An English Slug

Jet lag. Lying in bed mouthing, “I must sleep.” And the mind is no where near contemplating this possibility. That is the back drop for the most recent philosophical chat with 8-yr-old Liam. In the dark at 2 a.m. in England over Christmas. The last big question he put out there was: “Are slugs nocturnal?” The question may have been cows in Iowa or the squirrels at home. But in England: slugs.

Honestly, I didn’t know, but it was a thought-provoking question. As Liam drifted off, my mind latched onto the question. I think slugs just move as they can where they can. Certainly they can’t think, “Ahhh, dusk is approaching! I must hurry to shelter!” No, I think they just sleep where they get tired, be it day or night.

We gave up trying to get the boys adjusted to English time; they slept until very late morning and went to bed no earlier than midnight. A week later, again another philosophical discussion in bed, in the wee English hours. “Mom,” Liam started hotly, “Slugs ARE nocturnal! I stepped on one tonight walking back to Grandma’s from Auntie’s! My socks got all sluggy!”

I nearly gagged. English slugs are big. This is a healthy English slug, next to my sister-in-law's finger:

Ooo-ga. I really felt for the kid! That was not worm squishin’ that was creature squishin.’ With only socks on to boot. I had forgotten our conversation the following morning; otherwise, I would have thrown that pair of socks away along with the ones caked in mud.

And now I'm wondering, in my cold-induced jet-lagged state, how big does a spider, worm, bug, or rodent need to be to elevate it to an unsquishable creature? Of course, there is no generic answer for that, for we all have different tolerance levels. From English to Iowan standards, I'm somewhere in between.

(These tolerance levels between Bill's family and my family are best portrayed, respectively, in Uncovering the Real England: Spiders and Dancing with a Foreign City Slicker.)

Have Origami Yoda paper must you?

Early in 2012, Will and I spent time – read that as hours – searching on-line for special paper so Will could make Tom Angleberger’s Origami Yoda.  That needle in the haystack we were hunting is double-side origami paper: brown on one side and green on the other. We have been out of the paper for some time now, and last week I ensued once again on the search.  This post is meant as a kind of lighthouse, a beacon, to help all those who need this particular paper to make this Yoda.  After all, Yoda says, “Always pass on what you have learned.”

I do not speak Yoda; therefore, I have enlisted Will’s help today in writing this post.  You may need to be between the ages of 6 and 17 and/or an origami aficionado, and/or a Star Wars buff to understand the following.  If you aren’t, consider sharing this with someone who is… you must.

With Will’s help…

Like Origami Yoda do you?  Need green and brown origami paper do you?

If you take the quick and easy path, sith you will not become but get yoda origami paper you will! Kim's Crane Origami Supplies.  To the rest of the galaxy give!  Share you must!

To make this you want?

“Patience you must have my young padawan.” - Yoda

Book Draggin'

Before I joined Bill and the boys in England for Christmas,  I elected to do a private bag drag to Paris, on my own for 36 hours. Yes, I elected myself -- because who else would elect me to go to Paris by myself?  I spent a little more to get there rather than go straight to England, but… no regrets. Well, perhaps, one.  I packed a small roll-aboard to be checked at Logan.  After packing what I would need for 36 hours in Paris, my little bag was only half full.  Elation!  That left plenty of room to pack what I love best to drag with me: books.

I knew I would be taking a commuter train from Charles de Gaulle airport to the Paris Nu Gord station and then getting on the Metra once in the city.  What I hadn’t anticipated was emerging from the underground train station via three long flights of stairs to the surface of Paris.  Facing those stairs, I decided to just drag the stacked bags up them, rather than separately holding my carry-on bag, which also contained books, and the roll-aboard bag.

The first French words I heard directed toward me came from behind, “Madame! Madame!”  The tone packed a double meaning: ‘you ding-a-ling’ and ‘let me help you’ as this woman graciously picked up the back end of my bag combo and helped me lug it up two sets of stairs.  “Merci, Madame!  Merci!” is all I could reply because I don’t know how to say, “Yes, I am a ding-a-ling, and I can’t believe I tried to do that.  Could I look any more like an American tourist if I tried? Thank you so very much for helping me!” in French.

After that whirlwind visit, I packed my books and took a taxi back to the Charles de Gaulle airport.

***

Packing to leave England, I put most of the books in the suitcases that would be checked, including the children’s books I had bought while in England.  I volunteered to do all the packing of the four big suitcases.  Although unspoken, I'm pretty sure Bill and I both know that’s best.  He only needs to physically haul these bags that always get a big orange “HEAVY” label on them.  It would be more emotionally painful for both of us for Bill to actually see how many books were in the cases.  Particularly, since his travel reading material consists of just one Kindle in his backpack.

***

On the plane coming home from England, a silver-haired gentleman heaved a carry-on into the bin above me.  I flinched.  After take-off, he brought it down and took it back to his seat.  I didn’t see what he took out, but in just moments he re-stashed the bag above my head.  When we landed, he approached me with many books in his hand.  I looked away, giggled, then looked back and smiled as he was about to lay his stack of books on the aisle floor.  Yuck!  “Sir!  Excuse me!  I’ll put my tray down for your books while you get your bag out.”  In an accent unidentifiable to my ear – Queen’s English? Australian? American? – he perfectly enunciated, “Why, thank you. That’s so kind.”  I tried not to look at the titles.  That felt like an invasion of privacy, but I couldn’t help see ‘Virginia Wolf’ on one of the bindings.  Serious reading.

My generosity sparked conversation.  “What do you do?” he asked.  “I’m a writer.”  “Really?  What do you write?” “I write 1st-person humor and nostalgia essays, and I publish them on my blog, lindamalcolm.com.”  “Ahh, do you have a card?” “Yes, but they are packed away in my checked luggage.”  With all those books.  I asked, “What do you do? I see you are a reader!” “Yes, I’m also a writer… of books.”

Then, through the shuffling of passengers, he disembarked. Leaving a hole of information that I want filled: Reader and author of books who flew from London to Newark, what do you write?  And… thank you for carrying eight to ten paperback novels with you on-board.  It was comforting to meet another serious book dragger.

A friend once told me, "Books are like money: I just need them to live."

