Same As It Ever Was

I have 19 students this year and 3 whacked parents out of the bunch. On a scale of 1-10, with 10 being certifiably nuts, one is a 9 and two are 7's, though they scare me more because they're silent 7's. I don't know they're about to wig out until I receive an email from the Head of School, forwarding one of these parent emails to me.

I've dealt with whacked parents before and that's exactly what hit me the other day: Teaching is no longer new, it's no longer challenging. It's the same conversations, the same dilemmas to solve, the same kid issues and parent weirdness. The only challenge, and that's even the wrong word for it, is having a young teacher as my teaching partner. She's not had these conversations or issues or dilemmas that much so she struggles in dealing with them.

Jokingly, I call her "Grasshopper" like the blind Kung Fu master did with David Carridine back in the 70's. "Take the pebble from my hand, grasshopper." We laugh about this a lot, but underneath it all, it's sad that this is my biggest challenge.

I never realized how much I need to be tested in my life. I seek it though I'd never really noticed that I seek it until now. I changed jobs a lot in my 20s, but then settled on teaching. Even there, though I've switched the grades I've taught, subjects, and now even schools.

I laugh when I read my horoscope. As a Sagitarius, the classic line is always "you feel unsettled with life" and while it makes me laugh, it's actually true. I get unsettled at times, squirmy, and my itchiness has lead me to some interesting places, but it's also uncomfortable and if I'm not careful, it can throw me into a real funk.

I'm a bit funkish now. I'm trying to find excitement in my job. Having a "grasshopper" helps, but it hasn't cured the itch or the funk.

Last night I woke at 2 in a panic about something I needed to do or forgot to do and I started thinking about this section I read in Cesar Milan's new book (Be the Leader of Your Pack). It's all kind of woo-woo, but it also struck me how much what he had to say rang true for me. Basically it goes like this: Your dog senses everything. You can't lie to your dog. If you don't feel like the confident leader of your pack, your dog will know it.

I see it with Rubin. He gets when I'm in a funk. He gets when I'm weak inside. Last night I was feeling weak and funky and he was a monster -- pulling on the leash, not listening to commands, biting his leash. I got frustrated and then I felt guilty -- what kind of dog trainer am I going to make if I can't even train my dog?

Granted, he's only 7 1/2 months old. He's only been living with us for 5 1/2 months. 90% of the time he is great on the leash, follows every command, and wants to please. But the 10% of stubborn, puppy dog feels like my failure, like some god-dog is watching from above and saying, "Yep, you just aren't good enough!"

So last night, after reading a bit of Cesar's book, I went to sleep thinking and woke up in the middle of the night thinking about how many therapists I've paid to teach me this lesson -- YOU ARE GOOD ENOUGH ---YOU MUST BELIEVE YOU ARE GOOD ENOUGH -- and now I have this dog who sees right through me and can call me on my self-loathing bullshit with the tug of his leash or his racing around the house barking.

I am not the leader of my pack.

I am not the leader of my pack when I feel funky and itchy and weak.

I cannot lie to Rubin.

So this morning, I vowed to do all those self-talk rituals every therapist has given me and face my ultimate therapist once again.

Rubin was an angel today.

I hate it when it's that easy.

This probably has nothing to do with being unchallenged at work, but in my mind the two go together. I feel good about myself when I'm stretching -- physically, intellectually, emotionally. I haven't stretched in months -- figuratively or literally. Rubin's rambunctious puppy-ness made me realize this yesterday.

I think I need to schedule regular visits with my puppy therapist for awhile...

Vapor Rub

My mother just emailed and asked how I was feeling. We communicate via phone and email and now via this blog, which is kind of weird in one sense (my parents get to read about my life whether I want them to or not) and kind of nice in another sense (I get to share my life with my parents...something many of my friends don't get a chance to do). I guess it all depends on how you look at it.

Often when I am sick, I call my mother. I don't know why. I just like to tell her that I don't feel well and that I need my mother. I don't think I really DO need her, but it's nice to hear both their voices (my mom's and dad's) and though it doesn't cure what ails me, I feel a smidge better afterwards.

This cold has been a killer, but finally I'm on the mend. Halfway through the week I figured out that, while the cough syrup was helping, the thing I really needed was Vick's Vapor Rub...which ironically brings me back to my parents.

I don't know what's REALLY in that stuff, but as I stood in the bathroom staring at my sick and pathetic self in the mirror, just the thought of putting that greasy goop on my chesk made me feel better. I slept like a baby that night -- all 12 hours as I went to bed almost immediately after I got home from work. The next night I did the same routine...downed the metallic flavored cough syrup and lathered my chest with Vick's. I even dabbed a little under my nose, just like my parents used to do and once again slept through the night soundly.

It was the sleep that helped, but I really think it was the Vick's too. Maybe it doesn't really do anything, but for me, it brings back memories as well as comforts me when I'm sick. Much like the phone call to my mother, when I'm coughing up a lung or blowing my nose raw, calling her is soothing. I can remember my mother and her rough fingertips massaging the stuff into my chest when I was just a little kid or my dad gently applying a dab in the "V" of my unbuttoned nightshirt. "This will help," they'd both tell me and I believed them.

Maybe it's the Vick's. But maybe it's that I still believe they were right and that belief makes me feel better. Hard to say, but for me, there is nothing better than a scoop of Vapor Rub, a phone call home, and a long night's sleep to make me well again.

Cold and Flu, Cold and Flu

When I experienced my allergies last April, when my face swelled up like a over-ripened plum, I went through a bunch of tests to figure out what it was. Mainly it felt like I figured out what is wasn't -- no food allergies, no pet allergies, we ruled out dust and pollen and even some weird heavy metals. Finally, we narrowed it down to three things, none of which I can spell but are found in the rubber of my Jockey underwear, the conditioner with which I condition my hair, and, of all things, vitamin B12.

I'll admit, I was addicted to the Airborne supplement I put in my water bottle every day and even to the Emergen-C packet I sometimes slipped in my morning juice. Ann always told me to back off, but it tasted good and I thought, "What harm can vitamin C do?"

Well, it wasn't the vitamin C that got to me, it was the Vitamin B12 in its mega-doses that eventually did me in. So I went off the supplements cold turkey and now there are very few vitamins I can take that don't have some form of B12 or B Complex in them.

The end result? I got walloped by a cold bug this past week and I mean walloped. Coughing, sneezing, runny nose, weepy eyes, aches, pains the whole snot-ball of wax. Ann got the cold first and I thought, three days after her "outbreak" I'd avoided catching it. But then WHAM! Like someone injected the virus straight into my bloodstream (okay, I know it wasn't a virus, but that's what it felt like).

Today Ann made me lay on the couch and do NOTHING. This is hard for me, this doing nothing, but I obliged her and eventually fell fast asleep breathing heavy through my mouth. After hours and hours of doing it, I'm feeling remarkably better, but still get short of breath if I walk too long with the dogs or haul laundry up the stairs.

I miss my B12. I miss my Airborne and my Emergen-C. Now I feel like those actors on the Cold and Flu season commercials and instead of healthy vitamins to ward off the bugs, I'm popping DayQuil and Sudafed and cough syrup.

It's not fair, I hear myself whine. Just like my 5th graders who most likely exposed me to the germs in the first place.

It's just not fair.

Excuse me while I go blow my nose.

October's Patience

As we approach October, life and work are slowing down ever-so-slightly. I'm feeling the rhythm again and my days are spent teaching children and my nights are spent training Rubin. Rubin is a far easier student in many regards, but I'm slowly getting to know my new crop of students -- their quirks, their comfort zones, their pet peeves, their rough edges -- so it doesn't feel as foreign as it did in the beginning of September.

It's taken me 22 years of teaching to realize I'm good at it and just when I start to own that, I'm feeling the need to change. I can do this work, this teaching work, but every year I am amazed by the amount of energy it saps from me. I already have my first cold of the year and though it hasn't walloped me, I feel drained and in need of sleep/rest/a vacation.

