Little Lego set before heading into Vampyre castle
The house is full of little boys yelling out “Wow! Cool!” and “Sticker help, mom!” Grey is on bag six of seven of the Lego Vampyre Castle, and Thane has completed “Spider-Man’s Doc Ock Ambush”, “Genosian Starfighter”, “Space Police” and is attempting to open “Droid Escape”. Suffice it to say, we’re having an amazingly awesome Christmas morning.
Doc Ock’s Ambush
As I waited for the kids to fall asleep last night, I pulled some pictures off the camera. These include Grey’s Christmas concert and Christmas Eve at Grandma’s house with Cousin Alec!
I’m not a huge puzzle-doer. Years have elapsed without my doing a single puzzle. But this time of year, I get the urge to do puzzles. It comes back to family. You see, this is the time of year when I have multiple, unscheduled days with people to whom I am related. My sons are no longer in need of constant babysitting, nor have that toddler’s impulse to destroy all that is laid before them. (Although they are forces for chaos and entropy – you should see what happens to a formerly clean room SECONDS after they enter it.)
My family, during my teenage to young adult years, would often do a big puzzle when we all came home from our far-flung lives. There was the massive medieval sayings puzzle (still a favorite!), the three golden magi puzzle (so much of the same color!) and others lost to the mists of time. The glorious thing about a puzzle during the holidays is what it does for the family. Done right, the puzzle is in a place where people pass and invites them to linger. One person sits down to see if they can finish the horse’s head, another person joins them. They sit together, in companionable silence, or chatting. There’s no pressure to “make conversation”, but the conversation likely ebbs and flows. They are not trapped behind a screen or page – mentally isolated from the others around them. But neither are they thrust into the chaos of the activities that swirl around the holidays. And when the holiday is finished – if the puzzle is too – there is a shared sense of purpose, activity and accomplishment. And there are a wealth of small, shared minutes together.
I realized this, of course, when I had a baby and such an activity became impossible. Sitting quietly became an aspiration. Small pieces that could be lost? Inviting tragedy. I longed for the chatting and conversation and the careful piecing of puzzles.
My brother was born on December 20th. My grandmother came to stay that Christmas during my mother’s wait. Family legend is that when my mother went in to labor, she refused to go to the hospital until the puzzle was done so that my grandmother wouldn’t fret. As a consequence, the delivering doctor barely beat my brother to the hospital. (Hey mom – what puzzle was that? Did you save it?)
Impossible puzzle with bonus: a picture of me I like!
This Thanksgiving, I thought it was TIME. My four year old, who might be the Destroyer of Puzzles, is actually a great puzzle aficionado. (He calls himself the Puzzle Master.) Indeed – he’s a bigger contributor to even a 1000 piece puzzle than you might consider likely for a preschooler. At Thanksgiving I reviewed the scant grownup puzzle options in the cupboard. There was a 600 piece mosaic puzzle, a thousand piece snowman and a 400 piece satellite photo of our neighborhood. I’d been looking forward to doing the neighborhood one, and figured I could have some fun roping my neighbors into joining me, so pulled it out.
OMG. It was the hardest puzzle ever. The colors were practically identical. The pieces were barely differentiated in shape. It was the Bataan death march of puzzles. We had many “false positives” that were extensive to unwind, and nearly went blind peering over the puzzle. Adam and I stayed up WAY TOO LATE one night to finally finish it. Such a sense of accomplishment! We took pictures. Which was good – Grey accidentally destroyed it the next morning looking at it.
This Christmas, I planned ahead and bought a (hopefully much easier) thousand piece Christmas scene. We’ve set it up just off the living room next to the “gold tree” with floor pillows. The family wanders past and does a section, then wanders off to play. My sweet Thane – prince of puzzles and shapes – sits next to me and pieces together the scenes. He needs help organizing the pieces to get sections together, but his sense of shape, color and fit is astonishing. We sit next to the glimmering tree and sing Christmas songs together, chatting.
The cycle is renewed, the wheel turns, and the new generation takes up the strains of the old.
The skies are dark outside Boston tonight. The falling drizzle drives sideways, pushing low-clouds fast across deserted crosswalks. The air is heavy with portents and low barometric pressure. The golden-dark leaves swirl to timely doom, their frenetic fall briefly illuminated by pockets of streetlamps. An unprecedented storm, half hurricane, half nor’easter, and named after my Great-Aunt takes aim at the East Coast like a high caliber bullet: sure to do damage even if the details remain uncertain.