(Have you ever smelled Norton's Anthology of Poetry?  That's how poems are meant to be smelled, ... er... read.  Like Wordsworth's "Daffodils.")

The Advent of the iPod Touch

It was time.  We relented.  I needed my computer to write.  I wanted my iPad back too.  Both had been Minecrafting vehicles to my discontent.  They are mine.  As in the possessive form of the word. Bill and I stayed up late one night before we went to England so we could set the new iPod Touches up at home.  Side by side on the coach, we followed directions explicitly, making sure they were both set up identically.  We agreed to use the user ID our iTunes is set up with so the boys would have access to the music we have downloaded.

Christmas morning in England… Whoa!  We are the best parents ever!  Immediately, the boys tap into the Wi-Fi and join one another in the same Minecraft file.  They try sitting side by side on the settee.  They move to different rooms and chat with one another via the game.  Heck, I even get into the action by joining them via my iPad, which is back in my possession.  I go into their file.  Liam sees me and writes, “Hey, Mom?  Is that you?  Cool!  Follow me.  I’ll give you a tour.”  So I bumped him with my little blocky man – Will says that is how you say “hi” to one another.  I worked out the forward button and followed him around this strange cubed environment.  Then, I walked my little blocky man right into the pit where Liam’s pet pig was.  And I couldn’t get out.  Chatting back and forth didn’t help.  Finally, Liam came to my physical rescue, then politely uninvited me out of the file.  I think I was too much work.

Play soon ended and the real work began on Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, an English holiday.  Will wanted to change the passcode to access his iPod.  As long as Bill and I knew it, we didn’t have a problem with that.  Will told Liam he was changing his, and Liam thought that was a good idea too.  However, Bill and I didn’t know Liam was on the same course of passcode changing.

Liam came into Grandma’s from his aunt’s house next door and plopped down to go to work.  I could feel a stiff breeze and knew the door was open.  Liam, intent on the iPod, wasn’t responding to my multiple requests to close the door.  “LIAM, CLOSE THE DOOR!” finally got his attention.  After closing the door, Liam returned to his iPod but was locked out.  I didn’t realize that he had been changing his passcode in those seconds I was commanding him to shut the door.  Liam couldn’t remember what he had changed his passcode to.  We guessed the passcode five times and were then permanently locked out.  (Might I ask, iPeople, where is the “Forgot your password?” prompt that we Windows people rely on, frequently?)

The ensuing scene replicated one of those Christmas movies: horrible to the characters but hilarious to the viewers.  Bill worked eight hours straight to get the thing back on-line.  His hair stood on end; he tends to pull his hair with these kinds of challenges.  (He had me in a fit of laughter earlier this week: I had delegated to Bill the job of reading through the draft of our new will.  He had a stiff Mohawk by the end of that ordeal.)  Early evening, Bill pulled in Liam’s uncle and nephew and their computer.  A couple more hours of heads together, and there were cheers from the kitchen.  It had been recovered.

Home, on January 1st, another holiday.

The bag that had ripped on the way to England was duct-taped at Bill’s mum’s house before our bag drag began.  At the airport, the tape had failed, so Bill found a little store that would wrap the bag in plastic for us.  We had a good laugh about it once we got home and it was still securely wrapped.  Liam thought it looked like a mummy.  Bill, in the laundry room with the bag, took this picture of it…

…then sent it via text to his sister with the ha-ha caption: “Bag in Condom!”  Very funny, until you hear your 8-year-old say, “I just got 'Bag in Condom!'”  And then your 10-year-old chime in, “Hey, I did too!”  I track Bill down in the laundry room, his iPhone still smoking in-hand.  “Did you hear that?”  No.  “Do you want to go explain?  …No, never mind.  I will.”  As I deleted the message from the iPods, I rattled off something like it’s not a polite word to use with your friends at school, it means to wrap something tightly.  Surely, my vagueness has set up some definition searching on the Internet, hmmm?

An hour later, Liam finds me in the laundry room emptying bags.  “So Brad is going Sanibel Island, huh?”  I’m baffled: How did Liam know his friend was going there?  I had just spoken to Brad’s mom but not yet shared my conversation with Liam.  Lo and behold, Brad’s mom had just texted me via the iWaves about their trip.  (Note: I have a non-iPhone, so it didn’t actually go to my device.)

Yes, the immediacy of the need for the boys’ independence and our privacy became all too clear.  All of which is probably possible with the appropriate settings in one iAccount, but after throwing the ball back and forth between us on who could and would research the settings, Bill and I agreed the easiest thing to do would be to set up separate accounts for each of the boys.  And we needed one lead iGeek in the house.

Home on Snow Day Friday, January 4th, another holiday of sorts.

iWas consumed with iStress, but iEmerged victorious releasing Will into his own iWorld.  Next, iAm on to Liam’s – with no texting by Bill in the mean time.

iAm in iHell, but iHave found iHelp on the internet via Windows on my laptop.

Baggage

Carry-ons. Roll-aboards. Suitcases. Trunks. The insane lugging of stuff. Containers to haul what we need with us. I often say to Will & Liam that need is a funny word. I take two small carry-ons on board planes and put them under the seat in front of me; then I watch the frenzied roll-aboarders as they look for an empty slot in overhead bins to hurl their over-stuffed roll-aboards. And I flinch when it’s above me that they take that almighty swing upward.

We checked four suitcases to come home from England. After traveling, the sight of our bags circling on luggage delivery systems in Baggage Claim warms my heart. Even if they are ripped, bent or marred, they usually hold up well enough not to scatter dirty laundry everywhere. Reclaiming them is the last step in our travels controlled by the airline. Ahhh…Freedom.

In England, the cases were packed with new Christmas presents and our clothes, with the exception of the mud-covered white socks and underwear that Liam peeled off after falling at the swampy cricket pitch. The likelihood of mud stains coming out wasn’t good. Shoes and jackets and sweat pants were recoverable. There was liberation in throwing the socks and underwear away, in declaring “no” on what I could’ve labored on over two or three washes. No guilt. No designer-ware here.

