Aromathera-peeeee

Blogging compulsion. (Does anyone actually read these things?)…Stream of consciousness to clear my conscience to abandon blog for the weekend…Topic? Hmmm… (sniff, sniff)…got it! (Anything after the Rocky Mountain high will be a letdown, so let’s be banal—why not?)

Our kitchen smells like fish. I have no idea why. I asked Will whether there had been some sort of fish stick incident. I imagined a 3-minute lapse in adult supervision during which Ben and Pearl decided to turn over a cookie sheet full of fish sticks and smear them onto the linoleum with their bare feet, a la grape stomping. Will says he can recall no such incident. I checked the two Beta fish bowls. The blue fish and the orange fish are still alive. Tomorrow I will try refreshing their water to see if that helps…but I don’t think that’s it.

Our home office smells like pee. I’m pretty sure it’s the chair—not the one I’m sitting in; the other one. I sprayed it down with Febreeze and set it by the front door to air. (Note previous blog entry: Living with little boys—and, according to some friends, big boys also—requires extraordinary urine detection vigilance.)

It’s not just the human pee. The cat pee stinks, too. When Ginger/aka Washington/aka James the Giant Peaches ’n’ Cream Cat was living here—in addition to our usual 2, Beauty and Bobo—I purchased a super-duper odor eliminator litter box. While it has some nice filter features, it does not eliminate the need to change the actual litter, especially in the summertime, when heat and humidity accentuate every aroma in the house. Fortunately, I did pick up two new buckets of scoopable cat litter this morning at the grocery store. Unfortunately, I was rushed (and slightly wimpy) and left the fresh litter in the front seat of our trusty Tercel, which Will whisked away to B-Town for the Friday night news shift.

I’m going to sleep now—my allergen-free pillow is pleasantly unscented.

Weekend Wedding Report, Part 2: The Tourists

“This is a view to which nothing needs to be added. This scenery satisfies my soul.”—Isabella Lucy Bird (1831-1904), A Lady’s Life in the Rocky Mountains

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The Rocky Mountains are, in fact, rocky. I know this sounds silly—probably downright ditzy. But I hadn’t really thought about the fact that the terrain would be comprised of gigantic stone conglomerations every which-where. I was awestruck by the peculiar beauty of the landscape. So was Will.

“Nature finds a way, doesn’t it?” he mused.

“What do you mean?” I asked, rounding the next burnt-orange bend in the Rocky road.

“To make stuff grow—even out of rocks.”

It was true—the cliffsides were strewn with trees, shrubs and flowers. Small sunflowers lined the winding thoroughfares, the way chicory and Queen Anne’s lace border the berms of the Northeast, where we live.

The place was so strikingly pretty. The journey from Denver to Estes Park reminded me of another airport-to-destination drive. Nine years ago, I had flown to Los Angeles, rented a car, and driven up the California coast to Santa Barbara for a work-related conference. I remember laughing out loud, for 2 reasons: 1) I was driving a dinky Daewoo in a land of luxury. I had made my reservations with frugality, rather than glamour, in mind. 2) It was so breathtakingly beautiful, it seemed almost unreal. And I wondered, “Do people who live here come to take this scenery for granted? Probably. But wow!” We drove from Denver to Estes Park in a rented Kia—a smidge more horse power than the Daewoo, and only slightly sexier.

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The Elkhorn Lodge, where we stayed, was true to its name—rustic. We did have electricity and running water in our cabin, and even a working water closet. We’re fairly simple folk when it comes to housing expectations, so the Lodge suited us jist fahn. But The Stanley, it was not.

The Stanley is a rather famous, century-old, purportedly haunted hotel where a ghostly Steven King-inspired movie called The Shining was filmed in the late 1970s. It is large and grand and, according to our friends who stayed there, horrifically overpriced. However, they invited us to join them for lunch on the veranda and a dip in the hotel pool a few hours prior to the wedding we had come to witness (and, in Will’s case, officiate).

What a treat! I ordered a fantastically flavorful mango-crab-guacamole appetizer for lunch. Will enjoyed the asparagus soup. We threw caution to the wind and swam immediately afterward. The pool was very large and very warm and, surrounded by the magnificent mountains, a very lovely experience. That we were guests of the groom’s mother and stepfather, who happen to be noteworthy children’s author Sarah Stewart and acclaimed author-illustrator David Small, added to the loveliness. They are gracious hosts and fun company. (I have linked their names to Wiki articles, but http://davidsmallbooks.com/ is probably the better site for learning about them, including David Small’s upcoming graphic novel, Stitches.) Incidentally, David Small reminded me quite a lot, in appearance and mannerisms (aside from the 30-40-year age difference), of a college acquaintance of mine, David Stith. Known professionally as D.M. Stith, he is a musician who recently released his first album, entitled—eerily connecting these components of my tale—Heavy Ghost.