Already, school has been cancelled tomorrow. Daycare and afterschool were the first to throw in the towel. Both HR departments have sent out notes saying we should continue to do all our work, but should do it from home instead of the office. Even the folks who come to clean my house called to say that Wednesday would be better than Monday.
The hatches are battened. The lawn furniture is put away. The basement has gallons of fresh water stocked away. Every one of our multitude of electronic devices is plugged in, getting fully charged. We’ve never lost power here. We’ve definitely never lost water. I don’t think we will this week either, but my. It sure seems like a Big Deal.
I wrote yesterday about the memories imprinted with music. Similarly, there are a few books that belong with events. Chrsistmas with “The Dark is Rising”. Spring with “The Secret Garden”. My very favorite of Madeleine L’Engle’s Time Quartet is A Swiftly Tilting Planet. Meg lies, pregnant, in an attic room in a small New England town while Charles Wallace traverses time and realities. The scene is set in very late autumn, with a post-seasonal hurricane barreling down and a very present threat of the end of the world. Of course, there are also unicorns, Puritans, Celtic warriors, noble natives and a good Civil War reference or two, as any good novel should have.
So if you were wondering “What book should I read during the hurricane?” now you know: A Swiftly Tilting Planet. Maybe I could convince Grey to read it tomorrow, in his day of leisure with school cancelled. Hm. Perhaps.
Grey is intrigued by the hurricane. He has, coincidentally, been studying a lot about hurricanes at school. Here is one of his three book reports on the topic that have made it home so far:
A book report on Hurricane Hugo
Thane, who did not get out of PJs once on this, the day of his 4th birthday, would like to know if hurricanes are a gift-giving occasion. If so, he would like it to be known that for his birthday he would like “little” Legos. Star Wars. Chop chop. (Don’t worry, I’ll give the four year report soon.)
I am somewhat grateful to the storm for the reprieve from normalcy. I was planning on working from home tomorrow anyway, because I have a very large, very thinky thing that is due on Tuesday for work. But now I get my whole family clustered around me (including, thank heavens, my mother-in-law who will be performing the bulk of the child care). I look forward to cozy, blustry time with my family, since Boston is not likely to get much worse than power-outages. (And even with a power outage and no internet access, I should be able to get my work thingy done. Win!)
So let the winds with their swiftness come, and put a pause on our busy lives for a day or two. May all remain safe, warm and loved throughout the storm.
What are you doing to be ready? Do you like or fear events like this? Do you have particular reading, or music, set aide for while the winds howl?
September is one of my favorite months. I love the crispness of the air, the brightness of the sun, the blueness of the sky and the sense of change and possibility that rides on the adventurous breezes. It is back-to-school, new-pencil time. I often return to Tolkien, the progenitor of so many of my childhood daydreams, in September – fondly remembering that Bilbo, Frodo and I are separated in birthday by a scant day. (There was a time in my life where I attempted to figure out whether if, what with time zones and all, I could in any way be considered to be born on September 22nd. There is not, for the record.)
And here we are, on the first welcome day of autumn after a delicious and delightful summer, looking at my birthday. My thirty-fourth birthday.
My mother in law painted my dining room for my 34th birthday
Is there any birthday less consequential than your 34th? I’m no longer young, but not quite middle aged yet. I feel no biological clock ticking down because I’ve had my children. I still can’t be president. It’s not divisible by any exciting numbers. There are no (known) science fiction or fantasy references that make it significant (like 42). It’s just another birthday.
But this year, I find myself wildly and unreasonably excited by it. Look at that! I’m having a birthday! Isn’t that marvellous?! Maybe we should have cake! Although I still find myself melancholy on reflection of my lost little kitty, and although I have been somewhat tired and worn of late, my birthday is still (unexpectedly) exciting to me.
I reflect on why this might be. I come to the conclusion it’s because, for the first time in many years, there’s something I actually want for my birthday that I do not have and have been waiting to obtain for months. A new guitar. A grownup-size guitar. A guitar that says, “Yes, Brenda is really actually playing the guitar now.” A pretty guitar with a graceful body and mother-of-pearl inlay. (I hesitate to confess how much my heart was set on mother-of-pearl inlay.) A guitar with a darkly beautiful sound and an easy way of laying in my arms. I have sought, daydreamed and wanted, and for my birthday I have obtained my heart’s desire.