Once home we’ll lug the heavy bags through the mudroom and to the laundry room. And sometimes we live out of the bags for days, but flying on the 31st, we have the 1st as a holiday to recover and empty the bags. Do laundry. Find homes for new Christmas presents. Get toiletries to the bathrooms. And finally, when the cases morph from heavy baggage to empty luggage, they return to the basement. Except for the one that ripped on the way to England and is now held together with duct tape and shrink wrap. It has served us well. It was a freebie, and it’s time to relinquish it.

So many vessels. As we haul them around and feel their weight, “baggage” moves to the negative realm, particularly if it’s not unpacked, and only keeps getting heavier as more is shoved inside. What good is lugging baggage around? It’s heavy. Not economical when it comes to time. If every unpleasant or challenging event results in a big old suitcase or trunk – a kind of mental scoreboard of everything bad that’s ever happened… Ye gads. Time to lighten the load. At least down-size to a roll-aboard. Keep the lessons learned neatly packed. Perhaps pare them down little by little to a small carry-on.

Baggage – whether big suitcases on wheels or trunks our ancestors used to heft along – serves us well to take on travels to new places and to old favorites.

Unpack the rest and throw away anything caked in mud.

The English Laundry Maven

Seven days in a small house as hurricane winds and flooding rains swept through the London area a few days before Christmas.

The cricket pitch, our playground away from home, became a green swamp and the wicked winds kept gusting days beyond the thrashing storm. Inside. But for the occasional walk around the block.

For seven days. Cabin Fever hit hard. Yet, the Laundry Maven didn't get bored. Nearly every day she gathered a small load of dirty clothes in her wash tub or mini-laundry basket and trooped it downstairs to the kitchen to load the washer.

She stuffed it through a small door that opened to a small cavern. (Have you read Jon Scieszka's children's book Robot Zot illustrated by David Shannon?  Whether you have or not, meditate on the picture below for a minute until you see two mis-matched robotic eyes, a ridged nose between them and a round mouth taking on Liam's oatmeal.  ...Like I said, Cabin Fever hit hard.)

The Maven skipped the "rinse hold" cycle and let it spin out immediately, often letting it sit overnight, surely breaking an English Laundry Law as the clothes gathered more wrinkles than Law allows. For years on these visits, she has taken her laundry to the dryer in the garage. But the wind and the rain leaned her toward the more traditional drying apparatus: the Rack. For to the dryer -- for soft, foldable clothes -- didn't seem feasible in blustery 90 MPH gales. It was strange enough on a dry day heading out the back door with the mini-basket, through the gate, across the back garden, through the outer gate, unlocking the garage, opening it, flicking on the switch so electricity flowed to the dryer.  Plus now, with all the rain, the path was crunchy with snails.

No, this time round, the Rack seemed less torturous.  As if planned, the load that fit in the mini-basket fit in the washer and fit on the Rack. Preferably next to a radiator, overnight the clothes would get pretty dry. Before the Maven hung them on the Rack, she gave them an intense shake to knock out some of the wrinkles. Next stop: the airing cupboard. A cuddly warm little closet where the hot water heater lives all wrapped up in a thermal blanket. Yet another wooden Folded Rack stands in front of the heater. And this is the laundry's destination after the Rack.

Several hours in here completes the drying process. The Maven takes the clothes from the Folded Rack, carefully presses out more wrinkles with her hands before folding each item in half and meticulously draping them over the stand and closing the door. It's a kind of low-temp kiln. The next morning, Will says, "I can't find any pants." The Maven knows she has washed them, so she back tracks. Hanging on a radiator? On the Rack? Ahh, the hiding place: the Folded Rack in the airing cupboard. She emerges a hero as she shakes a few more wrinkles out and hands Will the warm pants.

And at that moment, she breaks English Laundry Law yet again: She did not iron the clothes that came out of the airing cupboard. But, no one suspects a thing. And the Maven has been doing this for a week without the True English Laundry Maven next door stealing dry laundry to iron. Really, the English Laundry Maven would much prefer the True English Laundry Maven put her feet up and have a cup of tea, for it's a bit strange to have your knickers ironed by your sister-in-law.

(How about throwing a load in then checking out these stories featuring snippets from the Laundry Maven's life?  The Laundry Maven... Happy 4th Monday in a Row... MS Living vs LM Living... ) 

Christmas Eve Past

Several years ago today, when we were only adults – no grandchildren in Mom & Dad’s house yet – we had a surprise visitor. The ho-ho-ho jolly jelly belly man walked into the middle of our gift giving on Christmas Eve. We grown kids all stopped and smiled. Our eyes twinkled. Was this a mistake? Had he brought this bag of goodies to the wrong house? Was he looking for the gaggle of giggling grandchildren at our next-door neighbors? “Has everyone been good this year?” Definitely. We all nodded “yes.” Then Santa opened his bag and worked his way to each of us, shuffling through the piles of wrapping paper on the living room floor.  To each he gave a candy cane and said, “Merry Christmas!” as we peered into that face wondering who this bearded Santa helper was.

The rhythm of candy-cane-giving stopped when Santa got to Bill. Santa gave him a questioning look and said something like, “I’m not so sure that you haven’t been a little naughty.” And from his bag he drew a clear bag with a red ribbon securely tying the top. So the piece of coal wouldn’t fall out.

Bill’s eyes grew wide as he belly-laughed. Our laughs followed Santa closely in amazement. It must be someone we know! As we wondered who had put Santa up to this, he called, “Merry Christmas to All!” and his black boots carried him out the door.

After minutes of denial, Grandma Murphy’s blue eyes sparkled as she threw her head back and laughed until she shook.

…Before taking the receiver off of a phone on the shelf, handing it to a gullible 80-year-old woman in the middle of Walmart, and saying, “It’s for you!”… remember, that she might have connections for outstanding repercussions.

Some ten or more years later, the bag of coal still nestles on an inside branch of our Christmas tree. A reminder that Santa knows who’s naughty and nice – one way or another.

And, a reminder of a woman who had a spirited sense of humor.

Peace, Love and... Joy...

