Books in Brewster, MA... and everywhere else...

...Mayhem at the little book shop in Boston’s South Station. Here, no one can sit on the floor or window ledges to read a book. “We could last time! They just don’t like kids!” Hand-written signs on every potential kids’ seat. I tried to explain. “This isn’t a normal book store; they want you to buy the book and get on the train, not just read books and leave.” My explanation did not squelch their frustration. In New York City, we visited an amazing exhibit of LEGO sculptures by Nathan Saway. The last exhibit room funneled us into a small, quiet gift shop where Will and Liam read LEGO books. Undisturbed for 20 minutes.

Book shops bring on a simple giddiness. They are one of the very few places where I’m not overwhelmed by choice. Perhaps it’s the freedom to choose or not to choose, unlike the overwhelming necessary choice of toothpaste and canned tomatoes at the grocery store.

On a summer morning day-trip to Brewster on Cape Cod, we scooped the kids into the van and were on the road by 6:30. I was ecstatic to be up and going so early. I was the only one experiencing early morning joy in the car… To cross the Sagamore Bridge, which connects mainland Mass. to the Cape, the Brewster Chamber of Commerce suggested timing our trip to cross by 8:00 a.m. Otherwise, with thick Cape traffic, it could take hours to cross.

An unfettered journey meant we were across the bridge a little over an hour from leaving our house north of Boston. Knowing we would be early at the Cape, we planned a stop at Brewster's Coffee Shop for breakfast. There were no lines at 8:00 a.m. We had breakfast alfresco at picnic tables. Families with dogs were particularly keen on this place. The food was good; patrons and dogs were friendly.

With time to kill before meeting up with friends late morning, we set out to explore after breakfast. Just a few minutes before it opened, we found The Brewster Book Store. Even from the outside, I could feel it was a place that welcomed drawn-out perusing. Perhaps even floor-sitting?

“Mom, look bean bags in the kids’ section!” And with that, I knew where Liam would be firmly anchored. The shop was a converted house: a room at every turn with books, stationery, gifts, and cards, including a birthday card that perfectly captured us book addicts:

“I do not want to just read books; I want to climb inside them and live there. – Anonymous.”

Yes. Like the little-remembered little people who lived behind the books on Capt. Kangaroo's book shelves. I think of those little people every time I arrange books on our shelves. And, sometimes I want to put a thimble and thread spool behind the books... just in case.

Live from Times Square, NYC

5:15 p.m. Tuesday... We are on a train to NYC with Bill's family -- the final fling before school starts next week. After using the same credit card for some 25 years, we had enough reward points to stay in Times Square. I'm preparing for sensory overload and have forewarned Will and Liam about round-the-clock horns, sirens, jack hammers, and neon lights. We have never been to NYC as a family. Big city adventure is calling the Malcolms. Unsure if these independent boys will understand why every day they must wear the same brightly colored shirts as one another. They will in 20 years when they are on this train with their kids. The older set is going to the 9/11 Museum tomorrow. I got teary when I saw a clip on TV of the museum's executive director pointing to a piece of metal that represented "the moment of impact." The irony turned my stomach: He was so proud of his museum with this hunk of bent metal; he spoke in a subdued dystopian voice. I'm not sure in my lifetime I will ever want to see that moment again. Perhaps the boys will when they are adults. It will be in their history books, not etched on the backs of their eyes.

On a brighter note, tomorrow I'm taking Will and Liam to "The Art of Brick," a LEGO sculpture exhibit at Discovery Museum. I'm already imagining the LEGOS flying out of the tubs when we get home. Will & Liam, inspired to build. Me, panicked to sort. Earlier this summer we were hit by this LEGO bug. Rather than buying a $50 LEGO sorter, I punched quarter-sized holes all over the bottom of an Amazon cardboard box, filled it with scoops of mixed-up LEGOS, and shook it to bits as I watched the little LEGOs drop through the holes. Perhaps I should have done some sorting before the trip and warmed up their senses to the noise of NYC.

11:30 p.m. Tuesday... Just got into the hotel after a stroll in Times Square, where first reluctant boys agreed to hold our hands within the first 15 minutes of our walk. Lying in bed, we are summing up our first few hours in NYC. Giggling, Liam repeats words from one of the gigantic billboards, "How do you get a beta butt?" The drawing on that billboard will probably come out in one of his flip-o-ramas. I ask, "OK, who saw the man wearing only underwear and a big gold chain around his neck?" Will, "I did." Me: "I hope I never see one of my adult sons in Times Square wearing only his underwear." Will: "I will be in Orlando. NASA isn't here."