~

The morning after the wedding (which I blogged about yesterday but failed to mention the fabulous reception band—gotta find out their name for a link shout-out here): I decided to attend St. Bartholomew’s Episcopal Church. I belong to an evangelical Protestant congregation—that is my background and my spiritual home for the foreseeable future. But I love the liturgy of the Anglican tradition in a deep and abiding way. I worship with the Book of Common Prayer at every opportunity. St. Bart’s did not disappoint my hopes for sublimity—music and words raised in worship of the Creator of the whole realm of nature! And! I saw a black-billed magpie on my 1-mile walk to church—an everyday occurrence for many Westerners, but for a bird girl from A-Town, another delightful moment in a soul-satisfying trip.

"To Mountainous Marriages..."

For the second time so far this year, I witnessed a wedding in the mountains.

In March, I celebrated the joining of a handsome Namibian to my down-home college friend from Albany. Their Adirondack chapel service was among the most unique and lovely I have ever attended.

The Rocky Mountain-side ceremony I saw 3 days ago was also one of a kind. Not only did the majority of the guests arrive in a converted WWII Army transport vehicle provided by the host site, the Elkhorn Lodge, but this was my first and probably sole experience as “pastor’s wife.” In the state of Colorado, where couples can—if they so choose—marry themselves by signing a few simple forms, Will the non-licensed newsman guided the vows of his lifelong friend Dave to Christina, a lovely woman of Irish descent from—believe it or not—Watertown, snow capital of New York.

About 80 people attended the late afternoon nuptials mere miles from Rocky Mountain National Park. There were blessedly few frills—no bridesmaids, no groomsmen, no birdseed, no pastel mints. Just the blonde bride holding a bouquet, the bald groom holding her free hand, and the “Rev. Will Waters,” holding it together. The patchwork families and faithful friends of the couple encircled the spot. It was, at moments, quirky, comical, heart-rending…unforgettable.

Will was very nervous. I knew he would be. If he’s not talking agriculture (his main beat for the paper), public speaking makes him sweat. So the request by his buddy to fulfill this solemn service was, like the peaks surrounding us, daunting. To counteract his jitters, Will welcomed the guests a tad too enthusiastically and proceeded to project both his voice and his emotions throughout the 20-minute rite. I fell in love with him all over again as I watched him dutifully, honorably—albeit loudly—carry out the charge he had accepted out of devotion to his friend.

Dave and Christina had carefully compiled a series of readings that were meaningful to them: a prayer from Robert Louis Stevenson, a passage from Kahlil Gibran, and “Loving Cups,” an Irish tradition in which the couple toasts each other drinking honey wine (otherwise known as mead, a key beverage in the recent Harry Potter film). As often happens this time of year in that part of the Rockies, the afternoon skies sprinkled their own blessings on the wedding couple and witnesses, thus postponing the mead rite until the reception. In a gesture at once amusing and touching, Dave’s gallant brother Mark swooped to center stage, knelt down and held high a sunny yellow umbrella to shield the groom and his beloved. Only the homily and the vows were off script, and all 3 purveyors of those messages spoke earnestly, even eloquently—even Will.

He told the guests that, over the years, Dave has demonstrated remarkable allegiance to the people present, and likely more. In a society where many men seem to neglect their relationships (marriages and friendships alike), Dave has behaved counter-culturally. Every spring for the past several years, he has flown across the country, reunited with his college pals, and then driven 2 hours further to visit us and our kids. We eagerly anticipate our annual 24 hours with Dave-O (or Dah-Veed—whichever silly nickname happens to tumble out), during which the kids overwhelm him with well-intentioned offerings of used toys, hastily crayoned sketches, and other gestures of genuine affection. Meanwhile, we adults attempt to converse meaningfully in between gift presentations, screeches, shrieks, and other sound effects of lively kids. We typically talk late into the night, solving the world’s problems, as well our own. Dave is an earnest listener and a thoughtful person.

Rev. Will told the “Dearly beloved” that it was only 3 or 4 weeks into the relationship with “Little C” that Dave visited us last spring. After spilling a year’s worth of guts to Dave’s patient ears, Will finally asked: “So, how are you? Any special LLLLLadies in your life???” (A-Town readers who know Will in person can imagine the peculiar inflection and mildly teasing tone that accompanied the question.) Dave quickly, frankly replied: “Actually, I think I’ve met ‘the one.’”