Meanwhile, I've been lucky enough to take Rubin to school with me 3 days a week. He loves it, my students love it, and the rest of the school (faculty, staff, other students, parents) are falling in love with him. He is darn cute, if I do say so myself, but I realized yesterday that part of my "exhaustion" is keeping my eye on the students and what I'm teaching them as well as keeping an eye on a 7 month old puppy whose patience runs thin at times.

Today he spent the whole day with me at school. This is a rarity. Generally, I take him home at lunch and let him get some sleep and then retrieve him in the afternoon for a long walk. Somehow that never happened today so he was with me the entire time. He should be tired. He got only a smidge of sleep and was ever-alert as the girls moved through their day dropping pens and shuffling their feet, all of which perks up Rubin's ears.

While I know it's going to be a good year, I am so ready for it to be my last year of teaching in the classroom. I'm not resentful. I'm not bitter or burned out. I'm just done. I need a new challenge in my life and now that everything is lined up with the dog trainer, I'm ready to just begin and not simply begin in tiny increments.

I suppose I am an impatient person. Okay, let me state that more as fact than as a pondering: I can be and often am an impatient person. Not with my students, not even with Rubin, but definitely with myself. Some say I'm a perfectionist though that's hard for me to see, but I will admit that I'm the first one to beat up on myself for any hint of failure and the one who punishes myself longer and harder than anyone else who may have been affected by my "mistakes."

It's funny how, if I were my own teacher -- in other words, if I were a 5th grader in my class -- I'd know exactly how to deal with me. It would be endless positive talk and lots of humor and lots of encouragement to make mistakes and be myself. But I'm much better at giving the lesson than I am at receiving it and so, I grow impatient when the world doesn't spin on the axis I've set forth.

I'm hoping October brings more rhythm and more patience. I'm hoping October, contrary to its normal work, is a time of sowing the seeds of change. I'm hoping October washes away some exhaustion and allows me to fully breathe in each day as it comes, finding patience with each and every breath.

Meanwhile, it's teaching in the mornings and Rubin in the evenings and a sprinkling of chocolate in between.

Under the Influence

I don't drink alcohol. I never have. And I mean never. There were many factors that played into my abstinence, but now at 48 I have no desire to drink and so I don't. Without any wrangling on my part, most of my friends don't drink either. Some will have an occasional glass of wine, but others have chosen sobriety because of past encounters or just, like me, decided not to drink.

So when I take medications they hit me hard. Like right now. I took a Tylenol PM because Ann's cold has seeped into my throat and bit into my eyes -- both scratchy and dry -- and so to sleep soundly (in an attempt to get some rest and recovery), I popped the blue little pill.

Every once in awhile the pill wires me. I lie in bed feel as if I am 3 feet higher than my platform bed, unable to sleep and spinning nervously. Generally though, that doesn't happen. I crash, deep into something soft and weighted. Even though the bottle claims that the pill only lasts 4 hours, I'm able to get 10 hours of hard sleep out of it.

I avoid taking the pills though, as it can be a groggy morning not very condusive to teaching 19 ten-year olds. And at times in my life, I needed the pill just to find some bit of sleep. I don't want to go back there so now I limit myself -- only when sick or when I have been unable to fall asleep.

It's early, but under the influence I think I shall wander off to the blue soft sleep of one oval pill.

Work To Do

I have agreed to take part in a presentation for an Independent Schools Conference, but for the life of me, I can't seem to get started on that work. I'm supposed to be creating a PowerPoint showing how our work with Peggy and the horses helps our students build their leadership skills. I've started the PPT about four times now and it just seems like this extremely boring presentation, like Charlie Brown's teacher signed up to speak --- Wa, wa, wa, wa, wa.

I know that inspiration will come, but meanwhile, I blog instead of work. Meanwhile I listen to Rubin under my desk gnaw away on a big beef knuckle bone like he's digging through the earth hoping to get to China.

Work feels a bit like deja vu. I've had all these students before, haven't I? I've had all these conversations about patience and politeness recently, yes? Why do I sound like a repeated, looped message?

So tonight, to clear my head of the deja vu, I took Rubin for a long walk by the lake. Ann is kid-sitting for our friends tonight and so I went with her and then walked back home -- about an hour walk.

Rubin was frenetic, like the leash was electric and he bounced his electric pulses at the end of his tether. When we got to the lake I found a stick and threw it again and again and he swam out far and strong to retrieve it. I thought he was fairly worn out, but when we started walking again, he had more energy than ever.

Even now, an hour after our return, he's racing around the house tossing his stuffed toys and frantically gnawing his chew-toys as if he is fueled by batteries and not expensive dog food.

Okay, he's a puppy still (7 months tomorrow), but still, I thought I'd wear him out. Instead, he's wearing me out on a day when I don't need any more wearing.

Now Ann is home and he is wagging his tail so crazily, it's scaring even him.

My doctor said there are 4 common things that people who live to be 100 do:

1. They walk a lot and rarely depend on other forms of transportation.
2. They eat sour things like yogurt and sauerkraut.
3. They get at least 9 hours of sleep each night.
4. And when they go to bed at night after a hard day they say, "Tomorrow is another day."

I'm working on it...but that last one can be a killer.

Now

The seasonal flood of work has once again floated around my eyeballs for the past few weeks. I am tired, deeply, another seasonal affliction from the dramatic change of pace -- one minute I'm on vacation with nary a question to answer and the next I'm back at work fielding 100 questions a day and most of them repeats.

But underneath it all, I've been quietly working to change my life. Yesterday, I drove south to spend the morning with Peggy, the horse whisperer, as we prepared for our presentation at an Independent Schools conference. There is something about spending time with Peggy that is both ethereal and grounding. It was heady work yesterday trying to grapple with how we meld the classroom experience with the students' work in the arena with Peggy's horses. It's transformational, I have no doubt about it, but explaining how it works or why or even how we evolved to the methods we use is complicated and overwhelming. It doesn't help that we only have an hour and 15 minutes to present, which seems like a lifetime in some ways and like a split second in others.

After Peggy's, I drove north to visit with Dave, the dog trainer, to see if he would be willing to take me on as an apprentice. We met at Starbucks and talked about our lives, our goals, animals, and teaching. In many ways, the conversation with Peggy in the morning was the same conversation with Dave in the afternoon though I can't give any concrete examples of exactly how it was the same.

Peggy talks about the four areas she works on with children and horses -- Connection, Intention, Being Present, and Authenticity. She also uses the term Claiming Space with the girls in reference to all of the four areas, and throughout the school year, we circle back to these concepts again and again. In addition, we add the concept of Intent vs. Impact, of how we can positively claim space versus negatively claim space by examining our intentions and observing our impacts.

See, it's really hard to explain, but the girls get it (probably through repetition more than anything) and by the end of the year, when we head back to Peggy's in the spring, they are able to create personal goals that are more genuine and real than most goals adult set -- I want to be friendlier, I want to know that my quiet way can still be seen as a leader, I want to be aware of how others feel, I want to be more patient...

It's powerful stuff so as I sat in the coffee shop chatting away with Dave about training and life, I could feel myself practicing all those things I've seen Peggy teach the girls -- connection, being present, authenticity, intention, claiming space, and intent vs. impact. I tried to explain it all to Dave and amazingly, he understood.

"It's the same when you work with dogs," he said. "I don't have any scientific basis for it, but if you picture what you want the dog to do, he reads your thoughts. It's that connection that I have to have with someone if we're going to work together. It's why this conversation with you is so important."

Dave is a gentle soul. He's a big, big man working his way through the South Beach Diet to lose 65 pounds or more so he no longer tips the scale at 300 pounds. He was a high school and college wrestler and his fingers are the size of bratwursts. At first glance, you'd think he was brash and loud and burley, but when he works with dogs, he is gentle, thoughtful, and quiet. He can get the most energetic puppy to fall asleep in his arms within 30 minutes of working with them and quiet the most angry of canines simply by slowly massaging his large hands across a dog's back.

I emailed him this morning to thank him for meeting with me and for agreeing to "train" me. He wrote back and said, "We're going to make a great dog trainer out of you" and I felt the same kind of magic bubble I do when I watch Peggy work with my students.