8:00 a.m. Wednesday... I'm Googling our destinations today. Last night walking back to the hotel, Bill and I realized we cannot rely on the gigantic billboards to navigate. They are all digital screens. A close-up graphic for slimming women's underwear might be at a particular corner, and when we return, it could be completely different, perhaps "How do you get a beta butt?"

Happy Hump Day from the city that never sleeps.

Meanest Woman in the World

Teetering. Teetering on the edge of summer. Writing. Writing on the edge of summer.

Camps. Camps teetering on the edge of summer so I can write.

Backfire.

On the calendar two weeks ago, it all made sense. Time for me to write. Fun for them to go.

This morning, I was working with rubble. Tired kids. Skipped camps yesterday. Absolute beach freedom yesterday. Late night last night. Wake up call this morning for camp... Rubble.

I found enough fresh clay to work the rubble into some semblance of my children. A barter with one and a subtle ultimatum with another. After two hours of this arguing, in front of house guests, I turned to rubble.

After the second drop-off, I had four hours of camp-freedom to write a clever Hump Day Short. There were no words in my body. Let alone a clever one.

I started the van and idled for seconds. I needed to do something mindless. I wanted to lie flat on the ground and breathe. Maybe cry. The wide open gymnastics parking lot was not the place to do that.

A discount home décor store was on the way home from Will’s camp. I grabbed a cart and pushed it slowly down the first aisle. My chest tight. My shoulders hunched. Retail therapy. Better for me than chocolate bars dipped in peanut butter.

Into the cart went a lamp for the table next to our guests’ bed. In went a mattress pad for their bed. In went a bedside table for Liam. In went a long ottoman for the living room. I hope it will fit in the car. Oh man… I don’t have the car! I have the van! The van is what our guests take to the beach. In the hub-bub of the morning, I took the wrong vehicle! They are on a beach holiday with no vehicle to transport them to the beach.

My phone whistled to me as a text came through. Could I have one of Will’s friends over after their camp ends this afternoon? Of course. No problem. The friend’s mom was picking up her two other kids from a camp and a play date - two towns apart - at the same time. Her reply text: “Thank you so much.”

Thank you… I needed that genuine “thank you” today. For today, I am the meanest woman in the world.

I took over from another friend who was the meanest woman in the world on Monday.

I pity whomever is bestowed this honor tomorrow.

8 Goals for Back-to-school

Back-to-school. The buzz, panic, duties, anxiety. The routine, brain power, confidence. In a word association game, the response to “back-to-school” would elicit numerous responses. My back-to-school started in the spring. It was a calm revelation that happened in the van. When I opened the door and had one leg in, I noticed rosary beads on the rear-view mirror. And in the tumultuous decision-making about which school the boys will go to in the fall, that rosary confirmed it: Catholic schools for both of them. I’m not Catholic. I closed the door on that silver van and walked two cars down to my own silver van.

A major change takes energy. We needed a powerful hibernation or building of strength for back-to-school in the fall. Positive affirmation, self-confidence, mindfulness. Hard-hitters, yet our mantra was...

On a recent gorgeous summer outing at a lake with several adoptive families, a friend summed up the summer well, "It's been a good summer. We've had one enjoyable event after another." As have we. Consequently, we shouldn't lament too much about this thing called back-to-school, right? It's the cadence of the season: With children, it will happen over 12 seasons.

Yet emotion took over reason last week when I felt a build in the momentum. One box of school uniforms arrived. Yesterday another. We have school supplies for Liam but not yet for Will. The last camps for summer will finish next week. Labor Day, September 1st, is early this year. School starts the day after.

We have a few weeks, and the days will fly. I’m not excited about putting Dream and Relax in a box. I’m not looking forward to the spin we enter September 1st and the dizziness we feel by October 1st.

What I want for my family this back-to-school season is this…

Mutant August Weeds

It’s August.  It’s August?  But we were just counting down the days until school was out.  And making glorious lists of all things possible in summer.  Now, we are making lists of all things that need to be crammed into summer.  Because of that meddling word: “August.”  What can we make happen and what do we cross off the list? Visions of growing a red rose bush against the barn wall danced through my gloved hands as I ripped out all the weeds beside the barn.  That was on Mother’s Day. Mmm… the future splendor of that hidden garden scene.  I planted the bush and my gardening friend planted the bare branch for which the climber could rise high against the barn where red bits of beauty would pop out as I walked through the garden gate.  Succulents would cascade off the window ledge.  Crazy giddy that.