And so he had. And what a gift, as Rev. Will put it. “When you meet ‘the one,’ not being with that person is simply not an option.” Okay, okay, I know—double negative. He’s not an orator, but his sentiments were well said just the same. Dave and Christina should be so blessed as to enjoy at least 12 years and 338 days of wedded…well, maybe not bliss, but goodness, as we have. May our marriages prove as immovable as the mountains. Amen.

(The touristy stuff will have to wait for a future A-Town installment. I wonder what is more difficult: To write, to paint, or to compose music while in the presence of boisterous children. This entry has come together, in stops and starts, over several hours. I do hope it lacks any ghastly gaffes.)

Writer’s Envy…and Delight

I wriggled an invite to the A-Town Rotary Club meeting this afternoon, mainly to hear USA Today columnist Craig Wilson speak. Wilson has roots in these parts, and he stays in touch with various friends, family members and classmates. One of these people convinced him to combine a Rotary speech with a hometown visit, and this is the week it worked out. As it happens, he’s here for his mother’s 90th birthday, which he wrote about in yesterday's paper.

I don’t normally pick up USA Today, but I had read Wilson’s work a few years ago in a collection of his columns called It’s the Little Things. I found his writing engaging and honest and funny…and challenging, in a “How does he do that?” kind of way. The way a Little Leaguer admires a New York Yankee or the way a beginning instrumentalist stands in awe of an orchestral musician. No, that’s not quite the right analogy. It’s the way someone somewhat practiced in a skill admires a master of it. I think you have to have actually tried something for a little while—beyond the beginner stage—before you can fully appreciate how difficult it is to get to a professional level of performance. And after you’ve been at it several years, and you’ve really, really tried to get good, you begin to truly respect the talent component. Effort will take you far, but talent, at the highest levels of accomplishment, is indispensible.

I like to write. I’ve always liked to write, as long as I can remember. (I got a perfect score on a state writing test in the fifth grade. Doesn’t that count for something? Please???) I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve had to write professionally. I was a writer/editor for my alma mater for almost a dozen years. And even now, even though my “day job” is now largely administrative, I do have duties that allow me to express myself in writing for the good of my organization and—oh, heck—the world! (I think my workplace is pretty important—life-changing, even.)

BUT! I don’t get to write my life story for a living…at least, not yet. Hearing Craig Wilson read from his book, a hilarious, heartfelt tale of trick-or-treating with his next-door neighbor Patty Miller, I found myself fighting back tears. At first, I was crying from the effort of restraining my laughter. I didn’t feel I should guffaw as a guest among the Rotarians. Then, as I made my way to my car after the speech, I got choked up by the beauty of what I had just witnessed: an ordinary person, with an ordinary background, weaving extraordinarily rich stories of the beauty and hilarity of life. I felt a pang of jealousy, but mostly a surge of gratitude for the Simple Gifts…the Little Things.

Random, unrelated YouTube referral, courtesy of Auntie Jean—a funky remix of Lionel Ritchie’s “Hello” for us ’80s kids: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CBe6Os55ceM

Tuesday Tidbits: Tight Muscles and Happy Endings

I rejoined the local ladies’ gym this morning. First elliptical workout in 4 months. I’d rather be running, but my pelvic injury seems to need more time to heal before I go pounding it to oblivion. Back to low-impact for me. I don’t think I’ve blogged about this, but I slipped on the ice on February 19th. I caught myself, but the sudden jerking motion in my hip caused a severe strain on my psoas muscle. Being a runner, I continued running anyhow…well, as soon as the weather turned spring-like, I ran. For a few months I got by with stretching and regular chiropractic adjustments. But after the A-Town 5k in June, I decided to really address the problem. I sought out some massage therapy, and I’ve been do my stretches and such with greater diligence. I rested a bit, then tried running again. The problem persisted. I rested again, tried running again—still not ready. So, for now, I’m taking it in stride, inside—elliptical stride, that is.
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In other news—on a previously blogged topic: Ginger the homeless cat has a new home! I’ve been waiting to post the glad tidings until I was reasonably sure it would work out. It’s been 3 weeks since the B Family took him in, and—so far—no complaints. Assuming this adoption sticks, Ginger will have gone from roaming the streets to living with A-Town royalty—really! Liz B. was the A-Town prom queen this year. And now Ginger is “lapping up” the affections of this lovely young lady. Happy ending.
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Lastly, it’s camp week for Vi and thus rather quiet in the Waters household. We miss her, but we’re sure she’s having a fabulous time. Last year when we picked her up from camp she requested to re-up for the next week…and the next! Actually, she wanted to live at camp for the rest of the summer because, apparently, our house is boring. (Could’ve fooled me!)

Old Becomes New, Every July

I’ve had a couple of requests to blog about the Old Tyme Days near A-Town. Where do I begin?