Of course, when I got home I was exhausted. My ass hurt from driving over 150 miles in one day and then sitting in a dining room and then a coffee shop and my head felt heavy with all the ideas and discussion and scheming of the day. I've had a hard time recovering today, but this evening I took Rubin on a long walk and tried, as Peggy so gently commands of my students, to be in the moment. About a mile from home, Rubin got very excited and when I released him from his "right here" or "heal" position, he raced like a crazed puppy back and forth across the grass turning at the exact moment he knew his leash would run out. He smiled and pranced and pounced, growling playfully all the while. A passerby stood a few feet from us and laughed with me as Rubin continued his wild frenzy until finally he flopped in the grass exhausted.

This year is going to be a hard year. I know that. Teaching will drain me as it does every year and the dog apprenticing will be like going back to school again, energizing but exhausting. While I look forward to the latter, I know I must muster up some serious energy to be fully functioning with the former and count the days as they slowly pass by.

Peggy told me, as we sat in her dining room planning our presentation, that if there was one word of advice she could offer me as I transition from one passion to the other it would be to be kind to myself. Forgiving was the word she used. Forgiveness has been one of my life lessons and when hours later I heard Dave say the same thing, "A good trainer must be able to forgive themselves" I realized this is one of those lessons that will present itself to me again and again, no matter how deep the flood of my life.

I shall end this ramble with a picture of Rubin, who along with Ann, is a great joy and a brilliant reminder of staying present, staying connected, being authentic, as well as being intentional while I move into claiming my new space in life.

Rattlesnake Ledge Photos

I meant to put these photos on my Rubinations blog and the current Rubinations blog on this one, but alas, they got switched and it's too much work to correct them...so, here are the photos from Rubin's recent hiking and swimming adventure. (If you want to read the other blog, click on Rubinations at the side...)

Rubin, a bit uncertain on top of Rattlesnake Ledge. There's quite a drop off about 20 feet from him...his toes are gripping the rock!

A bit more relaxed and enjoying the view...

Monty in the sky with a small child at his neck!

At the lake...chasing dreams of being a big dog...

Resting pose...

A dog, a lake, a tennis ball, and a good roll in green grass...does it get any better than this?

A Wedding: Part Two

An hour before the wedding it rained. Not a heavy rain, but the misty kind of rain that soaks everything in a matter of moments. The kind of misty rain that rests soggy on your hair so that when you shake your head, you look like a sprinkler.

I know this because we were walking the dogs before we dressed for the early evening wedding.

"I wonder if they'll move the wedding indoors?" I asked Ann as the rain dripped off my baseball cap.

"Hard to say," she laughed slightly. Ann does not worry. Even though it was not my wedding, I worried about the rain. It seemed like potential chaos to move 100 people from outdoors inside especially after so many months of planning and gardening.

The color theme of the wedding was, of all things, black and white. This gave me a couple of options for attire, but none felt right. This is always my struggle: How to feel like me in clothes that don't feel like me? Which begs to question why I bought them in the first place, but I think it has to do with the particular situation matching my particular clothes.

Remember, I don't usually go to weddings so my closet isn't filled with wedding options. Instead, I have a closet of work clothes and sweaters, khaki pants and fleece (a requirement for every good Pacific Northwestern lesbian).

So, while I liked my black pants and I even liked the rather low-cut muslin white shirt I wasn't quite sure they were wedding-proper. Still, this is what I chose to wear after tossing out the light blue shirt with the black pants, the blousy purple tencil shirt with the black pants, and the simple black t-shirt with the black pants. I suppose if I'd had a black skirt in my closet that would have all worked with any of the above shirts, but alas, I haven't had a black skirt in my closet since I was 9 and even then I can't be quite sure if I owned a skirt at all.

Once dressed, we pondered the dogs. Despite the walk with the dogs, only Rubin did his business. Ben, reluctant and nervous, had yet to pee even after a bowl of water and already a few hours at our house. We needed to pen him during the wedding and I worried that, after NOT peeing, Ben might decide to do so some other way.

Let me back up a bit. Ben is huge. When people see us walking down the street they often gasp. I'm not making this up. His head is large and his body stately and incredibly long. Older women with small dogs are known to cross the street fearing the large beast they see before them will attack, but Ben does not attack, at least not unless he is continuously and persistently provoked. And even then his attack is a loud bark.

Rubin tried on a number of occasions to provoke him. He'd fling his 25 pound curly body into Ben's back end punching his nose playful in every attempt to get Ben to play. But Ben only plays fetch and only with humans. He avoids other dogs. Goes out of his way to steer clear of them and despite Rubin's taunting, Ben refused to budge. Instead, he'd snarl a bit and then walk away locating the nearest human behind whom he could hide.

I've come to realize that Ben does not think he's a dog. I'm not sure what he thinks himself to be, but it is not a dog. So I worried that penning Ben up for three to four hours while we attended a wedding might lead to him pushing his crate halfway across the new bamboo floors in an attempt to get outside. He's clever that way. At one point in the afternoon, he found himself in the front yard where I caught him shoving his nose against the gate latch in an attempt to open it. I caught him just in time so I wouldn't put it past him to figure out a way to open the sliding glass door use his weight and the bulky pen.

These were my thoughts after he'd reluctantly entered his crate and looked mournfully at our black and white clad outfits as we headed out the door with pesky Rubin at our sides. Because Ben was hesitant to relieve himself, we arrived at the wedding with only moments to spare. Rubin stayed in the car, and we walked swiftly to the backyard where about 100 people stood clad in beautiful dresses and neatly pressed suits sipping wine and staring up at the clouds that only an hour before had dumped a significant amount of rain on the parade.

Before the wedding started, I searched for Steven to let him know that Ben was doing well and comfortably resting at home. Steven had been working hard for months to get the garden ready and to clean up every muddy tennis ball from behind every flowering bush and tree. Ben, obsessed with fetch, must have over a hundred tennis balls in the yard and Steven assured me that anyone would be hard-pressed to find them after his meticulous scouring. Nonetheless, once I found Steven, dressed in a beautiful black satin suit, we both laughed in disbelief as a tennis ball rolled out from under his legs towards me. We have no idea where it came from, but there it was, a sign from dog most certainly.

While I don't do many weddings, this one was particularly tender and moving. Phoebe is the daughter of our dear friends Doris and Steven (Ben's parents) and though Doris found Phoebe's dress to be a bit odd ("It looks like someone just ripped up fabric," Doris exclaimed), Phoebe was absolutely stunning as she walked down the staircase on her father's arm.

And while I don't do many weddings, none have ever made me misty-eyed though last night's was an exception. Phoebe's husband-to-be is named Steve and while he is a rather rowdy, beer-drinking frat-boy, he and Phoebe have overcome some huge hurdles (physical, medical, and historical) to find themselves under a wedding arch that they actually constructed themselves.

So when Steve walked through the garden to take his place at the alter, his eyes already wet with tears, I knew that this wedding just might make me cry. The tears came with the exchange of vows. Doris and Steven were married 40 years ago (same month) and Phoebe asked if she could use the same vows Steven had written for Doris way back in 1967.

I love Steven (Doris, too, but Steven is particularly wonderful in his kindness, sincerity, and wit). After hearing those vows, I gained a whole new respect for Steven not only as a man, but as a husband and a father. He loves his family and would move mountains to secure their happiness. It was apparent in the smile on his face as he escorted Phoebe; it was clear as he held his wife's hand through the ceremony; and it was even more true as the minister read the vows that both Phoebe and Steve repeated.

Meanwhile, through my tears, I'm worrying about Ben. (As for my clothes, I realized once Phoebe walked down the aisle, all eyes were on her and no one could give a hoot about my choices, ripped up fabric of a dress or not. Besides, the man next too me wore a knit shirt visibly stained and pants that reminded me of the 1970s.)

What was Ben doing now? I wondered. Had he peed in his crate? Was he whining and crossing his legs?

I stayed for dinner (tasty Indian food), but forgo the cake, making my apologies to the bride and groom, to Doris and Steven that I wanted to check in on Ben. They understood and thanked me and I raced home worried at what I might find.

At home, Ben was sound asleep in his pen. No urine, no scraping across the floor, no dog throwing himself at the sliding glass door to get out. When I opened his pen, he stretched and yawn and unfolded himself out the door to the backyard where he promptly found the raspberry bushes and peed...like a fire hose.