Linda

Rat on a Wheel

Rat on a wheel. The December hub-bub snagged me. Then, a pop on my backside from this summer reared its head and sent my sciatic nerve into high gear. “Do you want Valium for the pain?” No! How would I function on Valium? I want a magic wand waved over my butt and leg. Instead, I wear black pants every day. My three pairs of black pants are more comfortable than jeans. Consequently, I look pretty darn good. I look like I’m dressing up every day. Heck, one day I opened “Real Simple” magazine and saw I was wearing virtually the same holiday outfit as one of the models dressed in turquoise and black. And big earrings just like a model in the same spread. I didn’t have black feathers decorating a slim black skirt, but my pants were black and my chicken feather earrings matched my turquoise sweater. Rockin’ it.

Back from Iowa after Thanksgiving, Liam and Will were finishing last minute projects the night before they returned to school. Liam had to make a personal box: select a container that represented his personality and put 5 or 6 items inside that reflected what he liked. The biggest challenge was the container. Minecraft is his thing now. While in Iowa, he decided to make a Minecraft drawing and tape it to the side of a box. We went over the list of items he had decided to put into the box; I was at the ready to help locate the maze book, the football, a picture of bacon, chess game, etc. But his vision was different. He was going to draw a maze, a football, a self-portrait, another Minecraft scene and put the drawings in the box – with a picture of bacon I printed off the Internet. I walked away and sat on ice.

The next day, Tuesday, we took his box and his Benjamin Franklin poster to school. I handed the poster to the teacher. I placed the box on a low bookcase where we usually leave projects like this. Leaving for school Thursday morning, he was upset with me: Why hadn’t I taken his box to school? I did. You need to look around your classroom for it. Leaving for school Friday morning, he remembered he was still upset with me: I need my box! Why aren’t you helping me? I took it to school. I will help you look for it this morning.

Dressed in one of my magazine spread outfits, I went on the hunt after seeing that the box really was nowhere in the classroom. The only place I could imagine a box going was to the recycle bin; afterall, there were no things in there – only papers. A teacher gave me the hint of checking the teachers’ lunch room, that’s where all the recycling was stored. My heart sank at the sight of two small boxes on the floor in the corner. Neither was Liam’s. It looked like the recycling had recently been picked up. Three giant bins against the wall were also marked recycling. I lifted the lid on the first one and dropped my chin inside to look. Empty. The second one. Empty. The third one. A pizza box on the bottom. Wait… AND a familiar postage stamp on a box below it! The bins were pushing 5 ft. tall. I grabbed a chair and hinged my upper body into the bin. Flipping the pizza box up, there was the Minecraft box!! Thank you, thank you, thank you!! Even standing on a chair, my 5’4” body’s torso was two inches short of reaching the box.

I stepped down and looked eye level at the hump of the bin lid. Only one way. I flipped the lid back on its hinge and, squatting carefully, dropped the bin forward onto its side. On my hands in knees, I peered into the chamber. It looked even deeper lying down. No choice. I crawled into the bin. Feeling my toes bump over the edge confirmed that my whole body was inside the recycling bin.

Ecstatically, I found the flattened box and all of the drawings in perfect shape. Then, I had two thoughts: First, what a “selfie” shot this would be from the outside. Second, if this thing rolled, my simile of rat on a wheel would no longer be a simile. I shuffled backed out. A little dust on the black pants. A little static in my hair. I heard someone in the room. I stood and brushed myself off; I didn't’ recognize the woman who met my butt before my face. Ignoring this, I said, “Hi, are you a new teacher?” “Yes, I’m helping in the 2nd grade classroom.” “Oh, you must know Liam – I’m his mom.” “What a sweetie he is!” she smiled. I smiled, “Yeah…” He really is. I would go to the ends of the earth for him. Or even farther, to the bottom gut of a recycle bin.

Did I really say “no” to Valium?

(Taking a break from the wheel, our family headed to England for Christmas.  That's where the English Laundry Maven hit high gear.) 

An Early Iowa Christmas

After a good two-week reprieve for Dad, he and I headed back to Iowa by train while Bill and the boys flew. Our plane and train left the airport and station at the same time: noon on the Saturday before Thanksgiving. I received a text 2 ½ hours later from Bill: “I see the Sears Tower! I see the Sears Tower!” The train hadn’t yet made it to western Massachusetts. Another text from a gas station, “In Iowa bet you wish you were here!” I received this one while Dad and I were having a bite to eat in the snack car. I mustered up a great reply, “Having a beer! Bet you wish you were here!” An hour and half later, Bill was having a beer. Alas, 31 hours after departure Dad and I rolled onto familiar Iowa roads. Many times on this trip my Iowa culture was juxtaposed with my ever-changing “me” culture. Friday night after Thanksgiving, we went to see the movie “Frozen.” Then, five cousins worked on their own Olaf snowman with the bit of snow left on the 4-wheeler course.

Iowa Olaf faced east and stared at acres and acres of cornstalk-stubbled, snowy farmland.  In Massachusetts, we can go to movies and make snowmen, but not with cousins.  And Olaf’s horizon wouldn’t be so wide.  And an Olaf built in our backyard in Massachusetts wouldn’t meet his demise by a 9-year-old driving a 4-wheeler.

Yes, I said “4-wheeler."  Quads.  Grandpa, uncles, and cousins tied the six-foot long toboggan to the big 4-wheeler and whizzed around with three kids on the back.  Occasionally, one cousin (Liam) was dumped off without the driver (Grandpa) realizing it until he circled back and, seeing the lump of kid on the ground 20 feet in front of him called out with a laugh, “Liam!?!?”  On the smaller quad, Will’s hands were welded to the handles.  In complete, independent control of this machine, Will zipped around looking for snow bumps to jump.  This must be the same exhilaration he gets when skiing down mountains and making giant circles on the high bar.  He thrives on speed and control.

On the calmer, more nostalgic side, a highlight of my trip (and not so climatic for the Malcolm boys) was when we helped Mom put up the Christmas tree.  I want the story of every ornament.  When and how did it come to be?  And this year, this little niche at the back of the tree spoke to the irony of my ever-changing culture:

I too have sets of the crocheted red and gold 6-foot string of beads my great aunt made years ago. Just like Mom’s sets, they circle my tree and remind me of my grandma and her sisters, and the stories surrounding this now-gone generation. And at the root of those stories are the similarities and differences among the five sisters I remember, with the funniest stories coming from their differences.

As for the Santa ornament in this shot... No, I don't see myself ever having a shot-gun shell Santa on my Christmas tree.