Sometime when I was in high school (1989—I looked it up) some family friends bought a little country church that had been abandoned decades before. It was old, musty, rundown—practically in ruins. But, believing God could work miracles in and through this place, they purchased it, prayed in it, and poured their blood, sweat and tears into renovating it—a grueling labor of love. About nine months later (really), they reopened the church to the Glory of God.

Somehow, 20 years elapsed, and yesterday I took my 2 littles (Ben and Pearl) to the Old Tyme Day hosted by the church every July. The ministry that had begun with a handful of earnest saints, holding hands and singing the Doxology in a mildewed sanctuary, attracted thousands of people—church folks and seculars alike—to this rural road in the middle of…well, not nowhere, but close.

Festivities began with worship at 10. By the time I arrived, around 3, attendance had blossomed to brimming. We had to park a good quarter-mile down the hill from the pretty white steepled structure where it had all started. Providentially, the church foresaw the crowd and outfitted several amiable older gentlemen with golf carts to transport women and children like us from our cars to the party.

And what a party it is! (I say ‘is’ rather than ‘was’ because it’s a semi-annual event that A-Town readers could attend in the future—third Sunday of July and again at Christmastime—next evet: Dec. 13 ’09.) The enterprising church revivers not only fixed up the 1854 Methodist edifice, but they also have constructed a charming collection of ‘Little Houses,’ barns, stalls and shops—a Victorian village replete with a moving mill and a wooden water tower. Then, to show the world that this little country congregation is indeed alive and thriving, the church members animate the place in an impressively large and variable cast of costumed characters: the blacksmith, the penny candy vendor, carriage drivers and horse ride givers, millers, weavers and woodworkers. The town holds a live trial and throws its convict in a makeshift jail. A booming brass band performs, the church choir belts out Bible tunes… Did I mention this is all happening on a sleepy country lane nestled among corn fields? It’s amazing, really.

Maybe even more astonishing and refreshing is the old-fashioned cost of admission—free!—and the price of all the goodies available throughout the day: hot dogs, pies, homemade ice cream, candy, lemonade, iced tea, and a truly traditional favorite, red Kool Aid—all for a penny apiece!

Reports of “numbers” at the event: Well over 3,000 hot dogs served, plus more than 4,000 pieces of pie. Church member and A-Town reader “The Shepherdess” reflects: “One of the things I love and admire about this project is the amount of work that people do—not for a fundraiser or personal gain but just to ‘give it away.’”

That’s what I call a tribute to the last Cent-ury!

Photo by Jim Dolan—full collection at NewYorkStatePhoto.com

Black Jack Gum, Gold Toe Socks, Plus Other Bargains & Blessings

In honor of A-Town reader Professor PBS (who I’m not actually sure frequents LiAT, but I hope he checks in occasionally), today’s garage sale finds:

Four pairs of brand-new Gold Toe ladies’ socks: $1.50

An unopened package of Black Jack gum: 5 cents

One pair of bright orange flip-flops (worn twice): 10 cents

A pristine set of Avon overnight hair curlers: $3

Ziploc bag containing a veritable rainbow of assorted nail polish: $1

Bona fide guest bed (the fold-up kind you find in hotels—including the mattress, minus the bed bugs): $35

One very classy taupe linen short-sleeved skirt suit, worn only once by my friend on the happy occasion of her dream-job interview (successfully secured): $20

An assortment of unopened, not-yet-used Mary Kay lotions and beauty aids, all bargain-priced for quick sale: $5

Farmhouse wood kitchen table, with 2 leaves and 4 chairs, plus felt-backed, custom-fitted, protective padded covers for the tabletop: Free! A pay-it-forward blessing from my friend Laura, host of the sale

Two nonfiction paperback books: 50 cents (and a freebie hardcover John Irving book—score!)

Also free (and priceless): A lovely wooden bird to hang from my ceiling. Laura saw me admiring it and insisted I take the “friendship bird” she received by mail several years ago from her Russian pen pals. It was one of the things she regretted parting with as she moved, so she gladly gave it to me.

And…last but not least on my list of things I’m happy to have obtained: A new toaster! Also free! Gotta love that. Some people go to all the trouble of setting up a checking account to secure that homiest of small kitchen appliances. I simply showed up at my friend’s garage sale.

(There it is again—that recurring adage, that nugget of truth: “Eighty percent of life is showing up.”)

HP6: Partially Digested First Impressions (Contains Spoilers!!!)

After Will and Vi attempted to see a midnight showing of the new Harry Potter flick and failed (5 screens/1,000 seats, sold out at our favorite theater!), Vi and I got in with no lines/no waiting at the smaller theater in nearby B-Town 9 hours later. Cousin Dessa joined us. We were the only viewers appropriately dressed in Hogwarts robes.