He was happy to see me. Ben's happy is displayed by his body sidling up against your legs and a continuous circular movement so that his side stays planted on your thighs. Remember, he's huge so I've learned long ago to brace myself for his merry greeting lest I land on my backside a victim of his oafishness.

Ann came home (with a mutal friend) a few hours later and we settled into the night with me sleeping in the downstairs bedroom so I could keep an eye on Ben tucked away in his "safe" spot in the living room. He would have slept the whole night through if Rubin hadn't needed to go out. With earplugs in, I didn't hear him, but Ben informed me of the activity with a swift nuzzle of his nose on my left elbow and he, too, went out and relieved himself again.

In the morning, though I did not sleep as soundly as I would have liked, everyone else did and once again Ben woke me with a push to my thigh and a happy yawn as he spun in a dance at the foot of the bed. We knew he'd relaxed after he peed and pooped in the yard, though he still rejected any food and hung anxiously around the front door until we strapped on his leash and headed down the road to his own house.

He was happy to be home, but never a very affectionate guy, Ben showed his pleasure by finding a tennis ball in the yard and handing it to Steven who obediently threw it across the yard again and again. We all watched from the deck, the sky peppered with white clouds and the air fresh, washed clean by late-night rains.

"When we move from this house," Steven told me, "I imagine the next owners and the owners after that will find tennis balls for years and years to come."

This morning, as we walked Ben and Rubin back to the wedding house I realized that my apprehensions (no matter the occasion) are never as horrific as I imagine them to be. It's probably a lesson I should have learned years ago and though it often repeats its refrain, this particular lesson seems to have difficulty sticking. Ben was fine. I was fine. My clothes were fine. The wedding was more than fine.

I know this. I know all of this, but still, like the tennis balls in Ben's backyard, my worries are buried deep. It will take me years and years to uncover them all.

A Wedding

I normally don't do weddings. I can count on one hand the number of weddings I've been to in my life, and that includes my own. But today we are attending a friend's daughter's wedding and I get to act as dog sitter.

The same dilemma I always face with such occasions I face today -- what to wear -- particularly because I must "manage" the large German shepard who lives at the house where the wedding will take place. To complicate things even more, it is overcast with rain in the forecast making for a rather miserable wedding event --finding dressy clothes that are both warm, waterproof, and resistant to dog hair.

This is Ben, the said wedding dog. It's difficult to gain a size perspective with this dog, but the top of his head is level with my hip bone and I'm 5' 9" tall. You do the math. He has long hair, which makes him look both formidable and gorgeous and underneath his guard dog exterior is a goof who is leary of dogs under 10 pounds. So leary that when walking past them he will cower behind my legs.

Still, Ben is a handful. In a few moments I will go to his house, pick him up, and then walk him home (about an hour walk) hoping to burn off some of his enormous energy reserve. Then I must shower and dress (in god knows what) for an outdoor wedding that may get rained on. Ben will stay at our house confined to his pen and then, after the "I dos" are spoken, I will race home to unpen him and let him get my dressy clothes all hairy.

Perhaps the most difficult part of the whole gig will be letting Ben stay at our house overnight. Where does such a big dog sleep? Anywhere he wants to, I suppose, but I dread a sleepless night as I know I'll keep an ear half-cocked for the sound of his large feet padding their way across the bamboo floors or the sound of his heavy breathing as he rests his head on my belly while I sleep.

No, he is not allowed on the bed though getting onto the bed is a matter of one step up for Ben and then it's queen-sized heaven for him since no one else would be able to fit into the bed once he's in it. Still, he will be able to look at me -- eye-level -- if he so chooses and having never been to our house, I fear he will worry about his whereabouts and the whereabouts of his own bed.

Rubin has met Ben on a number of occasions, but Ben has tended to ignore the puppy fearing both the 10-pound rule (though Rubin is now close to 30 pounds) and the fact that Rubin IS a puppy, full of puppy energy and a willingness to throw himself, head first, into Ben's body. Ben would much rather be with humans, especially humans with a tennis ball and this, too, will make for a curious night. Picture a large dog, a soggy tennis ball in his mouth, chomping its goo onto your bed at 3 in the morning.

Perhaps the wedding is the least of my worries and even my attire can be forgiven since I must woman-handle a long-haired monster before and after the "I dos."

This could be interesting. Stay tuned.

A New Trick

We're out to dinner. Ann smiles at me and begins...

"Rubin has a new trick."

Me: He does?

Ann: Yep.

Me: Well, what is it?

Ann: You'll just have to wait and see it.

Me: Can't you just tell me? (Ann loves to hold back. She's the master of it. I tell her what I got her for Christmas the moment after I buy it. She makes me wait until the last minute...not a clue, not a hint, nothing.)

Ann: No, you really just have to see it.

Me: Will you show me when we get home?

Ann: Nope.

Me: That's not fair. How am I going to see it if you don't show it to me?

Ann: Oh, you'll know it when you see it.


This morning. I return from my walk with Rubin and head to the bathroom for a shower. I'm standing in front of the mirror plucking stiff black hairs from my chin when Rubin pushes the bathroom door open and walks in. He smiles.

Me: Hey buddy.

Rubin: Wag wag, smile smile.

Me: (Thinking to myself) I need to remind Ann to show me Rubin's new trick.

Rubin...without hesitation, jumps into the bath tub and looks straight at me: Treat?

I laugh and lean out the bathroom door to call downstairs where Ann is drinking her morning coffee and reading the paper.

Me: I just saw Rubin's new trick.

Ann: Told you he'd have to show you!

Rubin jumps out of the tub with as much ease as he jumped in and then, as he does every morning, he licks my legs hoping to taste the lotion I slather on after my shower.

Me: I haven't showered yet, buddy.

Rubin: Lick lick, wag, wag


These are the jewels during a crazy time. Work has started back up for me and everything feels out of sync. I have a big cold sore on my lip and I can't find the things I need. I try to make room to exercise, but then, as I get my bike ready to ride, my bicycle helmet falls apart and I can't find my bike shoes. I decide to go to the pool and swim, but I've lost my goggles and can only find Ann's suit, not my own.

Out of sorts.

And in the middle of it all the dog jumps, without coaching, into the tub and smiles at me with such simplicity all I can do is laugh and breathe and move on into the day hoping I find my rhythm.

Vanity

I went for a hike yesterday with a good friend (Melinda) who, like me, is thinking of a mid-life transition. Hers seems bigger though as she's a microbiologist who has powerful ties with various world health organizations. Still, it was good to talk and walk through the clouds and fog around Mt. Rainier hoping for vistas where we actually might see something other than just the wildflowers.

"What scares you the most?" Melinda asked me as we waited for the snowy cap of the mountain to perhaps reappear again.

It was a complicated question. Actually, it was a complicated answer, which we tried to work out as we continued up the slope sweating and panting past yarrow and columbine.

1. I want to be as successful at my next job as I have been with teaching.

2. Success, I have learned, is something I feel externally and despite my efforts, struggle with feeling internally.

3. Therefore, I fear being SEEN as a failure.

This is hard to admit. It strikes of vanity and self-centeredness and all the things I thought I did not value. I don't value them now either, but it feels odd to see them in myself and I struggle to really accept them and not just rationalize myself into believing that it has nothing to do with how other people think of me and more to do with a deep sense of insecurity. I'm smart enough to know that insecurity and vanity are twin sisters.

For instance, next weekend is the Danskin Triathlon. I've signed up to do it, but have struggled with training tending to overdue it to the point of injury. If I decide to compete, I will be swimming, cycling and instead of running, walking. That's hard for me to accept not only because people will see me walking, but also because when the times are posted, my time will read as something vastly different from my previous times. My "failure" in other words, will be public and that fact makes me cringe.

I have conversations with myself about the irrationality of my thinking. No one cares about my time. No one cares that I walk. No one is purusing the time results to say, "Look how poorly she did this year!" Most Americans don't even consider participating in a triathlon and will, in fact, still be asleep when I cross the finish line. Still, the thought of being a public failure (or what I consider to be a failure) worries me and has made me consider dropping out of the race altogether.