I watered the bush regularly for a couple weeks.  I made a mind-map of where I would let the vegetation be natural and where I would plant wild flower seeds and late-summer blooming zinnias.  I bought the seeds.

Then came crazy old June.

And in mid-July, I eagerly opened the garden gate – anticipating the ocular sensory punch.  It got me right in the gut. Here, fill in any words of shock and disbelief.   Mine: “Huh, I guess I didn’t get the roots.”  Taming ten-plus years of a weed garden will take more than one clearing a season.  I decide to wait until I have a good chunk of time to tackle this.

Come early August, I walk up to the edge and peer into the jungle.  I see a few red specks.  Roses blooming under that tangle.  I see succulents through the sprouted volunteer bush-tree.  And I am amazed by the vegetation.

However, I back away quicker than I approach.  What is happening here?  Why does this look like a giant’s salad bowl?

Time to readjust the hidden garden vision.  I recognize this climber from last year: it will turn red in the fall.  And that will be the red beauty this year. Oh, that glorious summer list.  I crossed off “clean out the mutant weeds” because I crossed off “research mutant weeds to see if they are poisonous.”  Perhaps "mysterious weed research" is on the list for when the snow flies.

Right now, we need to go fly a kite.

Garden Feet

Last night, I gardened until post sunset. I didn’t put much effort into the flower garden before our vacation to Iowa, but now home, I went to work. At the garden store in late-July, flowers are begging to leave the shelves. Their blossoms – if any – are stretching high, competing with the others in their crazy small dirt compound.  I found chock-full pots of purple cone flowers and brown-eyed Susans. They were in the big pots. Normally I wouldn’t pay for those, but I was desperate and noticed they were so big that I could split them before I put them in the ground.

At home, Liam helped dig the holes in my ledge-filled land. This was good division work for Liam. “If I paid $9 for this big pot and split the big plant into three plants, how much did each plant cost?” I realized over the summer that the lines of multiplication and division had become blurry. Note to self: Come August, encourage more than reading books and drawing.

With my garden gloves dirty and my back aching, I shoved off for the night, looking forward to seeing my work in the clean morning light. A friend picked up the boys for an overnight and Bill was traveling, so I had the house to myself. A bath? Shall I have a quiet bath? With bubbles? With candles? And a book? And the book light that I adopted from Will? Ohhh, yes.

Then the top 98% of me looked at the bottom 2% of me and said, “No way I’m getting in the tub with those.”

“Give them a bath before you get in the tub!” Well, that’s ridiculous. You don’t wash before you have a bath! My current parenting line, “Be kind to one another” washed over the negative comment. I ignored the complaints and dropped my dirty feet into the tub, despite the protests from the upper majority.

This was one of those soaking baths. After reading for a half hour, I felt well-rinsed, perhaps even clean. I finished the last few chapters of my book, drenched my hair, and escaped from the tub. When I’m done in the tub, I’m done.

Drying my feet, I noticed dark dirt shadows on all of my toes. Well, I had two choices: scrub them tonight or buy more plants tomorrow morning.

It’s tomorrow morning and the plant store opens in 20 minutes.

 

 

Banner photo by Lukas from Pexels

Camp Mujigae: Second Year

When Will started preschool seven years ago, I struggled with learning little girls’ names in his class.  Nearly all of the girls had long hair pulled back in a pony-tail.  With hair color ranging from nearly white blonde to light brown, but still in the blonde family.  And blue eyes.  By kindergarten, I had most of them figured out, or more to the point, I knew which mom each of them belonged to. Now with the boys being older, the passing of time has helped me easily identify the girls.  With the exception of two in Liam's class: both have long, curly, blonde-ish hair and both wear glasses.

This was the second summer I took the boys to Camp Mujigae in Albany, New York.  A Korean culture camp for Korean adoptees and their families.  Last summer, one of the moms said, “Good luck finding your kids tomorrow at camp, especially from behind!”  Yes.  Last year, I called out to Liam several times one afternoon only to realize when the kid finally turned around that he wasn’t Liam.

As I looked around at the other boy campers, there was a pretty even mix between very short or rather long hair styles.  Statistically speaking, that gave me a greater chance of identifying my sons from the back.  Mine have long hair this summer.