As usual, I came away feeling like I’d just seen a “Reader’s Digest” version of the book…and doubtful that anyone who hadn’t actually read the book(s) could have comprehended the movie at all. Confirming this, Dessa admitted afterward that she had trouble following the storyline in several parts. Little wonder: In Muggle movie-making conditions (minus magic), it’s simply not possible to cram 600 pages of prose (plus about 1,800 pages of background story from the previous 5 books) into palatable American film length. Even this one ran a little longer than standard shows at 2:33.

There was a lot left out, by necessity. And there were several non-Rowling elements inserted—filmmakers’ prerogative. Note to A-Town reader Meg, the lit-to-film purist: Do NOT waste your money on admission to HP6—you’d have to get up and leave in protest in the first half-hour. . .when the Burrow gets burned down by Death Eaters, for example. (Leading me to wonder where they’ll start the 7th film. . .) Another departure from the book: It’s Luna who saves Harry from the train (Tonks is one of my favorite characters, so I missed her there—although I do adore Luna as well).

The cinematography was breathtaking, of course. I especially enjoyed the London flyover in the beginning, the Quidditch scenes, and Dumbledore’s fiery immobilizing of the Inferi evoked Moses’ part in parting the Red Sea. As for the much-ballyhooed snogging in this film, I can tell you there’s a LOT more kissy-face in the book version—in fact, I confess I was a tad disappointed by Harry and Ginny’s super-short (albeit sweet) on-screen smooch.

I’ll likely go see HP6 again before it leaves theaters. These films, although significantly abridged, are like the books that inspired their creation: It takes more than once through to absorb all the wonder, fun, and deeper meaning of the tales. (For deeper meaning doubters, I commend you to Tolkien, Lewis, and John Granger.)

IMAX, anyone? I’ll bring my cloak.

Two Fantasies for Camp: An Exercise in Daydreaming

It’s nearing time for our fourth annual trip to family camp. I am suspended in that nebulous Mom zone of anticipation and dread. Overall, I love the camp we’re attending—it’s (ostensibly) peaceful and safe, and it provides worship services, Bible classes, and fellowship opportunities that nurture our Christian faith in ways that I appreciate. Then again, I know it will require a tremendous amount of planning and preparation on my part to get us there with everything we’ll need for a week at the lake. (Will shares the load munificently in many areas of our life, but some things—like packing—are best left to me.)

Once we actually arrive at camp, I can let down my semi-paranoid Mom guard somewhat, but not entirely. The little ones are still little enough to require constant supervision, and the place, while peaceful, still bears threats to their safety (large body of water nearby, motorized cars entering and leaving the premises, kids at the sandbox hogging the big shovels, etc.) That unfulfilled desire for total relaxation is a letdown. Because isn’t vacation supposed to be relaxing? So (taking a deep, refusing-to-feel-sorry-for-myself-when-my-life-is-so-amazingly-blessed breath), I offer these fantastical notions for what might make camp more fun for me:

House to the Lake

I know this might sound sick, but every year around this time I have thought that it would be wonderful if I could simply transport my own house to camp for the week and just “do my stuff”—laundering, cooking, cleaning, organizing, reading, writing, thinking, praying—right there at the lake! Ben and Pearl could dig in the sandbox and swing on the swings while Will and I took turns keeping an eye on them. Vi could ride her bike around the campground as she pleased, stopping at random cabins along the way, helping herself to other people’s snacks and/or joining in Uno games, water balloon wars and campfires. (Oh, wait—she already does that. . . ) The “House to the Lake” fantasy might represent a latent longing for domesticity, but that is evidently not my sole calling (nor my soul calling). A leisurely lake life does seem heavenly in my imagining. Perhaps that’s where my eventual mansion is nestled, even now.

Christmas in August

OK, so, obviously since I can’t afford to purchase a lake house, I certainly can’t afford to transport my American Four Square 25 miles northwest of its 82-year-old foundation. . .for the week, and then back! So this other notion crept into my noggin: What if it could be Christmas in August at camp? We could put up a tree—all twinkly, with lights; deck the halls with red-green-red-green-red-green paper chains; bake cut-out cookies and ice them with anise-flavored buttercream frosting; and wait for Santa to bring presents on Christmas morning. And, in my fantasy, he really would! The gifts would not need to be shopped for, paid for, wrapped up, tagged and bowed—they would simply appear, endearingly presented and delightfully well-suited for each member of the family—even me. And I would not be disappointed or overspent at all—I could simply relax and enjoy the occasion, not worried about a thing.