This is just a race. Imagine the angst I'm feeling about switching jobs. "She went from being a successful teacher to being a dog trainer?" Or worse, "She went from being a successful teacher to being a failure as a dog trainer?" These thoughts keep me up at night and all the voices I hear debating in my head can't seem to find a solution I can live with.

Until this morning...well, in one area. I've decided to run the Rubin-skin (named for my puppy and my version of the Danskin), which is a race I run against myself...at the gym. I'll swim the half mile in the pool, then jump on the stationary bike for 12 miles, and then walk (yes, walk) on the treadmill for 3.1 miles and call it good. No pressure, no need to be pushing myself. No one to pass me. No one to judge me (not that they were in the first place, but at least this pushes the doubt from my mind). Just me, my body, and my own sense of accomplishment.

As for my career...the school year is about to start. I cringe at the amount of energy it will zap from me over the next few months and the sustainability I'll need to muster to carry on through the year, but I'm feeling as if I'm honing in on a plan.

1. Ask for a year's leave of absence. My only stipulation is that (if) when I return, I get my same job back.

2. Pursue dog training with enthusiasm and vigor (which isn't hard for me to do since I LOVE learning and LOVE dogs).

3. In a year, reassess.

On our hike, Melinda said that her brother once told her that he did not want to be a person who lived an unexamined life. This meant, of course, that the examining might be painful and all-consuming, but in his mind, it was better than living without thought. The trick is, I think, to learn to be comfortable with the tumult of an examined life, to accept that doubt brings meaning to one's life and is not a sign of failure.

For me, that's the difficult part...learning inside that my success is measured not by some unknown standards I perceive (or have fabricated) on the outside, but by the core values I have developed on the inside.

More importantly, I must learn to accept that vanity can drive me crazy as well as fuel my insecurity and therefore is not worth the effort.

Melinda and I both decided, as we sat at a picnic table eating our lunch and watching the clouds move across the glaciers, that perhaps the best way to deal with our mid-life crises was to just get a tattoo and move on.

Not a bad idea though the words of my own brother always stay with me -- where ever you go, you take YOU with you (tattoo or no tattoo!).

The hard work still must be done.

Reunion Summer

Busy. That's the word for this summer. I looked up the other day and realized that in two weeks I go back to work. Argh.

Meanwhile, I received a phone call from my past. It was a former high school classmate asking if I would return for my 30th reunion. She said her name and while it sounded familiar, I couldn't place her face in my memory.

I didn't promise anything. I told her I'd look at my calendar and after hanging up the phone, for a few brief minutes, I contemplated attending. Then I checked out the website she'd provided where all events are listed. There's the gathering at the local tavern, there's the big meal for $60 a plate, there's the memorial golf tournament for a classmate who died this year and much more.

On the website you can update everyone on your life in a section called Current Biographies. I clicked on it and then scrolled down through the names remembering (or trying to) all the classmates with whom I spent four years of my life. With a flash of slight recognition, I clicked on certain names and read their bios at first with interest and then with continued despair. 90 percent of them still lived in Bremerton. Most of them referenced God or The Lord or Jesus in some way positive or glorifying. Many of them were married to each other. All had children...lots of them... and many of the entries, I dare say, were written in all CAPS with an abundance of misspelled words not to mention challenging grammar.

I will not judge...these words ran through my head as every minute passed...and then I remembered my brief conversation on the phone with my former, faceless classmate: Don't worry, she'd said, if you're gray or fat or really changed. We're all that way!

She was so happy about it. She was so chipper. She was thrilled that I would even consider attending.

As I worked my way through the website, memories shot back at me like I was hooked up to electroshock aversion therapy:

The nasty notes on my locker -- queer, lezzie, dyke

That time in the locker room when two of my classmates threw me across the floor and kicked and punched me and called me a freak

The leers in class

The time in Psychology class when someone wrote into the suggestion box that homosexuality was a sin and everyone turned and looked at me

The fight in the hallway when a white kid called a black kid a nigger and I was a nigger lover for being their friend

These were my classmates. Now they'd found God. Now they'd married each other and reproduced. Now they were fat. Now they were gray. Now they claimed to have really changed.

I was doubtful. I still am.

Ann said, "You should go!"

I said, "Why?"

"Just to see. I'll go with you."

"Wouldn't that be a hoot. I wonder if they'd corner me in the bathroom and read scriptures to me this time."

"Probably, but it's better than being beat up, isn't it?"

"There are many ways," I responded, "to be beat up. Verbally is one of the worst."

Funny how, after so much time (and therapy), just one phone call, just one look at the pictures of my past can bring up such doubt and insecurity.

"I can't go," I told Ann.

"Then don't," she said calmly. "How many students were in your class?" she asked as an afterthought.

"A bit over 200 I think."

"How many are listed in the biographies?"

I got her point. "About 50," I smiled.

"So there's 150 or more who, like you, haven't responded. I wonder how many of them are gay?"

Or liberal or childless or out of the state or the country or atheist or Buddhist or Muslim or unmarried or ...

Not As I'd Planned

I've been writing numerous emails to various dog training places asking if anyone trains trainers. Despite the fact that I find these email addresses on websites promoting the people as teachers of dog trainers, the responses to my queries have been few and of those responses, everyone has said they don't do that kind of work. Then they add names of others I might try, but even those people have resulted in dead ends.

How does one change her profession when she cannot get trained in the new profession of her choice?

The latest response has been yet another name of someone who is looking to hire dogwalkers and then from there, they may or may not train you as a dog trainer. Interesting. I suppose this is where the leap of faith comes in: Do I quit my job to earn $8 an hour as a dogwalker in "hopes" of becoming a trainer?

I don't leap easily.

Still, I have one more year of teaching (at least, that's the plan) and I'm hoping to save enough money to make the leap a bit less painful.

And I'm ready to beg. Not for change, but actually go to the dog training facilities and beg them to take me on as an apprentice.

Not as I'd planned, but I guess leaping requires flexible and creative thinking...something I haven't practiced for awhile.

Better limber up, eh?

Heat

Scorcher, as predicted. We sit in our steaming house with all the windows open, two fans pushing around the hot air, and a curly dog tucked under our feet...the floor apparently the exact place to be.

Ann and I promised each other we'd go for a swim or for a workout at the Y, but neither of us can muster up enough energy to do anything other than pour ourselves another glass of iced lemonade.

The radio is on and during every break they announce the temperature. 72 degrees was the temperature at 7:30 this morning, then it rose to 78, then 82, and then 88. Just now I heard the announcer decry 92 at 1:40 p.m.

This does not look promising.

We took Rubin to the lake this morning. We walked through the woods and ended up at the edge of the water where he was more than ready to dive right in. Since he's just a pup and the waves can be a bit overwhelming, we purchased a floatation device for him yesterday (the flyer with the vest insisted this was not a life vest, but rather a floatation device!). He was skeptical of it yesterday when we went o visit our friends Doris and Stephen who have a small pool built into their backyard. He sort of flopped around in it, worried by the straps that dangled at his feet. Actually, Rubin was skeptical of the pool itself, but once he found the short step leading into the clear, blue water, he tumbled right in.

His bravery waivered though after he swam across the pool responding to Ann's call and shortly realized there was NOT a short step OUT of the pool. After a wee bit of panic, we swooped him out of the water and he raced around the edges of the pool while we took a swim to cool off.

This morning we strapped him into his floatation device, threw his favorite blue ball with the orange string into the water, and off he went fashionably dressed in lifesaving orange!

Not much to do today but find a cool place to rest and perhaps finish the young adult fiction book I've been reading. The cool places are far and in between though, so I may have to join Rubin on the floor.

Eating Denmark Part Two: Driving with Corpses

“People will wonder why you’re driving around with three corpses in your car.”

My aunt was asleep in the passenger seat, or so I thought. Her head bobbed a bit, but I glanced over just in time to see her smile when she said “corpses.” I smiled, too. It was another example of her dry wit and it caught me a bit off guard.