There are other things too, of course, that make my birthday delightful. There is the delight of a guilt-free chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and rather fewer than 34 candles. There is the delight of watching my sons learn the joy of giving. The New England Patriots are even obliging by playing an 8 pm game on my birthday (although one ardently hopes that this week’s performance is better than last’s – UGH! Eds note: QUADRUPLE UGH!).
Finally, this day initiates the fall for me – coming as it does so close to the equinox. Bring on the orange and brown palette. Let there be pumpkin stickers. May the fridge hold apple cider and the kitchen be fragrant with boiling apple butter. Let us open the windows during the day and close them during the night. Let me wake to the sound of the furnace turning on to heat the room for morning ablutions. Let there be birthdays and Halloweens and Cthulu games and apple picking and Mocksgiving and Thanksgiving and Advent and Christmas. I am ready.
For lo: I am 34. I am not young. I am not old. I am not even – quite yet – middle aged. I have learned how much there is to love of fall, and stand ready to lay down another layer of memory to build the beautiful patina of age.
My eldest son is going to his first day of first grade today.
The traditional first day of school picture
The other night I had the mother of a kindergartener at my son’s school over for dinner. She was asking me how it all worked. “Did you pack a drink?” “Do they have microwaves?” “Do you walk the kids into the school?” “Have they ever forgotten to pick your kids up from afterschool?” For many of the questions I know the answers “No, they’ve never once forgotten my kids” but for others… “Grey!” I called. “What do you drink during snack time?” With the cool confidence of one who sees Kindergarten in the rear-view-mirror, he gave us the lowdown on how things were supposed to work, how things actually worked and how to optimize the Kindergarten snack-drink experience.
Grey’s new “Back to school” wardrobe, which he picked himself
I suppose I should have few qualms sending him to first grade He’s academically prepared (hey, we even know where the over-the-summer homework is and it’s even done and it wasn’t all done this week! WIN!). He’s socially prepared, although he’s bummed that many of his friends are in the other first grade class. He’s confident. He’s looking forward to returning to school.
And oh, my friends, he is so very big and grown.
Those of you who have been reading for a long time remember me talking about being pregnant with little Alpha. You remember the “holy cow are they really letting me go home with this baby?!”. The toddler phase. The barfing phase. The preschool phase. Becoming a big brother. Reading. Becoming a fully fleshed person. Now I find myself gobsmacked by my son’s capability and confidence. When and how did he learn to do all these marvelous things he does?
For example, Grey earned $32 this summer feeding neighbors’ cats, watering plants, weeding gardens and bringing in the mail. I will confess that I still had a role to play (what can I say… he is too short to reach one mail box and one key is too hard for him to turn). But I sat on the porch and let him do his work for the most part. He and I had long conversations about this money he earned. I played payday lender and threatened to charge him a 10% daily interest rate if he really wanted to spend the money before he’d gotten it. He opted not to. We talked about giving a portion to the church. He owed his brother a portion for helping with the weeding. And finally, I took him down this week to create his very own savings account at the bank.*
The earner/saver/checkbook holder
We went camping this weekend, and Grey was a marvellous help. He helped his brother play Legos. He swam (head underwater and everything!) in the lake. He was reliable and dependable. He (GASP!) went to the bathroom all by himself. In possibly the most astonishing evolution of all, he also announced every night that he was tired and was heading to bed now, thankyouverymuch. And then… he did!
Grey still has his faults, for sure. There are still many things we have to teach him, beyond a doubt. But I am so proud of the person he is and the person he is becoming.
Grey learning to type
*As an aside, I am offended on his behalf about the kind of account we set up. Perhaps I should have done more investigation. He isn’t allowed to withdraw money from his own account until he is 21. What’s up with that? He could be drafted by the army to be sent to war when he’s 18. He can vote for our leaders. He would be convicted as an adult of any crime. But he can’t touch the money that he himself earned? That’s… shameful. I wanted to go to the bank we walk past all the time to give him a concrete connection to his money, but I dislike the account we set up immensely. I was also disappointed that they didn’t have any children’s financial literacy documents or anything.