(Confession: I spent an inordinate amount of time surfing the Web for an Anne Lamott quotation to end this entry. I think it’s from her first memoir, Traveling Mercies, but I can’t be sure because every time I buy myself a copy of that book I end up giving it away to someone else I think should read it! I choose carefully; it’s not for everyone. Anyhow, Lamott writes about having to do something she slightly resented, and she wrote—I know this is at least close, even though I couldn’t find a ‘direct hit’ via Google: “It was inconvenient and time-consuming, like real life.” Ten points for Gryffindor to the A-Town reader who finds me that quote!)

Cheesy Bells

Today I thought of a former music professor of mine who described the meaning of the word “piety” somewhat like this: “What properly goes with what.” I dare say Dr. Mr. Berry would have disapproved the bells in A-Town this afternoon pealing out tunes such as (I kid you not):

· Rubber Ducky (as in “You’re the one, You make bathtime lots of fun…”)

· The Hokey Pokey (left foot in, left foot out, etc.)

· Take Me Out To the Ballgame

Church chimes resounding about “peanuts and Cracker Jacks”?! On the Lord’s Day?! It was preposterous and silly. A joke, perhaps. I think I’ll set Will to some citizen-assigned investigative reporting to find out whose.

Soggy Licorice and the B-I-B-L-E

When I was about 12, I joined the Bible Quizzing team at a church 30 miles from A-Town. My local parish had no such team, and I wanted to “play”! So my super-supportive parents drove me to Sunday evening practices, and I made a new set of friends from a different school district in the process. It was very beneficial to my adolescent psyche. I got to start over with a peer group who hadn’t known me since kindergarten—didn’t know me as “the smart kid,” “the band teacher’s daughter,” or “the biggest girl in the class.” I was just me, and I was accepted quickly and warmly. But attempting to make inroads with previously established pals did bring about a few difficult and awkward moments. The “soggy licorice” incident was one of those times. . . . .

First, a bit of background: In Bible Quizzing, groups of teenagers from many churches in our denomination study a designated set of Scriptures each school year. The individual church teams typically meet weekly to practice “quizzing,” in which teens sit on specially designed chairs and jump up to respond to questions about the Word. The first jumper (determined electronically, through sensors) gets the first chance to answer the question; if that person doesn’t answer correctly, the second-fastest jumper gets a chance, then the next, then the next. Correct answers garner points for the quizzer and their team, and the team with the most points after 15 questions wins that round.

Quiz teams prepare for and travel to local-regional tournaments on a monthly basis, culminating with a national gathering of all the teams in early summer. (In fact, this year’s Nationals just wrapped up yesterday.) In my first year as a quizzer, I had bonded well with my team. I had traveled with them for to the monthly tourneys. And I felt very comfortable heading to the national contest in Michigan. However, when we arrived on the college campus hosting the event, I found myself somewhat slighted, come room assignment time. There were 3 or 4 groupings of girls, and because of the aforementioned pre-formed friendships, I got left out of the lodging loop. I had a place to stay, but with 2 older girls, Leah and Lizzie, who were kind to me but not inclusive. L&L’s main mission for the week (besides—of course—the B-I-B-L-E) was B-O-Y-S. A cute guy named Trent was the chief object of their frivolous, flirtatious pursuits. They’d met him and his almost-as-cute friend Todd the previous year and, apparently, pined for them ever since. I was present in the room but barely noticeable to this pair of flibberty gibbets.

One evening when they were off making moon eyes in the moonlight, I had nothing to do and no place to go, with no one around. I felt sorry for myself, but didn’t want to succumb to the pitifulness of sitting in the dorm room alone while everyone else seemed to be having the time of their lives. So I thought to turn to an old friend: Candy. I took my pocket money and headed to the convenience store a quarter-mile from campus, where I bought myself an assortment of “comfort foods”: a bag of chips, I think, some soda (probably Orange Crush), and my favorite, black licorice. I left the store and began chomping on my snacks as I strolled back to the school, pondering what else to do for the remaining hour before a respectable bedtime arrived. I walked, munched and sipped, juggling the bags and the pop bottle.

I was only a few hundreds yards from the dorm when, endeavoring to pry open the bag of Twizzlers, I yanked too hard and sent licorice whips flying through the air in several directions. The whips landed on a gravelly patch of parking lot. Straight away, naturally, I darted my eyes in several directions to make sure no one had seen this embarrassing incident. Then I gingerly knelt down in the gravel, quickly shoveled the candy back into the bag, and scrambled to my feet, still peering around to stave off eyewitnesses. It worked. No one saw. But I felt mortified anyhow, and I bit back tears until I reached my room.