We’d been driving from Glen Arbor back to Sutton’s Bay; about a 45 minute drive through the back roads of Michigan. We’d spent the day at the Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes and then picnicked at a nearby park. Ahead of me was my cousin, Mary, her call filled with the teenagers from our group. Behind me, an array of cousins and second cousins, a caravan of relatives. In my car, Aunt Edith, my cousin Sally, and my mother, no one except me, under the age of 70. They’d been talking as I drove, clarifying details of the past like sorting buttons in an old sewing kit. At one point Aunt Edith, about to comment on her daughter’s choice of car ahead of us said, “Well, I just wish she would…” and her voice trailed off. I caught my mother’s eye in the rearview mirror and we shared a knowing smile. Sure enough, when I glanced at my Aunt she was drooping, head slightly bouncing back, fast asleep. Within moments, the whole car was silent and when I looked in the mirror at my mother again, she and my cousin Sally looked like bobble head dolls, nodding to the rhythm of the road.

I focused on the road for the next 30 minutes, a bit drowsy, and willed myself not to turn on the radio for fear of waking my elders. It was the first quiet moment since we’d arrived in Michigan four days earlier and though I was tired, I relished the opportunity to listen to nothing.

My mother is a storyteller. She spins long, detailed memoirs at the dinner table remembering every name, every location, and almost every date. Even when my father tells a story, my mother fills in the names, corrects the dates, and raises a questioning eyebrow at the settings of his tales. The stories are never straight. They do not follow along like chapters in a book but rather unfold like origami and then fold back again from bird to flat paper and then back into a magnificently intricate winged bird.
I thought this ability to float a tale in the air was purely a skill of my mother’s, but after my first day with her extended family I was beginning to understand it as more of a genetic trait.

“Well, you know, Maryellen,” my aunt would begin, “That’s the time Norman stole checks from Dad and he was lucky to walk away alive from that mistake.”

“That wasn’t the first time Norman tested Dad’s patience,” my mother interjected and from there the two swapped story after story of Norman’s mischief and misdeeds and my Grandfather’s angry reprisals.

My mother and my Aunt are almost spitting images of each other even though seven years separate them. Their round faces and high cheekbones are haloed by a circle of gray curls (what I’ve jokingly called a poodle cut) and when my mother takes out her dentures, the resemblance is uncanny. It’s not only their looks that mirror each other, but their speech cadence, the set of their jaws when intently listening, and the lift of their eyebrows when a story strays from a detail they remember a different way. Even their laughs are identical and only when they sit side-by-side are their differences readily apparent.

For starters, my mother is a devoted Democrat, working for the political party most of her adult life. Aunt Edith, on the other hand, is a religious Republican, unafraid to share her opinions with anyone who will listen. My mother is an amazing cook, whipping up gourmet meals and desserts for political dinner parties and social gatherings. My aunt can cook, but her idea of gourmet is a layered salad slathered with sour cream, canned peas, and pearl onions. At one point during the visit, I was ordered (for my Aunt can phrase any plea for assistance more like a command than a request) to report to the kitchen no later than four in the afternoon for my tutoring in how to make (construct, really) an ice cream cake.

Ice cream cake is one of the few things I remember about my Grandmother. When we drove back in the summer from the Pacific Northwest to Des Moines, Iowa when I was a child I’d run into my Grandmother’s apartment and check her freezer never to be disappointed by the layered pastels of a sherbet frozen cake wrapped in thick whipped-cream frosting.

“It’s time I passed on the tradition,” Aunt Edith informed me and for the next hour we cut angel food cake with an electric knife, added drops of food dye to Cool Whip, and positioned slabs of rainbow sherbet so the cake lay level and round.

Later, she roped me into making a fruit salad claiming she couldn’t read the recipe she most likely read a million times before. After stirring the brown sugar and the walnuts and the marshmallows and the coconut and oh yes, the canned mandarin oranges and pineapple bits (which constituted the “fruit” in the fruit salad), we pulled the setting ice cream cake from the freezer just in time to thickly spread the Cool Whip icing around the edges, over the level top and stuff it down through the hole in the center.

Other differences between my mother and my aunt are in their level of patience. The double entendre of “it’s all relative” comes to mind. There are times, with my mother, that I feel we are always in a rush to get somewhere or complete a task or even just move through life. Patient is never a word I’d really use to describe my mother since she rarely sits down and when she does, is continuously busy with something – a book to read, a shirt to sew up, a letter to write. She works at a pace that exhausts me and though her words may sound supportive and patient, there’s an underlying edge that has always made me feel a bit doubtful of my actions.

But compared to my Aunt, my mother is the poster child of patience and acceptance.

“Well, I just want us to be aware of the time,” my Aunt would say again and again. “We don’t want to be late or keep the restaurant waiting!”

It was perhaps an hour before we needed to get going when she said this and her daughter, Mary who’d made the reservation and knew how to get where we intended to go was no where to be found. It was a like a push-me-pull-me cartoon – Aunt Edith wanted to get a move on while Mary was still putting all the pieces together – dressing her kids, walking the dog, finishing a conversation with another relative.

But we moved like a herd of cats throughout the week heightening my Aunt’s need to be early and rushing my already scattered cousin.

I had vowed weeks before my arrival that this trip was all about my mother. Truth be told, I didn’t really want to go to Michigan, but it meant a lot to my mother so I bought the ticket and packed my bags. Throughout the journey there I practiced my deep breathing and when our plane was delayed in Chicago making our connection with my sister in Traverse City hours late, I was a model of yogic patience.

Still, I stayed calm reading my book, intermittently solving a Sudoku puzzle or two, and when my eyes were tired, people watching.

I find Midwesterners to be a friendly bunch, but distinctly different than those of us from the Pacific Northwest. I was born in Iowa City, but when I was nine months old, my parents packed up the Plymouth Valiant station wagon and shipped us all – my brother, sister, and I – to Bremerton, Washington. For a few years after the move, we’d travel back in our Plymouth to spend our summers in Iowa while my father worked on his PhD. Though I was born in the land of corn, I have always considered myself a Washingtonian with Washingtonian affects and a penchant for cool, rainy weather.

My partner would disagree. Ann’s a born and bred Wisconsinite, a Madisonian to be specific and I still chuckle when she flattens out her vowels as she excitedly tells a story. My parents, Midwesterners too, love it as well. Ann says that you can always tell a Midwesterner because they can carry on a conversation anywhere, any time, and yes, about any subject though they prefer talking about the weather. When I ask for specifics about why she sees me as more of a mid-country person than a West Coaster, she’s short on examples usually ending the conversation with “I can just tell.”

While my mother and I sat stranded in the O’Hare Airport, I still didn’t see much resemblance between me and all the others seated around us. Then my mother struck up a conversation with the woman sitting next to her and before I knew it, I was involved in the conversation at first because I was embarrassed that my mother was sharing so many family stories and later because I wanted to add details to her tales.

“Oh my god,” I thought, “I AM a Midwesterner!”

By the time we got on the plane I was exhausted. I’m not a very comfortable passenger on planes and generally I don’t sleep for any length of time. But the second the small plane took off, I could feel my head toss back and melt warmly into the headrest. I woke up only once during the flight, to the weight of my jaw slack and heavy and then nodded back to sleep, an upright corpse on her way to Traverse City or as I jokingly came to refer to it – Traversity.

Eating Denmark: Part One

On a recent family-reunion vacation, my mother described her dream to me.

It was her mother's birthday and my mother had designed a beautiful chocolate cake in the shape of Denmark, the birthplace of my grandmother. The cake was laid out on a flat-mirrored platter and was detailed down to the last little isalnd floating on the reflective surface. The birthday celebration was to be head at one end of a large gymnasium surrounded by tiered levels of an arena. Before the event could get stared, two full basketball teams, complete with cheerleading squads swarmed down the aisles and onto the court bouncing their balls, running their warm-ups, and shaking their pom-poms. Mother, as she recounts the dream, said she was furious. She could feel her anger hot in her face, her hands clenched tightly along the edges of the mirrored cake platter. But everyone at the party -- relatives, long-time friends and aquaintances -- told her not to worry that everything would be all right. So they packed up the celebration and moved to a room upstairs away from the sweaty basketball teams and their adoring cheerleaders. Meanwhile, the cake slowly melted and my mother had to lick the drippings off the sides with her fingers.