As I met more parents, I recognized more boys.  Or at least coupled the hair styles with the parents (aka: Joe and Rita’s son has long hair.)  By the time the kids outgrow camp in ten years, I may know all the boys' names.

On the drive home, the boys had my phone and were looking at the pictures I had taken at camp.  I asked them, in a very confusing way, if it was easy for them to tell the difference between the boys they met during the last couple days.  “I don’t understand what you mean, Mom,” Will declared.

Yet, not even a minute later, he said, “Hey, why am I wearing glasses in this picture?!?!”  It was a close-up of Liam and a camp friend – with long hair – standing side-by-side.  It took Will a few seconds before he realized that the person next to Liam wasn’t him.  Will laughed.  “I thought you photo-shopped the glasses onto my face!”

Question answered.

 (Notes from last year's Camp Mujigae...)

The Beach Cottage

…taken from my hand-written journal during our electronics-free stay on Cape Cod… For a week near the beach, I want to be in a simple place.  Where sand tracked in is OK, for it doesn’t get caught in the grout of tiled kitchen floors.  Because on the kitchen floor is a sheet of vinyl, tacked down only on the doorway side that adjoins the living room.  And the living room is covered with an area rug, the color of sand.  It’s made to welcome a bit of the outdoors in.  No fuss in keeping grit from underfoot.

This place has felt the sea.  They’ve ridden tandem for many years.

At 3 a.m. the first night, I awoke cold.  I had shut the windows at 11 p.m., but the chill from the ocean air was still around us.  Coming up from the floorboards?  In through the cracks around windows and doors?

I bumbled around in the dark looking for more blankets.  In my walk end to end of this little cottage, I felt the years of ocean life rolling under my feet.  The gentle up down patter of the floor boards with an occasional fall under the vinyl in the kitchen.  And an even more noticeable rise in the bathroom.  The floors ebbed and flowed reflecting the same patterns a minute’s walk away.

Not finding any blankets inside, I went barefoot through dewy grass out to the van for extra covers.  My first step outside smelled like a walk into a bag of fresh clams.  The cool air was bursting with ocean.  I grabbed two fleece blankets from the van and tucked them over the boys.  I put a sweatshirt on and went back to bed.

By 10 a.m. the next day, the smell had changed to ripe old clams baking in the sun, brought on by warming dampness.

Poking around that morning, I discovered when the bedroom door is open…

...the closet door is shut.

Giddy delight.

(More from the same beach... Shell Seeking.)

Mercury-Redstone

This is how play dates can take form in the Malcolm house: Eavesdropping on Will's phone conversation was the first I knew about Sunday's plans. “Yeah, sure we can pick you up in an hour. We can take you home too. I’m launching around 11:30. Oh, and I’ll have a couple other friends coming over to watch too.”

This was a rocket scientist taking the bull by the horns. Picture NASA announcing a test launch and welcoming visitors. Then sending a limo to pick them up.

And on this particular Sunday morning, I loved it. All was good.

I, the Limo Driver & Lunch Chef, was ready.

Bill, the Co-Launcher, was also ready.

Liam, the Crowd Manager & Entertainer, was smiling and ready.

Will, Mercury-Redstone Designer & Co-Launcher, was more than ready.

Now, post-launch, I reflect on lessons learned, as any scientist or scientist’s mother would.

To brush up on history… Mercury-Redstone got its start as a kind of ballistic missile and was redesigned to point toward space. And to carry a chimpanzee/human pod on top of it. Chimpanzee Ham flew on Mercury-Redstone 2 prior to Alan Shepard flying on Mercury-Redstone 3. On May 5, 1961, Shepard was the first American to take a short 15-minute space flight.

Here’s Will’s version of the Mercury-Redstone on display in the Space Studio (aka: in the storage room on my freezer.)

Never tell a boy that painted toilet paper tubes can’t fly.

New to this model was the engine housing. Co-designed by Will and his dad.

And another view.  If you look closely at these two photos, you may recognize the housing as a recycled Keurig K-Cup.

Never tell a grown man that K-Cups can’t fly.

Trajectory.  A great mathematic phenomena.  The guys worked hard to get the rocket as straight as possible, 90 degrees relative to the bumpy ground.  A slight deviation off 90 degrees on the ground grows exponentially as the rocket soars.