A one day marriage designation given by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts
This past weekend was full of the celebrations of love and marriage. On Saturday, I had a (likely!) once in a lifetime experience. Two of my dear friends announced their engagement last fall – to my delight. When they asked me if I would be willing to perform the ceremony of their wedding, I was even MORE delighted. I am ordained (as a Ruling Elder and a Deacon – for those of you who are Presbyterian Polity specialists and wanted to know. Of course, most people I know who are keenly interested in Presbyterian Polity are my family and my church – both of whom already know. I digress.) But the kind of ordination I have is to serve in specific ways (in the governance and service of a church) and they don’t count for doing weddings. So before I said yes, I asked my pastor if it was ok for me to perform a wedding. With his blessing (and letter of recommendation), it was full steam ahead!
Massachusetts has a neat program where once a year a person may petition for and recieve a license to perform exactly one wedding on one day for two people. You fill out a form between 6 months and 6 weeks ahead of time, including a letter of reference from someone whose marriage you are NOT performing. I was _very_ impressed by the Commonwealth’s handling of this: they communicated in a timely and useful way. They were clear about the requirements and steps. And they were very fast in getting my approval and letter.
Shiny certificate in hand, speech written, extremely-dfficult-to-shop-for-dress put on, I showed up at the Arabian Horse Inn in Sudbury two hours early, and with two of my three boys. Grey was the “ringleader” for the ceremony, so his presence was required. It was a stifling hot day – 93 degrees on our way in with very high humidity. We did a quick run through of the service, we lounged around, the bride and groom disappeared to get dressed and suddenly “Froggy Went a’Courtin'” was playing and a lovely pair was walking over the bridge to the service. With a deep breath I launched into the service.
It is a wonderful thing to be at the front because you can watch people’s faces as they see their son and daughter, their siblings, their dear friends joined to each other in marriage. All the faces in front of me reflected back joy from the faces of the two marriagees.I got to call my son forward to bring the rings (he actually got to carry the real things, and to keep the box afterwards). I spoke about my favorite metaphor for love in marriage – the garden. I pronounced them husband and wife. I told them to kiss each other. It was over in just the right amount of time, at which point I finally got to tear up myself.
There was joy, my friends. And then there was cheese, dinner and dancing. I even got to sign the marriage license, which is pretty cool. And Grey was PERFECTLY behaved. He made friends of the staff of the Inn, whom he talked into letting him ride on the tractor and mix the punch according to his own recipe. He was excellent.
We went home tired and satisfied that night. It was a great day.
Now all of you who know me well are wondering… where is your other son?
Well.
Six weeks ago or so I asked my friend and babysitter if she could take Thane basically all day on Saturday (given that schedule). She said she would and there was much rejoicing. I pointed out that if she wanted him at her house, that was perfectly reasonable and we could accommodate it. But then, two weeks ago while I was in Ashland, she called. “Hey, I was just calling because I’m going to be vacationing in Maine the weekend coming up.” At this point, I was lamenting in my mind and wondering what else I could do. She continued, “So I was wondering if you would mind if I brought Thane with me and kept him overnight at our beach house. You guys could come up on Sunday and go to the beach too.”
SCORE!!!!!!!
My sons took turns, the week before, being jealous of each other. “Why does Thane get to go with her for a sleepover?” “Why does Grey get to go to a wedding?” but in the end each kid went joyfully to their special event. Sunday morning – at a reasonable hour – we got dressed and drove up to Maine. After the application of some sunscreen (subpar*, as it turned out) we all hit the beach. I got to do something that has been a fantasy of mine for six years…. go to the beach with a babysitter so I can swim with my husband. We had a BLAST in the waves at York beach while my kids had a blast with the babysitter-friend, who is one of the very few people in the world capable of convincing me that she’s really enjoying taking care of my kids. We chatted together. We lounged in the beach. Adam and I played this game where he would shoot the intertube I was in into a breaker and I would launch back at him. Superb.
Then we all went out for dinner, where I got an incredibly cheap lobster and Grey got the champion for his age division at Pacman.
Pacman contestents
That lovely Sunday together as a happy family, right after that lovely Saturday together as a community celebrating love. Well… that Sunday was the 12 anniversary of the day Adam and I stood before friends and family and declared to everyone that we loved each other, and we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. Twelve years, my friends. Many people talk about the ups and downs of marriage. I feel like our dozen years has had many, many ups and very few downs. If tomorrow was my wedding day, I would make my vows just as (or more) enthusiastically as I did 144 months ago.
Engagement photo ’99. I didn’t have a wedding picture, but this was taken after we were engaged.
*I think it may not have been waterproof, since those of use who used it turned to a crispy lobster red. I’m juuuust about at the peeling stage now. Yay.