“What does it mean?” I asked her when she’d finished recounting the dream.

“Oh, honey, I don’t know,” she sighed. “I’d have to look up all the symbolism in my dream books to really get down to all the layers.”

We were sitting at my aunt’s dining room table just outside of Sutton’s Bay, Michigan. My aunt, my mother’s older sister, was 87 at the time and the point of our visit was a female family reunion. The Jensen clan, my mother’s family, consisted of three daughters and three sons, but of the 17 grandchildren, 11 of them were girls all of whom agreed to gather mid-June in Michigan at the request of Edith, now the oldest matriarch of the family.

Growing up I was aware of my extended family, but not particularly close to any of them. My father’s side of the family is minimal compared with my mother’s and except for a few summer visits from cousins and our belligerent and hateful paternal grandfather, my father’s family was a mystery to me. My mother, on the other hand, always kept in contact with her sprawling cousins and their children, sitting down every Christmas to send detailed letters folded into holiday cards and mailing stacks of them off to all four corners of the globe.

Still, despite her diligence at maintaining the family tree, the names on the envelopes did not register faces in my memory.

If the Jensen clan is known for anything, they are known for their longevity. My mother, now 80 often outlasts me, her pace only slower recently because of a bum hip and swollen knees. Aunt Edith walks with a cane and bends slightly to the left with a bad back and recovery from a broken hip, but she can still challenge the likes of the Energizer bunny even under the influence of Vicadin.

Ten years ago an even larger extended clan met in Sutherland, Iowa birthplace of the Jensen children for the celebration of my Aunt Anna’s 90th birthday. In the basement of VFW halls and churches, long tables held the food I fondly remembered from my childhood – egg-yellow potato salad, Jello concoctions filled with fruit and marshmallows, and my personal favorite, cold slaw with just the right blend of tangy dressing. Stretched out on another table were huge displays of the various branches of the family tree. My grandfather, Christian, had three brothers and one sister each of whom appeared to be as prolific as my grandfather. During that reunion, I met more people who looked vaguely familiar if only because we shared the same high cheekbones or unusually broad shoulders. Inundated with names of relatives I didn’t quite know, I asked my mother to explain relationships by referring to one of the many family trees. It was during that vacation that I finally grasped the concept of second cousins twice removed though now I’m not certain I could explain it to anyone else.

Aunt Anna died at age 96, crippled with arthritis, almost completely blind, and uncertain of her surroundings at any given moment. My mother, 18 years younger, looked to Anna as more of a mother than a sister especially after their mother died when my mother was in her early 40’s. I, too, looked to Anna as more of a grandmother than an Aunt and therefore viewed my cousins as more of aunts than contemporaries.

I was 10 when my grandmother died, but I did not travel back from the state of Washington to Sutherland, Iowa to attend her funeral. In fact, I have very few memories of my grandmother though I do remember her straight, straight back, her powdery smell of lavender, her ice cream cakes, and the one time she let me undo her gray hair from its tight bun so I could comb it in the downstairs bathroom of our 17th Street house.

Traveling to Michigan to Aunt Edith’s brought many of the scattered pieces of my family tree together for me this time. No longer were relations just names branched out on butcher paper, but they were faces, some of whom I knew, some of whom I did not and stories, like stones in a river, each with their own unique patterns and weight, curves and textures.

We were called together, I learned in the middle of the trip, to hear the stories of both my Aunt and my mother. On one night, they were to tell the tale of my grandfather and grandmother’s life in Denmark, their meeting and marriage in Iowa, and the birth of their six children. While that night did occur, the stories flowed throughout the week and by the end, were repeated more than once to those of us who stayed the longest.

By the end of the week, I was exhausted by late nights and overlapping stories, by my energetic and demanding sister, and my equally forceful and demanding aunt. Many of the conversations that week were exercises in minutiae – details of minute-by-minute accounts describing the purchasing of a particular cereal or the recounting of a recent doctor’s visit. At first, all conversations were polite, the audience attentive, listeners locked in eye contact with the storyteller. By the end of the week, relatives stood up and ventured into the kitchen to choose from the abundance of snacks mid-story leaving the storyteller hanging on details they felt to be of the greatest import.

In other words, the beautiful cake of Denmark dripped at times, melting over the edges of even the best-laid plans. There was not much else to do, but lick the fingers of our mess and turn to each other and say, “Don’t worry, it will be all right.”

Memory Fishing

Ann attended a writing class (on how to teach writing) and had to actually write an essay. I helped a smidge, but asked her if I could post her piece on my blog. She agreed so here it is:

Every summer our family of five went on vacation camping in Northern Wisconsin. The trips always involved fishing with my dad. Just the two of us in a simple aluminum motorboat; me, sitting high at the bow with my puffy life vest on and Dad grinning at the back while steering the small outboard motor holding a cigarette in one hand and with his other hand. holding onto the side of the boat as he tried to bounce me over the waves.

We’d fish for hours without a word exchanged between us, the silence only broken with by childish scream every time I’d catch the abundant perch or on special occasions, a good size Northern Pike. At those times, I’d look over to my dad to confirm the fish’s identity and he’d let me know if it was big enough to keep. His eyebrows raised and I’d see his face light up. “That’s a pretty good one,” he’d grunt and we’d go back to our silence. I loved sharing these times with my dad, but I hated each cigarette’s red hot end and the smoke that always hung in the air between us as we fished on quiet, calm lakes.

Forty years later my older brother, Phil, cut the engine of my dad’s car as we arrived at my Dad’s house. The surrounding cornfields hadn’t been plowed under yet to make way for the new spring plantings. The stalks lay broken and bent. I was thankful to step out of the stale smell of the car’s interior to the fresh country air. I stretched after my long hours sitting on a plane and took in the full view of the farm land around me.

“We’ve been cleaning the house the past week while Dad’s been in the hospital,” Phil stated matter-of-factly. “It was really disgusting. I think he hasn’t been cleaning the house for the past few months. You better prepare yourself.”

I hesitated, positioning myself so I was the last to enter. We walked up to the front door, but the screen door resisted and stuck so Phil had to use both hands to pry it open. It remained open and that’s when the decades old cigarette smell burned my nostrils. I thought, “God, I’m so glad I didn’t arrange to stay here at the house.” As usual, seeing my dad was always a secondary experience to the assault on my senses. I blinked rapidly as my eyes watered from the intense concentration of stale smoke.

Then I saw my dad sitting in his new recliner that we, his three kids, had bought him the previous Christmas. The recliner was massive; a blue raft. He looked as if he were floating down a river minus a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Instead, I saw the whitecaps of used tissues surrounding him, and ahead, instead of the bend in the river there was a brand new wide-screen HDTV tuned to a golf tournament.

He looked so small.

When he saw me, my father raised his head to give a nod and a grunt, and then he rubbed his head as if he were sick. My father was never sick. Until now. I moved to give him a hug and a kiss and felt him having trouble keeping up with my swift greeting, his lips still puckered after I had withdrawn to sit down. He quickly spat into a tissue and soon I saw that he did this with the same timing as when he puffed on a cigarette. The white plastic garbage bag was full and had become his new ashtray.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Not so good,” he grunted and shook his head and again rubbed it.

Phil began talking and soon his voice filled in both sides of the conversation. I got thirsty and excused myself to go to the kitchen. Phil came up behind me and explained how he and his wife had removed all the food and drinks from the fridge and cleaned out the cupboards now that Dad couldn’t eat or drink. He pointed to case after case of Dad’s liquid food for his G-tube, a tube inserted into the stomach into which Dad poured the cans a few times a day. The stacked cases reminded me of the dog food from my own home.

Esophageal cancer was the diagnosis; a six centimeter cancerous tumor had blocked his esophagus and was migrating rapidly throughout his body. Phil explained how the doctors were talking about chemotherapy so dad could at least swallow, but the outlook was grim.

At the sink all the old ashtrays I’d grown up with were stacked and clean for the first time ever. I also noticed the old instant coffee pot on the bare counter unplugged and stained from old spills. My dad loved his coffee and we used to laugh at the sound of the spoon rhythmically hitting the sides of the mug long after the sugar had dissolved.