These rocket scientists reminded me of pro-golfers and their contortions on the green as they look for the best path to tap the ball into the hole.

Trajectory. Fin structure. Engine position. Aero-dynamic construction. Ignition. All variables in how the pencil flies once the engines are fired. Whoa! (No picture here: I decided to watch this one live, rather than through a camera lens.) This rocket left a jet stream behind it as it soared straight up. Then straight west. Before it landed.

Rescue and recovery was a success!  (Because the building was short, scale-able, and relatively flat.)

Simple Summer Vacation

We caught a short, early summer vacation last week. All I wanted was simple quiet for a few days. I found an original "Cape Cod beach cottage" in South Yarmouth. The little cottage hadn't been touched structurally since it had been built in the 40's or 50's. The black vinyl "46" on the door frame was anchored above a painted-over "9." While the other cottages had been built around, up, or over, ours sat a bit curmudgeonly on a corner lot. To all that fluff around it: Bah humbug. It was still "9."

The charmed simple pine wood walls were dotted with original windows. Each had a one pull/push peg hold-and-lock system. Up for a breeze & down for warmth. The old painted wood floors, area rugs, and vinyl rang out, "I'm OK with sand."

Weeks before the trip, I made a decision: This was going to be an electronics-free trip. I confided in Bill. "Good luck with that." (He wasn't coming down until the last half of the week.) I shared the plan with Will a few days before. After a couple moments to process: "OK. I can do that." I told Liam an hour before we left... "What?!?!"

I packed the van to the gills with building blocks, craft supplies, swords and shields, and books. Drawing paper, beach gear, puzzles, and books. A magic kit, coolers of food, pantry goods, and books. Toilet paper, soap, clothes, and books.

I didn't pack computers or iPods. I didn't turn on the GPS as we left our house. The boys had maps of the Cape and written directions. Once in South Yarmouth, their voices navigated me to the cottage.

That evening, we each carved out a niche, and we read. The calm. The next morning, more of the same. Why did it feel so relaxing?

Mid-week, I figured it out. Leaving electronics at home meant there was an omission of relentless, needling questions: "When can I get on?" "It's 8 a.m., can I play now?" "How long can I play?" "Why won't you let me play more?" "Can I play in the morning and then again in the afternoon?"

This electronics-driven sub-language wasn't spoken for a week. That quiet lull was bliss.

(More about this place: The Beach Cottage.)

Hillbilly Joe

If you read Summer Dirt last week, you'll know that the Malcolm house is fully entrenched in summer. While Bill is buried in the World Cup games, Will and Liam are buried in dirt. A water hose & sprayer has thus far quickly curbed the "I'm bored" statements. It has been a beautiful thing -- until a necessary re-entry into civilization.

We needed to make a quick stop at a doctor's office last week. I interrupted this freshly-Liam-made lemonade moment with "grab a shirt, a book, and your shoes."

Movement ensued! A shirt went on. In the van, I could see Liam reading a book as I pulled out of the drive. Forty-five minutes later and after three other stationary drive-thru errands, I turned into the parking lot of the doctor's office. I glanced at Liam's feet and asked him where his shoes were. Glancing up from his book, "Do I need them?" Will said, "He didn't bring a book either," but he's reading a book. "That's mine."

There were no shoes or socks in the van. Not a single pair of soccer or baseball cleats. The only wardrobe pieces were two bras in the back that I'd yanked off the deck railing as I drove away from the house -- in case any one stopped by the house while we were away, I didn't want them to see my hand-washables drying.

Once parked, I saw a bench in the shade outside the office building. I shooed the boys to the bench. Liam skipped over the hot pavement with a book he had found under the seat. The V-neck of his shirt was in the back. "Hey, Hillbilly Joe, your shirt is on backwards, too!" He just giggled and said, "I guess I'm not very well prepared today!" Hillbilly Joe smiled at the mention of his new name.

I asked for a quick appointment explaining that I had a shoe-less hillbilly son waiting outside for me. The moms in the office laughed, and I received the fastest service ever. I found the boys on the bench where I had left them -- always a welcome sight in these situations.

I don't even want to know how many times this shirtless kid has pee-ed behind the barn since the snow melted.

(Do you remember Summer Dirt?)

Summer Dirt

Summer brings dirt. I love dirt. I love dirt more than summer. Next to the barn, I've knocked down a weedy mess so I could plant a red climbing rose bush next to the old stone wall and the peeling window frame. My shovel slid through that dirt as if the ground was a chocolate cake. That's what a decade of decaying leaves will do for a little piece of Massachusetts: make it feel like a little bit of Iowa.