Thane has gone camping every summer of his life. He was born in October, and by the time his first May rolled around I decided that it was time to go camping! (As an aside: why did we NOT go camping for the 5 summers between graduation and having kids? What was I so busy doing? It’s a mystery.) I trundled the kids (and the pack ‘n’ play!) into a car and by gum, we went camping. His first camping trip was at nine months. We went camping when he was 18 months. And 27 months. Two years ago – at 1.75, 4.75 and 33.75 years of age
Last summer, my dearest husband and I began to wonder if we even liked camping (the answer being – we definitely like it by ourselves!) It was tough camping with such little kids. And as much as I love camping, it did require toughing. At 9 months, Thane wasn’t – you know – sleeping through the night. When he was 1, he would wake up at 5:45 hungry and bored. At 2, he still so desperately needed his naps and had such a miserable time taking them. There were the diapers. The constant vigilance. The sleep deprivation. The whining. By an objective measure, it wasn’t really… you know… fun. The kids were too small to swim unless we were physically holding them. Too small to go boating. Too small to go fishing. Too small to go for more than a mile-long leisurely hike. Too small to make them do the dishes. Sometimes camping was refreshing, or satisfying. There were glorious moments. It broke the tedium of every day the same. But by the time it was pack-up time, we were really ready to go.
Thane at 2+. I miss those golden curls.
But I had faith that if I just toughed it out, camping with my sons would eventually be awesome. I mean, I love camping. I love the tent. I love the smell of woodsmoke. I love the call of the loons on the lake. I love lying in a dewing field watching the stars come out. I love finding sticks for kindling, swimming, hiking, reading and discovering cool spiderwebs. I mean, isn’t this what having boys is supposed to be all about, this ecstasy of outdoorsiness? All I had to do was get to that moment – that trip – where it all clicked.
And folks, I’m here to tell you THIS WAS IT. We went camping this last weekend, and it was awesome. The weather was awesome. By dint of making reservations in January, we had a truly amazing camping spot. And the kids were so fun. We skipped naps. The kids slept until 8 am. They paid attention to our “how to make a fire” lecture. They entertained themselves. Grey rode a bike without training wheels for the first time. He read a chapter book. Thane used his “playing quietly by himself” skills. Grey swam without flotation devices, made friends, and periodically wandered back to the campsite to check in. Thane went the entire weekend without any potty training accidents. My sons summitted their first mountain (Black Cap Peak). It was just great. I sat by the fire, watching the water, listening to the loons on the lake, hanging out contentedly at the beach, and eating all the s’mores myself because for some reason my crazy children don’t like s’mores.
I’m sure not every camping trip will be this awesome, but this one really was. So for those of you wondering when it’s a good age to bring your kids camping… I vote for 3 and 9 months.
I was, perhaps, unduly influenced by Tolkien in my youth. And by “unduly influenced” I really mean “secretly spent Junior High living in Middle Earth” and “can still recite Elvish poetry”. I was raised in tall and wild mountains with tall and wild trees and short and prosaic people, (Ah, Tuffy Suter!) although one or two of them might have passed as Bjoernings. My first love – you would dream dreams too if you read Tolkien in this place
In one scene in “The Fellowship of the Ring” (skipped over in the movies) Legolas is warned by Galadriel of the lure of the sea – that once he hears the gulls cry he will never again know peace. Of course, Legolas does not then say, “Right ho! I’ll just head back through the Mines of Moria and forget this whole Fellowship business.” He travels the Paths of the Dead and in the course of commandeering some slave ships hears those fated gulls.
I always thought this bit was lame because pffft. The sea. Lamesauce. I was all about the mountains: high, majestic, completely familiar and yet unknowable, omnipresent and unscalable with volcanic secrets buried deep in their hearts and an aspect of icy glory overlooking millennia of maudlin human history. Give me the mountains, the forests, the deep glades and rushing streams and I will be content. I lift my eyes unto the hills. Living between the mighty Mt. Rainier and the sliver of the Pacific Ocean known as Puget Sound, my heart could have been swayed either way. But I turned my back on the sea and gave my heart to the hills.
This has remained true even as my coastal allegiance has switched. I spent four years of college in New London – gazing out of Long Island Sound – and only ventured to the shore a handful of times. I live now within 10 miles of the Atlantic Coast in an old and storied land, and over the past few years – again – I have only ventured to the seltzered strand a handful of times. When I drag my complaining menfolk to wilderness, I drag them to the lakes and “mountains” of New England. (I spent several years rather disdaining the label mountains for the worn down nubs of granite in New England, but closer proximity has given me rather a more grudging admiration.)