“Now what?” I asked myself. Not wanting my investment in candy and comfort to be wasted, I carefully rinsed the small stones off the licorice and down the dorm sink drain. I placed one of the college-issued white hand towels in the top desk drawer, and I spread out the hard-fought licorice whips to dry. I ate a few of them, even though they tasted funny. . .watery. I had a good cry, shut the drawer, and forgot all about the licorice whips. Until two days later, when Leah and Lizzie discovered the strange, stringy, gray-black blob in the desk and I had to explain. Humiliations galore!

Testing, Testing...

I recently realized that I had erroneously posted the wrong e-mail subscription box on the Life in A-Town site (my short-lived first attempt at http://lifeinatown.wordpress.com/). So that is why, although you may have subscribed to receive new posts, you have not been receiving them. In order to receive word of the latest-greatest adventures of the Waters Fam in A-Town, please re-enter your e-mail address on this site (in the upper-righthand part of the blog screen). That should do the trick. Thanks for your patience as I figure out these technological doohickeys.

Grace

Flux capacitor drawing found on http://fusion-industries7.tripod.com/1955replicas/

Not-So-Much a Fan of the Van

We bought our 1998 Ford Windstar minivan the day before Katrina hit the Gulf Coast. I mean absolutely no disrespect to the victims of that horrific hurricane when I write that, nor do I intend to imply any comparison whatsoever to the tragedy and hardship caused by Katrina. It’s more a matter of, “Where were you when…?” Just like people naturally recall where they were or how they heard about major deaths and disasters (some in my lifetime: Elvis’ overdose, Reagan shot, Challenger explosion, Princess Diana, 9/11, Hurricane Katrina)—I remember the day we bought our Windstar, the day before the storm of the century. Mere coincidence.

I was about 6 months pregnant with Pearl at the time. Because car seat laws in our state would require us to have 3 seats installed for at least the next year, it seemed necessary for us to graduate from our 4-door sedan to a minivan—a vehicle where we could spread out, with enough room to fit all the car seats, plus all the kid gear we American families schlep wherever we go, from the park to the store to Grandma’s house.

We shopped for a used van for about a month before settling on this one. Looking back, I don’t remember why ours stood out, other than its pretty red color and probably its convenience—we purchased it from a small used car outfit about 15 miles from A-Town. The convenience factor shifted from us to the dealer approximately 43 days after we assumed ownership of the vehicle.

Now 7+ months with child, I was driving the van to work 30 miles from our house when I exited the highway. At the traffic light just off the ramp, the van lurched and stalled to a stop. I hit the hazard lights, hoisted me, myself and my belly out of the driver’s seat, and waddled to the front of the van. A pretty red puddle had formed beneath the pretty red van, which translated to “Sayonara, transmission.” Very unfortunately for us, the lemon law window had slammed shut 2 weeks earlier and we had to spend about half the price of the vehicle to have it fixed. We confronted the dealer with the problem, hoping he would help pay, or even offer us a different vehicle…anything to demonstrate his decency as a human being, really. He did nothing except to shrug and then shrug us off.

I’ll spare you the litany of repair bills we’ve incurred in the four years we’ve owned the van. And actually, because we got a really low rate on the loan (and because money is tight), we didn’t own the van until about two months ago, when we finally decided to pay the thing off. Wouldn’t you know, it broke down again.

Will called me Saturday from the M-Town McDonald’s parking lot. He had taken the kids to a July 4^th parade two towns away, and they had stopped at the McD’s Playland for lunch and some climb-time on the way home. After about a half-hour of crawling through the plastic maze, the Waters foursome piled back into the van, A-Town-bound. But the van wouldn’t start. Will cell-phoned me; I drove there in the Trusty Tercel; we tried and failed to jump the Wimpy Windstar. We loaded the whole fam into the trusty-but-tiny coupé and got everybody back where we belonged. “Everyone” except the family vehicle.

I can’t help but wonder if we could have survived the past 4 years without the gas-guzzling galoot. It’s back on the road following a minor mend this time, but if it acts up again I might just have to send it to its room—the A-Town dump!

Owie-Kazowie

Nothing like a toothache to send me to bed without supper—I mean, who can even think about eating (who can think at all?) when their mouth hurts?

I went to the dentist to have a filling replaced this morning. A crater had formed there over the past 6 months, up until 3 weeks ago when my dental hygienist filled it with a temporary mix of zinc oxide and clove oil (my Google-based guess—I’m no chemist). The temp job was working just fine and I had considered postponing the real deal, but I decided to get it over with. After all, you never know when you’re going to have to hop on a plane that ends up crashing, leaving you deserted on an island for 4 years . . . That’s what happened to Tom Hanks’ character in Cast Away, of course. He ended up having to perform dental surgery on himself using the few resources available to him: a string, a rock, and an ice skate.