Some of the boys' school friends spent the afternoon at our house yesterday. They came freshly laundered; they went home a mess. Some of the happiest little messes ever. Between the sprinkler and the fort, jumping on the trampoline and crawling under the trampoline, they were summer's best. Streaked with sweat and water, covered in dirt, and exhausted. The only thing missing was the trace of watermelon juice running down their inner arms, creating a dried river bed contrasting the day's dirt adhesion with slightly cleaner skin created by the juice river.

"Why do I need to take a shower?" Because now I'm the Mom who washes the sheets. And I remember the days when my mom with four kids didn't always push the showers, but at least made us wash the river beds from our arms and the Iowa dirt from our feet.

Thanks, Mom, for letting us get dirty. I'm sure it built-up our immunity system and all that. But really, it was just wicked fun.

(Different places, different dirt...It's hard to beat rich, soft Black Dirt.)

Squirrel Numbers

This is the one farmer in our house who is responsible for coordinating squirrel removal:

The one child's winter snow shovel serves as protection against an angry squirrel attacking said-farmer's face, which is what happened to Chevy Chase.  The two hired trappers do not have this fear.  One trapper enjoys his job a little too much.  ("I smell something dead.  I'll follow my nose and see if I can find it...  Found it!  Come take a look!!")  I would much rather not.  But I needed to know where "it" was, so I did.

This is one of six.  As in one of six squirrels and also as in one of six hundred dollars spent on removal.

Here are two men tearing up Squirrel Avenue with the help of a simple machine: a rope, flung over an upper branch, tied onto the branch being cut, in order to guide it away from our neighbor's fence.

One man in his machine tearing up Squirrel Avenue.

The base of this one machine was the best... it looked like a giant grasshopper!  Squirrels should be scared.  Very, very scared.

At the end of the day, one new discovery: poison ivy all over the ground where the grasshopper sat.  This family of four is either very lucky or poison ivy resistant.

The farmer will soon be shifting from squirrel removal to poison ivy removal.

(In England, slugs may be more abundant than squirrels... An English Slug.)

 

Banner photo by Yigithan Bal from Pexels

June Numbers

It has been a week of more numbers than words. On a rainy afternoon, two boys... saved one worm.

One little, untouched Christmas fruit cake from England --  red ribbon removed -- was converted to an Englishman's birthday cake.  The one green tree and one blue candle represented the golf course.

Only one person ate the fruit cake.

Here are the Squirrel Numbers -- also concise.

Squirrels in the Loft

So often my writing at 3 a.m. on Wednesday mornings is from the hub of juxtaposition. I perch criss-crossed atop the intersection of a funky fence that spikes out from under me in many directions. On a slowly spinning Lazy Susan, I see a myriad of uneven angles resembling those created by cow-path meandering streets of my neighborhood. They make no Midwest-grid sense but perfect early-New-England-get-your-cow-to-the-common-in-the-most-direct-route-from-your-barn sense. And this morning on my spin: squirrels. Down the fence lines, I'm juxtaposed by the sights. My barn. The farm in Iowa. The scope of a .22. The tree tunneled electric wire highway to the big chewed away corner of my barn. The sweet animals playing in the winter snow. The lack of squirrel nests in my maple trees. My barn in flames. (That didn't happen. That is from a futuristic vantage point.) The Chevy Chase movie scene with a squirrel adhered to his face. Opening my email using software titled "Squirrel Mail." The rodents that are anything but sweet. Merely rats with bushy tails.

All these have culminated with the necessary action of squirrel removal from a place that isn't rural to most, but with so many trees is rural to some. A place I call the city, but a place a friend who lives nearer to "the city" refers to as "not the city." A place where squirrel removal doesn't involve my brother's .22, but rather a live trap set by a 3rd party. A man who has a no-nonsense kind of tone to his work. "The radio in the loft won't do anything, unless you want to teach the squirrels to dance." From the state of the pulled down insulation in the barn loft, there were a few too many squirrel dance parties before I even set the radio up.

There are times one must throw money at a situation for it to go away. Tax time. Squirrel time. Forget who you are, where you grew up, or who you know near and far. Call the tree man and call the squirrel man. For we aren't in a timber where we can fell a tree with two people and a chainsaw nor do we have weapons in our home.