But then this new job, and this new commute that have driven so much of my wordcount in 2012. And as part of this urban 2 mile adventure I undertake every day, I pass over a tiny slip of the sea – the shivered remnants of the once great Fort Point Channel. It is the ocean in its most bounded – a sliver of barren water bounded on either side of my commute by iron bridges, commuters and noisy trucks.
My seducer
And yet that sliver of water is to me as the gulls were to my dear Legolas. It commands my attention when I pass it. Is it high tide, low tide or some in between state? I gaze at the mussels and barnacles encrusting the stations on the bridge. On dark dull mornings, the water is a choppy gray. On bright cheerful afternoons, a sparkling blue. The waters carry with the mysteries of the ocean, unbounded, unknown, unplumbed and it lures my imagination. As I once gazed out my window and imagined myself trekking on dusty trails through quiet groves, now I imagine myself the intimate of those vast waters. I see a slowly growing friendship between myself and the mysteries of the deep – or at least of the New England coast.
This summer I’ve managed already to cadge an invitation with a friend to spend at least a weekend close enough to hear crashing waves in your sleep. Gloucester and its beaches are a quick jaunt away, when the heat of summer weighs down the suburbs. Perhaps some chance will come to gaze on Maine’s rocky coast and investigate tide pools. And my summer plans tentatively include a few days on the other coast – the mists and rocks of the Oregon coast.
To the Sea, to the Sea! The white gulls are crying,
The wind is blowing and the white foam is flying.
West, west away, the round sun is falling.
Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling,
The voice of my people that have gone before me?
I will leave, I will leave the woods that bore me;
For our days are ending and our years are failing.
I will pass the wide waters lonely sailing.
Long are the waves on the Last Shore falling,
Sweet are the voices of the Lost Isle calling,
In Eressea, in Elvenhome that no man can discover,
Where the leaves fall not: land of my people forever!
Ah, Christmas! We are at the height of the fun and joyful years with our kids. The Christmas Eve service was excellent. Thane clutched a Christmas card from my aunt and uncle with a scene of the nativity in his hands, periodically lifting it to give “cute baby Jesus” a kiss as he wide-eyed and wiggly watched the tableau of unfold before him, punctuated by familiar carols. After the service, the boys laid out cookies for Santa (soo…. many… cookies!!!!) and put on their brand new Scooby Doo pajamas and soft-footed ascended the stairs. Although Grey had expressed his scientific intention to run some double-blind studies around the existence of Santa, he was out light.
Morning dawned bright, joyful, and not unreasonably early. 7 am is a perfectly fine time for Christmas. A vast ocean of glittering gifts was laid out under the festive fir. And oh joy unbounded! Santa had come! The stockings were resplendent and overflowing. He even put three Hershey’s kisses in the tiny little knit stocking for Puppy. He left a note thanking the boys for their excellent behavior over the course of the year. Then the great unwrapping began.
Thane’s most-played with gifts were an astronaut helmet, a sword and shield and a light saber. He also got a bunch of games, books, some puzzles (which have made a resurgence in popularity) and a bunch of other stuff I don’t remember.
Grey got the sword, shield and light saber too. What fun is it to get a sword if you have no one to battle, I ask you? He also got a camera, a DS game, a bunch of board games, books, and crafts.
Adam got an XBox 360 with Kinect, which may require us to do some home renovation in order to get enough room to actually play it. Grey’s really enjoyed it so far. Adam is deep into Arkham City. I’m sure you’re all glad to hear that he’s out there protecting civilization from evil and complaining about how he’s not nearly as good with an XBox controller as with a PC.
I got a book about Peculiar Kids (from Grey), some new pajamas, two new cookbooks, a book on learning German (now slightly less relevant than when I asked for it), and a DROID X phone. Heh. Heh heh. I have joined the digital revolution folks! I’m like the last member of the technorati who doesn’t get email on their phone. I was so ready for this. So now I’m in the long process of configuring, personalizing, etc. I’m PSYCHED.
It was a great Christmas, and everyone was cheerful and no one melted down and it was neither too many nor too few gifties and there was joy and love and coffee and pancakes.
Then we went to church (hey! Did you know that when Christmas falls on a Sunday church is open?! True story!) and the kids sang with us and looked cute and didn’t complain about being there even a little bit.