(From Christmas in Iowa, I went back to Massachusetts --  to my life as a Rat on a Wheel.)

Overnight on the Train

The Boston cars were at the front of the train. We walked a couple hundred yards until a conductor pointed to metal stairs we could climb to enter our car. I remembered LILO from college, Last-In-Last-Out, a supply system. Cost accounting, perhaps? Dad and I found a seat quickly, thanks to the boarding call of seniors able to go through the boarding gate to the platform before the general public. It wasn’t luxurious. It wasn’t new. It didn’t have WiFi. It wasn’t for business people traveling from Boston to New York City. It was for lugging people 1,600 miles. It was a vinyl nest for 23 hours.

At 9:32 p.m. we pulled out of Union Station. Lights would stay on until 10 p.m. then they would be dimmed, except for the aisle lighting. I walked to the bathroom and, through seeing the various passenger sleeping configurations, I learned what a flight attendant would have helped us with. “Dad, push this lever and the foot rest comes down. There must be a lever to make the leg rest pop up, too – like a recliner.” Several passengers had pulled the leg rest up to be horizontal, aligned with the seat. If on her own, a person could create a small bed out of a two-seat-leg-rest up combination. I couldn’t envision the farmer or his daughter trying this maneuver. But the leg rest could potentially make sleeping more comfortable.

By 10 p.m. most people went out with the lights. I looked at Dad. He was wide awake trying to imagine what he was seeing as the dots of city lights and dark country swept by. Until 1 a.m. I played Solitaire and looked at Dad, looking out the window. Then with my travel pillow around my neck and the aisle lighting shining in my eyes, I catnapped, waking up occasionally to look at Dad, who was still looking out the window.

At 5 a.m., I woke up to see Dad, looking out the window. “Did you sleep?” Shaking of the head. His “good morning” was, “We are only in Ohio!?!? We’ll never make it to Boston by 9:30!” Oh, dear… “Dad, we don’t get into Boston until 9:30 tonight.” Dad looked at me a little bewildered, perhaps waiting to see if I was pulling his leg. I nodded, confirming arrival time.

Well, it was too late for him to sleep, for the choice to take the train meant Dad could see the countryside. And now that daylight was here, Dad looked out the window, giving his imagination a break as the sunrise illuminated what he was seeing.

(After Dad's two-week vacation with us in the Northeast, it was time to head home for An Early Iowa Christmas.)

Union Station

(The first part of this story is "How did your crops do this year?") Union Station.  After a bite to eat and reading a few newspapers, Dad and I zig-zagged down an escalator and through a crowded hallway to our boarding lounge.  I led the way with an occasional glance to make sure Dad was still with me.  I turned the last corner, looked behind me, and he wasn't there.  A silly jab of panic as if I had lost my 2-year-old swept over me.  I backtracked 20 yards to find him perched against a wall with that tight-lipped tough stoic look awash on his face.  The look I see in my bathroom mirror every morning before I take a shower.  Dad thought I was checking things out, and he didn't want to get wound up in the coil of people who were waiting for another train.  Confirming that our lounge was pretty empty, I coaxed him to follow me again.  With over an hour before we could board the Amtrak train that would take us to Boston, we garnered three seats in the lounge.

Eight small children were taking advantage of the wide open space before the 23-hour train ride.  Three moms, no dads, sat waiting.  Dreading?  The tolerance for what was OK was uncertain between the moms at first.  Then one mom loudly pulled the oldest boy, probably around 7 years old, for some antic.  “Go look at that wall!  And don’t look at me!”  A bit later, a train station employee brought back a 3-year-old little girl from down the hall out of another mom’s sight, saying something to the effect that it wasn't safe – for other passengers or the little girl.

Four well-dressed 60- to 70- ish-year-old women came in chatting loudly.  From their bewildered looks, they weren’t sure if they were in the right lounge.  The briskness of their language and accent left me labeling them from Eastern Europe.  A family of Mennonites – mom, dad, and three older girls – sat in a corner of the lounge.  The calico dresses, pinafores, and squared, starched white bonnets identified them as Mennonites, not Amish.  The Amish women who live near Mom and Dad wear solid colors and softer, non-angular white bonnets.

A young white woman with a ukulele sticking out of her backpack sat on the floor, casually drinking a can of beer.  A young black man with dreads, a quiet voice, and an unidentified accent approached her and her ukulele.  Within seconds of the ukulele coming out, she was leading a mini-music session with eight kids clustered around her, each wanting a turn with this exotic instrument.  They argued over turns.  “Just make sure everyone gets a turn.  Play a little bit then pass it around.  Share.” Her voice was soft and idealistic.  Had this modern-day young hippie seen three of the boys practice punching one another, per Mom’s direction?  These boys practice survival more than do sharing.  Yet, the ukulele jerkily made its way around the circle of kids.

On his own, a middle-aged Amish man, looking more conservative than the Mennonite father, entered the lounge.  A 400-pound man came into the lounge and sat down.  People cleared around him.  His clothing didn't cover his stomach and the body odor would surely get worse during a 23-hour train ride.

The rest of the cast filtered in quietly, nearly unnoticed.  Many carried pillows and blankets.  Couples of all ages.  Young men traveling together.  Some pierced and tatooed.  And some not.  Young women traveling together.  All looking at their personal devices more than at one another.  Older women traveling in pairs, already looking tired.

Just before boarding call, three young nuns in full habit whooshed into the lounge.  Their round plain faces were framed by a layer of tight white starched material then loose black fabric flowing over the strict white.  With their presence, we had all been blessed.

This tiny microcosm of humanity, including a farmer and his daughter, crowded the boarding gate facing that one thing we all had in common at this moment: a long train ride east out of Union Station.

(Our journey continues in Overnight on the Train...)

"How did your crops do this year?"

“How did your crops do this year?” Stunned, my dad thought this 30-something woman, a stranger at the small Iowa airport was pretty intuitive to walk up to him and ask this question.  “I guess she recognizes a farmer when she sees one!” Dad said of the Illinois native who now lives in D.C.  She too is a farmer’s daughter.

I wonder what she noticed first: Clean work boots and pin-striped bib overalls?  The sleek black jacket with the small Pioneer seed corn symbol stitched on the left chest?  The black Garst seed corn cap?  Or the plain black mock turtle neck under the bibs?

