see inside and the guy waved us in (with a charming and inquisitive child in tow we also procured a free lean-in through the backdoor to see the 1868 kitchen of a house-museum and were welcomed aboard a schooner preparing to cast off for a quick tour of the boat, thanks to aforementioned charming child and his penchant for small brown and white dogs, this one named Mickey and the captain's first mate); all the walking sans l'auto the European part. 


Sometimes you forget the things you love, or the things that make your heart do that twittery jumpstart, which is why they invented vacations and Paris in the spring, and rental villas in Tuscany. And those heart shaped beds in the Poconos, so Americaine and so beside the point; if you are in love it's not the darn bed and if you aren't, ce la vie, the shape's not going to make up the difference.


In my case, my true loves have been found on water or at least, in the sand beside it, and one in every port: boats, and nearly every shape and kind. And since yesterday I am in love with a forty year-old peapod that was built by hand then rowed from Lummi Island to Ketchikan, a tad splintery with age and adventure (my favorite kind, rascally yes, sleek and slicked back with full throttle motor, a decided non), also whatever that agile Kennedy clan America's cup thing was in full sail out there, an entire boathouse of eights with some gorgeous Pococks amongst the crew, and one shell in particular christened Orange Crush I would love to get my hands on, er, my hands on the oars and into the water. I would know exactly what to do with it, having rowed around the block a time or two.


Of course at the end of the day it never comes down to the flashy ones with the mahogany decks and the impressive masts. And so a small yellow one that looked right up our alley and when charming child saw her and cried I love it! I knew exactly what he meant, and felt, having been down that road or river, lake, pond, sound, around the bay and down the coast, my heart skittering when I see a particular curve, lapstrake! the perfect set of oars or the perfect tiny mast. You think you are meant for each other, that you could go places and see many things and that one without the other could not possibly have the same meaning. Life may not be a bowl of cherries, but limones we know, and also, if we had one, exactly what we would do.

first the good news

It lands in your lap, out of the blue. Maybe you had been hoping, keeping your fingers crossed, wished on that shooting star. Still, no way to know for sure or even if, and not counting on it. And it could definitely go either way so a bit of eyes closed to the darker side and only a nod at going there. And when the numbers match, the answer is what you want it to be, it falls out of the sky or plumps the inbox, the envelope hidden between the utility bill and the credit card offer, the fact that it fell your way is good news and, as they say, like a breath of fresh air.


No surprise that bad news is then a sock to the gut and it sucks, having the wind knocked out of your sails and a bubble burst or maybe watching it all go up in flames and nothing left. And also, being blind-sided and maybe out of the blue as well, didn't see it coming or perhaps, just really hoped the door would swing your way. Which is why we are told that we must roll with the punches, pick ourselves up and dust our bruised selves off, and heave ho back into the saddle we must go. 


A few words on rejection. Actually, a name, and someone who knows lots about it. Thank god for J.K. Rowling and being told, and many times, one biographer speaking of nigh twenty, that her charming story was not suitable, nor worthy of, hardly likely, not even a smidge likely, a snowball's chance in hell, half a chance, a shot at, gonna happen, no need to start phoning the relatives, don't quit your day job, not hardly an iota of it ever ever happening in her wildest dreams of dreams, of being published. And that is almost the best part, notwithstanding Snape in the end good news and bad, which is the intersection of self interest and loving something beyond one's self; not a pretty place and what life is all about really and also, all about each of us. But that's another story. No, what better story than unknown and on her last leg and at wit's end and then one n word after the other, smug and certain and, as the story goes, pitifully wrong.

So when the naysayers cry "Nay!" yeah, back in the saddle you must go but only if you look on the bright side. In my case weeds and a certain new and unforeseen profession and yes, it did land in my lap, and not all that pleasant, what with the nettles and blackberries like some alien octopussian beast. Day job: weed picker, not what I had planned or ever thought, or dreamed of. Gas to fill the Rover, food to fill our bellies, kibble for the cats: yeah, priceless, but at least now we can almost pay for it. So thank god for weeds and the people who want them pulled from their gardens, and also, a pair of decent leather gloves. And sunscreen.

And, as the story goes, so many weeds to pull but she did, her day job, and in the wee hours just kept at it. One paper airplane after another, out to the world and maybe, cleared for landing onto the desk with the thumb's up on the sticky notes.


And on the bright side lunch on a very nice lawn under a quite very nice plum tree and I am quite sure the billionaire from Bellevue who owns that lawn and that tree has quite very likely never sat there in the shade on a hot summer day, under the soft fragrance of ripening plums and had lunch. A shame, but of course, there are the Smith and Hawken chaises in the back, and that is the view of the water and also, maybe better cell reception and closer to the fridge or the comforts of home away from home. And this is fine: the view is great either way.


The good news is, that life, or say, in one particular case which I might mention is my particular case having been down that bumpy, dusty, a few ruts and a few more detours, the rejection road myself (I'd like to thank the Academy for giving us one more chance to add names to the list of the club in which those now and forevermore unemployed agents, editors, and publishers who told Ms. Rowling the Harry Potter story was trite, too long, too serious, not serious enough etc etc you've heard the story,  reside; or stew. Hopefully, they stew) is a crap shoot and a game of chance. So forget the conspiracy theory, heads together plotting against or the making it so no way or holding you back or out to get. That is not life. That is a bad big budget movie and over-priced popcorn, and yes, why did they make it and yes, evidently a bit of botox and a stand in but no matter, at the end of the day it sucks, takes you nowhere and with a bad taste in your mouth. 


Which is why we love Indie films. And real stories, told by real people, those sorry, no thanks crumpled and tossed just adding fuel to the fire and inspiration, which does not just fall out of the sky but is conjured by belief: belief of course, a simple spell, and everything is forever changed.