It was a happy time and will be a happy memory. These are the true richnesses in life. And now I have a week to shovel out the accumulated tasks piling up since I had surgery in September. If I’m far overdue on something for you, watch your inbox.
One sad note amid the cheer, however. On Christmas Eve, I was talking with my mother-in-law about how much we were looking forward to having her here. Half an hour later, my husband tells me that she’s on her way to the ER. She snapped her upper right arm. It’s a clean break – a best case – but a conversation with her orthopedist says she can’t risk her 3 year old grandson until like MARCH. I really like my MIL and her visits are heaven for us, so this is a royal bummer for me, and obviously an even bigger one for her.
One humbug in an otherwise great season.
So… how about you? What great loot did you get? Was it a warm and joyful season? What was the best part?
Mt. Chocorua as seen from White Lake State Park (last year!)
I’m a mountain girl. I always have been. For most of my life I’ve lived within 100 miles of the sea. For the last 15 years, I’ve lived within 10 miles. Entire years have been strung together when I haven’t once gone to a beach or gazed over the crashing waves. Back in my dorm room, in college, where other people had pictures of their dogs or their high school friends, my wall was plastered with Mt. Rainier.
Mt. Rainier is 14,411 feet tall. If you ask me what the proper height for a real mountain would be, I’d venture that between 14 and 15 thousand feet is just about right. Anything you can drive to the top of can categorically not be a mountain. This was, at least, my opinion for years. But it has mysteriously come to pass that I am living in New England, and have lo these fifteen years. And while I might make condescending noises about the so called “mountains” that top out at a piffulous five thousand feet (barely a hill!), my sons are New Englanders and my weekends for the forseeable future will be spent in New England.
For three summers, now, we have camped at White Lake State Park, which is a lovely combination of rustic and convenient. We have driven over the Kankamangus on our “Car Walks” in foul and fair weather. And I’ve been lured, I confess, to thinking about hiking those trails branching off appealingly to the sides of the road.
This weekend, a strange collection of events made it possible for my beloved husband and I go camping up there, BY OURSELVES. After the 4th of July trip, replete with great whining, we were wondering whether we actually LIKED camping. (In retrospect, camping is less fun with a massively swollen knee and several torn ligaments – FYI.) The answer by the way is yes – we do like camping!
Yesterday after a leisurely and late morning, we went to the ranger station for the White Mountain National Forest for advice on trails and to buy a parking pass. The advice was greatly needed, since Irene had actually closed the Kankamangus. The ranger pointed us to a moderate 4 – 6 hour hike, which was exactly what we’d asked for.
Little did we know he was a maniac. The route in question was originally intended to summit Mt. Chocorua by way of Champney Falls. It gained roughly 3000 feet over the course of 3 miles. Much of the trail looked like this:
Our heroine, winded, less than half way up.
Other sections of the trail were steep and had bad footing.
Sadly, good sense caused us to turn back .6 of a mile short of the summit of Mt. Chocorua. (There were thundrous looking clouds overhead and I was concerned regarding whether we had enough daylight to safely navigate our way down.) But altogether, it was a splendid hike. I’m delighted to report that my knee, shredded as it is, endured remarkably and gave me hardly any trouble the entire hike. It was a lovely farewell to mobility for me.
Of course, drying my foot in the shower that night (see also: civilized campground) I managed to activate my torn meniscus and I am once again limping and moaning, but that’s not the fault of the Champney Falls trail!
I have backpacked the Wonderland Trail around Mt. Rainier – much of it more than once (and sans ACL, by the way). I have hoisted 40 pound packs over 7000 foot high glacier-ridden saddles between great mountains. I have watched eagles soar beneath my feet and clouds break on the shores of alpine meadows like waves. This trail was as mean as any I have known, and I have known many.
Over time I have come to realize that these tame, worn-down, solid, glacier-riven granite mountains of my adopted home are, perhaps, shorter than their younger Western siblings. You may be able to drive your station wagon to the top of Mt. Washington. Coming down from the Kankamangus, you may have your choice of (bad) burgers and beer to slake your hunger and thirst. But for all that, these are no less mountains. Their trails are no less treacherous and difficult. Indeed, perhaps they are more so. My beloved Cascades flaunt their glory and majesty. The White Mountains are crafty and guilesome in their old age, revealing their splendour more in their rainment than in their bodies. But, grudgingly, I am coming to respect them. Perhaps even to like them.
My Truant Pen 