All in all, Dad was one spiffed-up farmer with these black dress clothes blending seamlessly with his bib overalls and work boots.  Dad looked sharp.  He could have been going to a farm convention in those clothes.

***

Sunday morning started early for me in Indianapolis.  I was up at 4:30 a.m., after a 3-day conference there, so I could catch a plane to Chicago and then another to Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where Dad was going to meet me at the airport.  His day started the night before; he didn’t sleep much Thursday night.

At 10:50 a.m., I deplaned in Cedar Rapids and said “hello” to the other farmer’s daughter.  Then Dad and I got on the road in his little Colorado pick-up truck to Chicago: a 4-hour drive ahead of us.  We were going to catch a 9:30 p.m. train out of Union Station that would take us both to Boston – a 24-hour journey on the rails.  Dad was heading East to spend two weeks with us.

After getting lost and driving in circles trying to find a Cracker Barrel in Davenport, we calmly made our way to a parking spot at one of O’Hare airport’s remote parking lots.  Driving the Midwest grids between Iowa & Illinois and recognizing north & south 4-lanes around O’Hare felt like putting on a familiar glove.  I don’t have a glove like that in Boston.  Yet.

We parked his truck.  “Now what?” asked Dad.  My first thought was to follow the crowd.  We moved our bags and suitcases to a bus-stop shelter.  “We haven’t done this before – we need to catch a taxi.  Does a shuttle run through here?”  I asked three people in general.  One man, on his way to Singapore, became our guide – after a brief conversation.  “So,” he looked at Dad, “you’re going to Boston.  How do you feel about seafood?”  To which Dad replied, “I love a good burger.”  Laughing aloud, “Now that’s an Iowa farmer!!”  He watched us board then the bus shuttle, then helped us onto the tram, and directed us out onto the platform at the international terminal, the first tram stop.

***

We stepped off the tram and looked around for an elevator.  “What are you carrying that for?” asked an airport employee.  That was a suitcase without wheels, I was unsure if he had ever seen one this size before.  “Wait here,” I’ll find a cart.  I shook his hand and thanked him as he directed us to the elevator which would take us to the lower level where the taxis were waiting.

The elevators opened and the international terminal felt familiar.  How many times had Bill and I returned from visiting his family right through those gates?  Three men were facing west, standing quietly, murmuring prayers.  The terminal bustled, activity driven by chaos.  I was reminded that walking on the right is part of our American culture.  People moved in the direction they needed to go.  I dove into the crowd, glancing behind me hoping that Dad would stay on my heels. “Are we close to the door?” Dad asked.

***

“How long have you been driving?” Dad asked.  The upbeat taxi driver replied, “It will take about 30 minutes with Sunday evening traffic.”  I said, “How long have you driven a taxi?”  “Ohhh, about five years.”  “Where are you from?” I asked.  “Nepal, where Mt. Everest is.  I’ve been here about eight years.  I love Chicago!”  Then it dawned on me.  Dad was asking about the cabby’s ability to drive, a kind of pretest to help Dad judge how tightly he would need to be holding on.  I was asking about the driver, his culture, his life.  “There you go, finally, here!” announced the driver after a very smooth drive, free of any aggressive maneuvers or heavy braking.

***

With four hours to wait, we walked into Union Station and found a table.  I felt electric; after all, the only place I had gotten us lost was in Davenport, Iowa.  My part was done; now we relied on the train.

Dad looked ashen. “I just realized how very strange this must all be to you, Dad.”   He nodded as he ate his Chicago hotdog.

(Meet the characters at Union Station...)

Dancing on Halloween Morn

Some stories take a while to write themselves: days, months, even years. This is Dancing on Halloween Morn.

Breathless.  It’s Halloween morning.  I haven’t been climbing stairs or jogging.  The music’s loud.  And I’m dancing in the kitchen.

October was a success.  Each day, for a second or an afternoon, I peeled back the heavy translucent rubber windshield comprised of problem-solving, decision-making, chauffeuring, worrying.  And I absorbed the colors and crispness of fall.  Colors burned impressions that will take me through to the next season of cold, through the seasons of warmth, until I stand again at October 1st.  Where I will prepare for that change which is now 47 years familiar.  With Halloween here and the month of thankfulness beginning tomorrow, I’m full.  Content.  Like I just ate a big Thanksgiving dinner that was blessed with my granddad’s words.

I cook.  I dance.  And tonight I will be a witch.  This morning, four years ago, I was GI Jane.  My hair had started to fall out with the chemo, so I had it buzzed off at 7:30 a.m. in the salon, before the days’ clients, the regulars, opened the salon door.  I was an irregular that morning.

This morning, I skipped the 3-product process to straighten, glossen, smoothen my bobbed, wavy hair.  It dried naturally.  Strings of velvet danced in the wind as I drove, windows down, that familiar route home from school drop-off.  My fingers felt it and remembered.  The short spikes of four years ago.  Soft chicken fuzz.  Tight, tight spiral curls.  Loose curls.  And now the luxury of these soft, wild, living waves.

So… we celebrate.  Me and my hair.  Loud music.  A steady, heavy drum beat.  We dance in the kitchen on Halloween morn.

The Tooth Fairy

This will make more sense if you have already ready My Letter to Santa. It's Tooth Fairy week. And conversations continue about Christmas gifts. This week I've learned that in Will's class he is the only one without an iPod touch, and Liam knows kids at school younger than him who have an iPod touch. Oh my goodness, the looks cast as these facts were laid out... eeks. Like glass splinters.

Late last week, Will’s first molar fell out. He put it in an envelope. He’s not a fan of licking envelopes, so I suggested he could just tuck in the flap. He wanted it sealed; he braved it and licked it. The next morning, he had $5 in the envelope. I thought the Tooth Fairy was a bit generous, but this was the first double-tooth to be lost in our house. Will watched me closely as he showed me the Tooth Fairy had tucked in the envelope flap. I shrugged, not realizing until noon that this may have been a small accusation.