Perhaps after this when the dreams stop and the fear of the back corner of the loft subsides, we will take some well-deserved time off. It will be a stay-cation at our own squirrel-free property. The money for the vacation went out with the squirrels and down with the trees.

(Who is your farmer in the family?  One guess who mine is.)

The Farmer in the Family

I had a minor surgery last Hump Day. As it was late in the day, I stayed overnight in the hospital. Bill came to get me in the morning. With the general anesthesia still clouding my brain, this is the first story I recall from Bill that morning. Bill woke up at 5 a.m. to go to the bathroom, and he saw a tarantula. I don't have all the details etched in my smoky mind, but both times he saw it -- at 5 and a bit later when he woke up -- it was tucked into a tight corner and he couldn't get it with a fly swatter or a glass , so he pulled shut the bathroom door. It was a bee that had bumbled its way into our house. I told Bill I would take care of it when I got home. "No, I can do it."

This happens every year. The first year, after finding three or four bees upstairs, I had a pest control guy come out. He assured us that the bees we found were simply hitchhikers that hopped a ride on someone's clothing. I don't buy it for a minute. Here is the problem:

With the plunging cold temperatures gone, rhododendron droop has subsided, and this is the view from outside our dining room window.  The rhododendron is below a second floor spare bedroom window.  This giant beauty is nestled outside the portion of our house that was built in 1880.  Big bumble bees love these blossoms.  They roll in the blossoms like pigs in shit.

And I'm convinced that in a pollen-drunken state they meander into a little hole in the old wooden window frame upstairs, get dazed and confused in the thin walls, and of all that enter, perhaps four a season end up inside the house. Then, far away from that sweet nectar and after the treacherous journey to the inside, the biggest one will meet an Englishman in a bathroom at 5 a.m.

When I got home from the hospital, I walked upstairs right by the bumble bee -- he had made his way to the stairs. "Oh, there's your bee," I stated as I walked by him. "OK, I'll get it... How many times do you think I'll need to hit it?" "Well, I don't know, Bill. It's a pretty big bug. What do you think?" No answer. Bill reappeared with a fly swatter and gave the bee a big thud on the head. And the bee bounced toward Bill. "It came after me!" "It didn't -- it bounced off the stairs from the impact of the fly swatter." Basketball is not a popular sport in England, so I didn't bother to use the term "rebound."

At the top of the stairs, the bathroom door was still shut tight with no apparent crack from which the bee could have escaped. Bill approached the door armed with the fly swatter in ready position. As he touched the doorknob, I stung him in the back with my finger. Oh my goodness, the poor Englishman hit the ceiling! And I found the sore spots from a belly laugh so soon after surgery.

Yesterday morning, the story came full circle. In our barn loft, we are experiencing squirrel hell. I fully anticipate writing the Squirrel Saga, but often times I can't write until the trauma subsides a bit, and we've been at it for weeks now. In the here and now, we have live squirrel traps on the roof of the barn and upstairs in the barn loft. They need to be checked daily. We can see the one on the roof, but we need to go up to the loft -- into the corner farthest from the stairs --and check the other one.

So here's yesterday's deal from Bill: "One of my colleagues at work had a bat in her bedroom. As she put it, there are girl jobs and there are boy jobs. And the bat was a boy job. As I see it, going up to the loft to check that squirrel trap is neither a boy job or a girl job. It's a farmer's job."

As Grandma Murphy would've concisely put it, with a sharp sting in the words:

Damn it.

Memorial Day

Friday afternoon found Liam and I in the local cemetery with other Cub Scouts, Girl Scouts, parents, and VFW members. From the back of his truck, a veteran handed us two bundles of flags to be placed to the left of the stone of any veteran's grave we found as we walked through the cemetery. They didn't give us any other direction. I had directions as a kid when I walked into a cemetery: no running and no walking on the graves. That last one threw me. I was immobilized from afar not knowing for sure where the graves were -- how long, how wide, how close they were to the stones.

Liam started skipping toward a group of white stones, and I pulled him back, explaining that he needed to show respect and walk along the graves. At which point, three scouts came running all-out toward us. I dished out one of my mainstream parenting lines, "Different people have different rules."

Many of the veterans graves were clumped together with simple white stones. Government supplied, perhaps. Etched in each stone was a cross, the soldier's name, rank, military branch, war or wars in which they served, followed by date of birth and death.