Suddenly, I thought, “If he can’t eat or drink, how can he breathe?” I practiced with my own mouth and nose, breathing-swallowing-inhaling-exhaling-swallowing, it became confusing since it was all so automatic for me.

I immediately thought He could actually smoke if he wanted to. I asked him and he said he had no desire to smoke since his throat was so dry. I looked at his pale, drawn face and gave him an ironic smile. Finally, my wish had come true. My dad had quit smoking.

When I returned home to Seattle a few days later, I received the dreaded phone call in the middle of the night. The next morning I was back on a plane, driving through the cornfields and turning into the driveway, once again at my father’s house. My brother and sister-in-law had done most of the cleaning, attempting to elbow grease the yellow stains from the walls and fabric of a 70 year old man’s bad habits. Still, there was sorting to do, combing through and divvying up our father’s belongings.

There wasn’t much I wanted, but in the basement, hanging in the rafters I spotted my special fishing pole. The memories of the aluminum boat washed over me; my dad’s grin, his hand on the steering wheel, and the flopping Northern Pike in the belly of the boat. I easily could have taken the pole. It was mine and my father had kept it all these years perhaps with the knowledge that I’d return for it after his passing. But in the end, I left it for my brother’s grandkids knowing one day, he’d take them on a quiet lake somewhere and gently rock his way into their memory as my father had done with me.

No Go Chicago!

Waiting is not my virtue. I'd rather drive the long way around than sit at a stoplight in commuter traffic. I want to move forward. Just sitting is torturous.

So it was in this picture as we inched our way down the O'Hare Airport tarmac waiting and waiting and waiting to take off.

But back up a bit: First, we'd missed our connection to Seattle the day before. Half the world missed their connections, or so it seemed since the Chicago airport was busier than a wasp's nest during breeding season. Lines were the norm. Lines for the bathroom. Lines for the "red phones" where we were instructed to "rebook" our flight. Lines at the agent booths. Lines at the hotel kiosk. Lines for the taxi. Lines, lines, lines, and even more lines.

Then a night in a downtown Chicago hotel that cost my mother almost as much as my plane ticket to Michigan. And a visit to the gift shop for a toothbrush, a t-shirt, some snacks, and a pair of new underwear. Then breakfast the next morning, where a simple 2 eggs over easy, a side of toast, fresh fruit, and bacon tallied up to $18...for one person. Then another outrageously priced taxi ride back to the airport where it was eerily quiet and the lines were not nearly as long or as abundant.

But don't let that fool ya...the line was waiting for us on the tarmac. 30 planes waiting, waiting, waiting to fly out and the line of storm clouds circled around us like a noose. And the lines they repeated over and over: "We're sorry for the delay..." "We're doing everything we can to ensure a safe flight..." "We so appreciate your patience..." "Well, we tried to get you out of here on time, but it looks like we'll be here for another 30 minutes..."

But it was 2 1/2 hours out on that overheated runway. Thus, the grimmace of impatience.

We missed our connection in Salt Lake, but our luck turned as Delta airlines rebooked us automatically onto the next flight out.

26 hours overdue we landed in Seattle, our luggage having arrived a day before us.

I'm home now and have more stories to tell. I learned a lot about myself on this trip even though I wasn't planning on such introspection. But those will have to wait until I unpack, do the laundry, play with the growing puppy, eat some "real" food, and rest my weary waiting bones.

What's A Girl To Do?

The first dilemma I face with my family reunion trip to Michigan is figuring out what to pack. I have always struggled with packing. I either over pack or under pack and when I arrive at my destination -- be it another state, another country, a campground, or a hotel -- I am without the clothes that make me feel safe, make me feel comfortable, make me feel like myself.

Tomorrow I fly, with my 80 year old mother, to see her older sister in Sutton's Bay, Michigan. Along the way we will meet up with my older sister, my only sister and make our way to Traverse City, just south of Sutton's Bay. It's not traveling with my mother that worries me or meeting and socializing with relatives I've never met. It's not even spending four nights with my difficult sister in a hotel room or the overeating on the food that will be abundant and fattening and white (it is the midwest).

I worry instead about my selection of clothes -- will I be too hot in long pants or too cool in shorts? Does my shirt match the occasion? Do I look too muscular in a tank top? Will that redneck notice my "boyish" clothing? Will my pants fit after days of eating potato salad and white bread? Will I sweat too much in my linen shirt?

Ann, born and bred in the midwest, claims that no one there has any fashion sense. Dressing up, she says, means a clean pair of jeans and a polo shirt without a stain on the front. A few summer's ago, when we drove to Michigan to visit a friend, Ann screamed with delight when, somewhere in Minnesota I think, she saw a man at a rest stop dressed in a bright orange t-shirt, dramatically patterned baggy shorts, sandals and black socks pulled up to his knees. "We're in the midwest now, honey," she informed me and then, for the rest of our journey, men in similar dress kept popping up.

Now, when I share with her my fears of my fashion dilemma, she laughs and says, "Just pack some orange shirts and black socks. You'll be just fine."

Still, our bed is covered with all the clothes I wish to bring. There's no way they'd fit into the luggage, so I must winnow out the choice items from the must haves. Ann says she'll help me after work, but I'm not sure I trust her fashion sensibility. She left this morning dressed in beige shorts and a red shirt and when I saw the dark ankle socks, I made her change into her Keen sandals, sans socks.

The dilemma feels very complex because the items on the bed are the clothes I love the most because they are comfortable, uncomplicated, and the things I like to wear when I am on summer vacation (which officially started today). I want to take everything I've laid out, but I know it won't fit in the bag so I must decide which items will meet the following criteria: comfortable, weather flexible, and family appropriate.

Right now I'm wearing my "Got Privilege?" t-shirt, which I've thought about taking as a statement of my liberal politics, but the shirt is black and I know dark colors attract mosquitoes. Of course, almost all the clothes I have are dark in color. I live in the northwest -- few people wear white in June and I look ill in peach and yellow -- so my wardrobe consists of maroons and darker blues.

I do not own an orange t-shirt.

The complexity of this dilemma is that, once I cull out the bulkier items, will the clothes that remain make me feel good or will I feel deeply uncomfortable because every woman will be in a dress and I'll be in shorts? Or will I be squirming in pants that feel too tight or a shirt that clings to my back in the Michigan humidity? Will I wish I'd brought that shirt instead of this shirt or that bra instead of this one?

And I'm not even talking about shoes, yet! How many pairs of shoes can I fit in my bag and still have room for my clothes? And still know I've got the appropriate shoes for the appropriate situation? Not only do I not own any white pants (along with no orange shirts), I don't own white shoes or high heels.

I am pratical in every way. My clothes reflect that, but this trip isn't about practical. It's about visiting my aunt in her flowery polyester. It's about seeing my cousins in their white shorts and striped knit tops. It's about sharing a meal with distant relatives who wear diamond earrings and expensive shoes.

What's a girl to do?

I was sharing my dilemma with a woman from work. She's very young and she wears the oddest assortment of Thirft Store clothing (she came to work one day in a Wonder Woman costume complete with shiny gold breast plates). She dates a transgender man (currently in transition of female to male) who looks gorgeous in tight black jeans and a tight black t-shirt. She said I shouldn't worry. If I really wanted to know uncomfortable I should travel with her (dressed as she is with "boyfriend" in tow) and see the looks she gets when visiting family in Israel or Florida.

"Try something different," her boyfriend advised.

"Like what?" I query.

"I don't know. Wear a uni-tard and go-go boots. That will truly feel uncomfortable. Then wear your real clothes and you'll feel comfortable again."

Not a bad idea. I've often thought I should just fall into the stereotype so many have of "lesbians" and wear men's clothes in a very manly fashion. No need to worry about shoes, then.

"Wear an orange t-shirt," my co-worked advised. "When in Rome..." she reminded me.

But an orange t-shirt means I must go shopping and frankly, if I'm going to go shopping I refuse to waste my money on dark socks and orange shirts.

Maybe I should just buy another suitcase.

What IS a girl to do?