Over the weekend, Liam lost a tooth while eating an apple on a 2-hour car ride to Maine. I stuck it in a baggie that was first used for goldfish. Then I carried it around in my purse for two days until we remembered it needed to go under Liam’s pillow. I gave him an envelope, and he decided to write a note to the Tooth Fairy: “can I have a ipod touch?” I only said, “I don’t think she has ever brought you anything but money.”

The next morning I awoke very early and went in to check on the boys. The envelope was still there with the tooth in it!! I scurried out of their bedroom. Thinking Liam must be last on her route that night, I took an early shower to give the Tooth Fairy a clear path to that tooth.

Liam came downstairs with a bit of a snarl. “There’s a dollar in it, and she left a note: ‘Ask Santa.’ That’s what YOU said, Mom!”

“No… I said I didn’t think you should ask Santa for a gift that expensive.”

“Well, the Tooth Fairy lives with Santa, so she knows what to do.” I’m sure the Tooth Fairy was trying to help, but she obviously doesn’t know this little lawyer like I do.

Would you believe Will lost a molar last night? I handed him an envelope. He decided to try another tact, with mostly correct grammar. “Can I have an iPod touch? I will share it with my brother.”

Well, here I am up early again. I slipped into the boys’ room to check on them and saw the envelope sticking out from under the Will’s pillow, flap open. I had to see if there was an iPod touch there too. Using Will’s reading light, I first shined it on the envelope. I looked no further after seeing the words, “Not from me!” in the same handwriting as “Ask Santa” from two nights ago.

Whew. Maybe they do live together and Santa shared the conversation he had overheard before the Tooth Fairy made her third voyage to the Malcolm house this week.

Happy Hump Day.

Cub Scout Camp Highlights

The annual fall Cub Scout trip was last Saturday night. Since our tent is a tight fit for three, I went for the afternoon and evening but volunteered to sleep in my own bed at home. From the comfort of my mattress, cotton sheets, soft blanket, and comforter, I reflected back on events from that evening and past scout camping trips. Last year, Bill was in China for the fall camping trip, so I went on my own with the boys. Friends helped me set up the tent. At 3 a.m. it started to pour with rain -- there had only been a 10% chance of rain in the forecast. While Will was sound asleep at 6 a.m., Liam and I were wide awake listening to the rain pellets bounce onto our tent. "Mom, it's like we are in a giant popcorn popper!" We use the old-fashioned whirly-gig popper to make popcorn at home and the sound was just like the kernels hitting the lid as they popped open. We giggled as our imaginations swept us into that whirly-gig. Until we had to break down camp in the rain. Outside the popcorn popper.

This year, Will and Liam took halogen flashlights with them that they had gotten from Bill's family. Amazingly powerful, the beam lit up the very tops of the tall fir trees around the campfire. From behind me, Liam shone the light on my head. "Whoa, Mom, has grey hair!" I'm not due for a color correction for two more weeks. Were the grey threads sparkling like diamonds under the halogen microscopic light?

Will found a new walking stick and carved his initials and markings into it with his knife. He earned his whittling badge a couple years ago so could carry and use his pocketknife on the trip. Liam also wanted to whittle but hasn't earned his badge yet. Bill loaned him his Swiss army knife and sat next to him as he broke the Cub Scout rule. At dusk I asked Liam if he needed a light, "No, I'm good, Mom. I can see just fine." We need to work on that badge.

While hiking through the forest, Liam stepped in horse poop. Bill told him those were called "road apples." The boys found that term hilarious. The next day, Liam created a verb out of the noun, "Hey, I guess I'm pretty healthy! I road appled today!" Impressed with his grammar creativity but wish the topic was different.

Happy Hump Day!

My Letter to Santa

Dear Santa, You have been Santa for much longer than I have been Mom, and I need some advice.

Two years ago, Will and Liam wanted the LEGOS Death Star for Christmas.  This chatter started in early November.  They knew that was a bit much for us to spend, so they decided to ask you for this elaborate LEGOS kit.  I don’t know if your elves churn out LEGOS at Christmas or if you contract with LEGOS, but either way I was uneasy with them asking you for a $400 LEGOS set.    I waited until late-November, hoping the Death Star conversation would quiet down.  But it just got bigger and bigger.  Plans were in the making for where they would build it.  The LEGOS catalog was ragged like the toy section in the old Sears catalog that my sister, my brothers and I would wish from every year.

During one of these wishful conversations, I had to hit the brakes for your sake.  “Boys, I have been thinking a lot about this; I just don’t feel right about it.  I need to tell you what I’m thinking.  That’s a very big gift to ask for.  I don’t think you’ve ever gotten anything that big from Santa.  Have you?”

No.

“Some kids just ask for food or clothes.  So asking for this seems a little over the top.”

Hmm.

“Think about what Santa has given you in the past.  Maybe you could put LEGOS gift cards on your wish list to Santa.  It’s a little strange to ask for a gift card, but you could explain what you want and why you have a gift card on your wish list.  You could let family know you want gift cards too.  Maybe you could use some of the money you’ve saved throughout the year toward buying it.  Just something to think about…”

And with that, the Death Star idea dwindled over a few days and was eventually snuffed out.

This year, Liam wants an XBOX360.  I’m balking a bit, so he’s determined to ask you for it.  And he has threatened me with an out-of-the-corner-of-his-eyes look and the sneaky words, “If Santa doesn’t bring it, I’ll know he’s not real.”  Will flinched.

Santa, here I draw the line.  You don’t threaten Mom.  You don’t threaten Santa.  It’s just not cool.  So, you may get a letter requesting an XBOX360.  If you do, let’s talk before you load the sleigh.

Love,

Linda

The Suitcase

On Wednesday Bill returned from a two-week trip around the world: England, China and Indonesia. He proudly takes one small bag on these marathon trips and sends his laundry out in China. His last stop this trip was five days in the coffee fields of Sumatra. Following four flights over 30 hours that finally brought him home, we emptied the contents of the bag directly into the washer. Bill closed up the bag and put it in our closet -- for me to use on a short trip this weekend.

At 5:00 this morning I opened up the bag and remembered that I love Dancing with a Foreign City Slicker. Sometimes I forget the details in that first paragraph, and so does Bill....

Corn's On!