Ever since seeing that movie, I’ve been grateful for professional dental care, even if it does make my whole head hurt for several hours later so that I want to retreat to my bed at 5:30 in the evening.

Fireworks, motorcycles, broken-down vans, and other sour grapes about summer—part 1

Fireworks are lots of things I like: colorful, spectacular, surprising, celebratory, community-oriented. I should enjoy them, but typically I don’t, and this weekend’s A-Town display was no exception.

“Why?” you ask. (“Yes, why?” I ask myself.) Well, they’re expensive, extravagant, and loud. They take place in public places in the dark, surrounding me and my young with strangers of unknown and therefore questionable character. I feel apprehensive and insecure whenever I am supposed to be taking pleasure in the pyrotechnic performance. The situation puts me on edge, accompanied by a booming, banging, smoky sky. It’s unnerving, I tell you.

The A-Town fireworks are launched in a local park, with lots of lawn where folks can spread out their blankets, lie on their backs, and gawk at the sky. We picked a bad spot. That’s what Will said. Last year, when he took the kids and I stayed home (because I don’t typically enjoy fireworks, remember?), there apparently were no gangly groups of unsupervised adolescents roving the park, shouting and swearing and showing off for each other, saying things I didn’t want my as-yet-innocent offspring to hear. (In that respect, I was grateful for the firecrackers’ snaps-crackles-n-pops.)

The objection to extravagance—well, that’s my mother’s doing. My blurred memories of attending fireworks displays with my parents include multiple mentions of starving children in Africa. Some people remember being made to clean their dinner plates on that basis; I was forced to face the dialectical tension of being an American taking part in a pricey national pastime, while knowing that people in other parts of the world had so little rice to live on that their babies’ bellies swelled for lack of food to fill them. The problem of poverty persists (and these days, I know there were hungry people right there on the A-Town lawn).

Some Americans might argue that our great nation’s birthday is worthy of expenditure. We should celebrate our freedoms and enjoy the blessings of living in this land of opportunity. But I still struggle to make peace with the realities of the multinational mindset my mother instilled in me. I guess I’ll sit and sip my gourmet coffee while I ponder the price of awareness.

Call me ‘Madame Maxime’

This week my 5-year-old son and his almost 4-year-old cousin are attending Vacation Bible School at the country church where I grew up, from birth through 5^th grade. Around 1985, a disagreement among the parishioners prompted my parents to seek and find another fellowship, where we have been worshiping as a family ever since. But I bear no hard feelings toward my former church; this VBS is the first of the season; and it seems like a great start to the kids’ summer.

The one weird thing for me: I felt like a giantess walking into that teensy building! I’d swear it has shrunk to half the size it was a quarter-century ago.

Have you ever imagined being miraculously diminished in size so you could actually enter your dolls’ matchstick mansion? I felt a little like that—like I’d temporarily, mysteriously morphed into a person appropriately proportioned to fit into a world very familiar to me, but in a drastically altered context. I took a few minutes to wander around (it didn’t take long—it’s so small nowadays):

The wood-beamed sanctuary, which had seemed positively cavernous through my years-younger eyes, resembled a modest rec room to Grace the Giantess.

The maroon-carpeted foyer, where during Saturday morning choir practice my 7-year-old self could turn a dozen cartwheels from one end to the other, looked like an extra-wide hallway about the length of a bowling lane—not the Olympic arena it had been back then.

The Giantess visited the Ladies’ Room, reminiscing about the Sunday she thought she’d be really, really funny and latch the stalls from the inside and then crawl out underneath, leaving them locked for the next customers. No way could Grace pull off that prank now, even having shed 30 pounds in recent months—those toilets are too tiny!

I made my way through the Sunday school rooms where I’d learned my first Bible lessons; the church nursery where I’d been diapered and fed and entertained with songs and toys; the back hall where a group of men had carried in a Christmas tree and scraped my right cheek with pine branches as they brushed by me.

I returned to the foyer and saw, through the large window that divides the ‘arena’ from the sanctuary, my small son, beaming his beautiful, sincere smile. He rushed his cowboy boot-fitted feet from the front of the rec/worship room toward the swinging wooden doors that separate the spaces (doors not unlike those found in the Old West, except these are inlaid with cross-shaped glass windows). That’s when I snapped out of my fantasy and realized I was not Grace the child church-goer, somehow superimposed on this situation in a grown-up’s body.

I am me, now “Mommy.” And that is my boy. And there comes his cousin, my niece. I am the adult. This is my life. And because Providence has plunked me back in my hometown, I am blessed by these sometimes-surreal occasions to share the places and people of my youth with my progeny.