We came to the first one that had the Korean war listed, and I pointed it out to Liam.  It led to a short history lesson.  "Did the U.S. come to kill people in Korea?!"   No. The North invaded and attacked the South.  "South is where I was born, right?"  Yes. Soldiers from the U.S. went to help protect the people in the South.  "So, Harold saved my life?"  Lump.  Quite possibly.

We continued on with Liam favoring the veterans who had served in Korea.  I tucked in behind planting flags on graves he skipped.  I came to a soldier with three wars etched into his stone: WWII, Korea, Vietnam.  I called Liam over.  "Whoa, now he was a big warrior!  I'll do his flag!"

Within in a half hour, we had put out 20 flags and were ready to do more, but they had all been handed-out from the back of the truck. "So we can go home now?" Yes. Liam walk-skipped-danced along to the car.

I watched his happy 8-year-old legs bounce along without a word... absolutely certain that Harold and the other warriors would be OK with the skipping and the dancing.

(I loved this Memorial Day story from writer Beth Ann: Freedom Rocks -- about a young painter in Iowa  using his artistic talents to honor American Veterans.) 

Failure to Thrive on Social Media

My attempts at maintaining a presence on social media – Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest – ebb and flow.  I’m not yet sure how I am supposed to keep up with the 815 people I am “Following” on Twitter.  I only have a sprinkling of people following me on Pinterest, and I seldom go on that site as I’m focusing on Twitter, then Facebook, then Twitter, then Facebook. Last week I decided to put a little money toward building my Facebook “Likes” for Linda Malcolm.  I boosted individual posts: I paid Facebook to let my writing go farther than immediate people who like me.

For one particular post, I shared “The Red-Toed Crab.”  It was a very late night, and I couldn’t sleep.  So thought I would get some work done.  I chose which countries to promote the post.  Normally, I choose the United States and England, for I have readers in both countries.  I remembered I had another reader in Brazil, so for a change, I also selected that country.

Here’s what I posted:

“I'm five years out from the breast cancer diagnosis. MRI's and mammograms are clean. The uncertainty before each result phone call still ebbs and flows. But now, three years beyond the writing of the Red-Toed Crab, the crab is intact.” With a link to The Red-Toed Crab and this picture:

I’m naïve.  Perhaps I thought my words would be translated to Portuguese when that post flew the wires to Brazil.  In the end, approximately 19,000 people in Brazil saw the post; over 250 “liked” the picture.  Six comments were left in Portuguese.  After clicking "translate," I found that five Brazilian women love my sandals and one Brazilian man loves my red toes.

Honest to Pete, my writing self would’ve fit so much better into the 1900’s hard copy style.  Last week, Linda Malcolm failed to thrive on social media.

Today, I find hard copy mighty alluring.

Riding the Strands of Fireworks

A single fuse is lit. A gust of gun powder soars into the sky as one and pops into a sprinkling of sparkling, bright fireworks. It’s not a vision of the 4th of July. It’s the explosion of everyone’s spring activities. Post spring break. Well choreographed are the questions. “Where are you supposed to be tonight?” “Who should you send these pictures to?” “Is this a practice or a game?” “What day does your flight leave?” “Where is your uniform?” “Which baseball shoes are mine?” “Do you have a white shirt and black pants for me?” “What time do you need to be there?” “What you do you want to do for Mother’s Day?” “How many more days are left of school?” And it’s me asking that last question. 21.

Families who have kids in elementary school are riding on the same combustive fuselage.

After a few crazy splintered mornings, I try to get up early enough to have a cup of coffee alone. I play some calm music in the morning. Or, I sit down at the piano for 10 minutes, letting my right hand lead the melody while my left hand struggles for the harmonious chord. I need 6 beats to a measure for a song in 4/4 time – finding the chord always take me a couple extra beats.

Will and Liam have their own morning routines, usually looking something like this. Although Liam can’t play Minecraft every morning, he can read about it.

On this particular morning, Will put down his Ranger’s Apprentice series and read my “story spinner” – what Liam so aptly named my spiral-bound manuscript… gulp… of the Staying Strong stories I wrote some five years ago.  The breast cancer year.

As we leave for school, the rocks call Will and Liam’s names.  And I do not, do not, do not want to herd them into the van.  I want to let them sit there and read, and read, and read.

Yes, we are ready for summer.  When mornings can start with the bean bags being dragged to the fort by the boys.  With a book tucked under each of their arms.