What will you do or did you do on your 70th birthday? At dusk on the eve of Dad’s 70th birthday, Will, Liam and I were helping Dad pick sweet corn.  We would be “doing corn” the next day, on his birthday.  In the corn patch, which was probably 100 yards long and 20 rows deep, Dad picked corn and filled 5-gallon buckets while I couriered full buckets to the Chevy S-10 and emptied them into the truck-bed.

The corn stalks shot way over our heads and were thick enough to hide Dad in the middle.  I followed his voice to find him and exchange my empties for his full buckets.

The boys and I over-exaggerated the steps we took over the electric fence. It lined the perimeter of the corn patch and was about 6 inches off the ground. The fence stopped the raccoons from entering the patch. If a raccoon family had a midnight feast, then invited their friends to come the next night and the next, a good chunk of corn would be stripped from the stalks in a matter of a couple days.

Shortly, this conversation between Farm Dad and City Girl ensued:

“How many buckets have you emptied?” Dad asked. “I don’t know, maybe 8 – 12,” I guessed. “Haven’t you been counting?” he asked. Then a flashback: yes, for some reason, I should’ve been counting. “No.” “You haven’t been counting?” “No, you didn’t tell me to count.” “We always count, so Mom has enough for 100 pints.” “Oh… well, I haven’t done this in 15 years – I guess I needed a reminder to count.”  Then good-naturedly, "Why, Linda Kay... I can't believe you didn't count."

At dusk...we had more than enough for 100 pints.  We had a truck-load.

 It sat in the drive overnight, and early the next 70th-birthday-morning, Dad and I started husking corn...

...and the boys joined us.

 Amateur corn-picker that I was had dumped corn haphazardly into the truck-bed covering the whole thing. Soon realizing I had goofed up the shucking system a bit, I reshuffled all the corn to the back of the truck to where we could reach it, making room to toss the corn husks and silks to the front of the bed.

“I bet I’m the only one in my school who has done this!” Will said, as we filled the coolers with corn.

Four coolers of corn on the cob equal 100 pints of corn kernels for the freezer. Once we had lined the coolers up in the dining room, Dad’s job had ended for the time being, and Mom took over.

Mom and I lined the kitchen table and floor with newspaper, and set up a de-silking station on one end of the table and an area to cut the corn off the cob at the other end.

Maureen, Mom’s friend since high school, arrived with her grandson and the setting was complete. It was time to “do corn.” The three boys used dish towels to brush off the corn silks...

...so Maureen, Mom and I could start stripping kernels off the cobs.

The magic soon wore off the de-silking process. The boys took breaks when there was nowhere to pile the silk-free corn and came back when we called them. They were all such troopers finishing the de-silking, it was tough going at times, but they did it.

I had seen those piles through the eyes of a 7- and 9-year-old. I remember vegetables and fruit that needed to be cleaned, stemmed, broken, cut-up – they were monstrous. Here, much like walking beans, was the true-grit of farming. Of growing and freezing our own food.  Of sticking to a task until it was finished.

Mom’s job shifted once we had big pans of kernels. They needed to be blanched for three minutes...spread out to cool in front of the fan, then loaded into pint-size freezer bags that were labeled with “2013.”

Maureen and I kept cutting as Mom followed the circuit of those final processing tasks.  Aunt Alison arrived later in the afternoon, "I heard you were doing corn.  I thought I would come up and help."  Aunt Alison stepped into the blanching, cooling, bagging circuit with Mom.

Towards the end of the afternoon, Liam walked through the kitchen. “BLAH! YUCK! What did I step in???” Ah, yes, that feeling of sweet, sticky corn milk on the bottom of your foot and the dragging of newspaper along with you as you try to walk away from it.  My “doing corn” memory and his “doing corn” experience were now complete!

“Mom, there just aren’t many kids who have done this, right?" Will asked again.  "We picked it, husked it, cleaned it and bagged it! We did it all from beginning to end!”

Having the "corn on” during our Iowa summer visit was a gift to this Farm Girl and her family.

Happy 70th, Dad.

(Yet another hot, humid summer memory... When the headlights came looking for me.)

Aroma Therapy

Soaking in a Passion Fruit bubble bath.  Swirling dried lavender with seashells in a glass under my nose. Gentle aroma therapy is not cutting it.

What I need is a few cloves of garlic to smash with the side of my big chef’s knife.  And a giant, whole, yellow onion to hack into bits.  Then watch and smell as boldness melts sweetly in sizzling hot olive oil.

Nothing cuts through thick thoughts like this.

Foodie aroma therapy.

Bath Towel or Rag?

When should a bath towel be retired to the rag bag? Which one of these is past its prime? Which is begging to be cut into 10 little rags, forever eliminating its chances of returning to the linen closet? Which is older?

Blue towel: circa 1984. Burgundy towel: circa 1994. Yes, really.

As I recall, in 1984, two of my great-aunts, sisters who married brothers, gave me high school graduation gifts that served me well in college and lasted long after my college graduation: a lavender umbrella, a medium-sized brown Tupperware bowl, a blue lap-desk, and a set of blue towels.

Today, those blue Made-in-America, 90% cotton/10% polyester towels are thin but not shredded like their circa 1994 counterpart. Generally, they are stored in the laundry room. I use them to scrunch excess water out of hand-washed bras & shin guards. On occasion, one wanders into the linen closet; more than once I’ve been thankful to see that 29-year-old towel on the shelf, for it covers more territory than a hand towel if all the clean, newer bath towels happen to be in the washer or dryer.

There was less territory to cover when I was in college, proven by the innocent picture taken from behind me as I was running down the dorm hallway clad only in one of these blue bath towels. These are bath towels, not bath sheets. The photographer had stripped my clothes out of the bathroom while I was in the shower. Yes, these towels hold powerful memories.

But still, they are old. My sister said they would be perfect for drying my niece’s hair, so I gave a couple to her. I only have one or two blue ones floating around here, but the Made-in-China, 100% cotton burgundy towel, circa 1994, will be chopped up long before the blue ones: my fingers get caught in the shreds of the burgundy one.

The towel population in my house is based on practicality. Do blue or burgundy match any of our bathroom colors now? No. But if you prove yourself useful, you have a good shot at staying in the Malcolm household for a very long time.

P.S. To my great-aunts: Thank you, nearly 30 years later, for those very useful gifts!  :)