How Long Will It Hurt?

“How long will it hurt?” Will was around seven when he asked that question. It was after a skinned knee or elbow. I don’t remember the wound – only those words. And the insistence that I just tell him how long. The begging. Wouldn’t it be a great feat to look at a watch or a calendar and mark the end time or date? How much more manageable pain would be if we had that ability.

Instead, the time of intense pain puts us in a different continuum, bare of minutes and hours and outside the realm of normal. How can there be a normal anywhere when the here and now is filled with this much pain? Must the birds sing this morning? How can the sun reflect onto clouds and hand us the most glorious sunset?

If we could only answer that question. How long will it hurt? How much farther from today will a footstep out of bed be the first one back to the patter of life before that ensconcing pain? As much as it may seem to be a perverse punch to the gut, the fact that life continues around us gives a sense of comfort when that first return step into "normal" is made.

The uncertainty of pain exhausts. The unknown when and where and how forces us to live in the moment. Moment after moment. Living normal life on skates, that slowness induced by pain feels unnatural. Living in the moment and letting go of the control we look for in daily life – another layer of pain.

Concentric circles of pain fall around the person at the center of it. Whether an unwelcome diagnosis or an unexpected illness, an equal but different intense pain emanates from the center of that pinwheel to the first closest circle; the ones who would do or give anything to make that pain disappear but who can only comfort and support the person fighting the fight.

And with our woven friendships and acquaintances, the circles continue to increase in number. And in those outer circles, we want the same for the inner circles: for the pain to subsist. To find that answer to “How long will it hurt?” All of us have been in those tight inner circles, asking the same question. And, if there was any way we could, we would answer that question to alleviate some of your pain.

Instead, it remains the unanswered question, and often times, all we can do is let you know that a piece of our heart is with you every day.

(Another pondering: Untying the Mother-in-law's Tongue.)

Buccaneer Beach Bar, St. Martin

A few weeks ago, just after returning from our spring break trip to St. Martin, I met another office tenant at the entrance to our building. I had sandals on. He wore a t-shirt. Both of us were a season ahead of Boston spring. He shook his head as he held the door for me. “Wow, I am ready for warmer weather! I was in the Southern Caribbean last week and it was a lot different than this!”

“Really?! I was in St. Martin last week; I know what you mean!”

“Oh yeah? We have a time share in St. Martin, but this trip we took our whole family – 11 of us total – on a cruise. We were only on St. Martin the last day of the trip.” He had silver hair and was a generation older than me.

“Which resort is home?”

“Atrium.”

“I know exactly where that is: in Simpson Bay. We stayed just down the road from there.”

“Yes! We love it, especially the Buccaneer Beach Bar.”

“That was our favorite place; our sons loved swimming there while we waited for lunch. We ate at the Buccaneer several times.” How cool was this chance meeting?!?!

“My wife and I took our family to the Buccaneer before flying out that evening; I wanted them to see our time-share and Simpson Bay. We had my son and his wife and my 9-year-old grand-daughter. My daughter, her husband…”

My mind hit a bit of an electric zinger and lost track of his dialogue. He was wearing a t-shirt from St. Martin’s American Cup Yacht Race. I looked again at his silver hair and glasses. He spoke confidently and was friendly.

“Excuse me,” I interrupted, “when did you say you went to the Buccaneer?”

“Saturday, before we flew out.”

“You were there at lunch time,” I explained, leaning in a bit like I was pulling a vision out of the air. “I saw you and your family. Your grand-daughter didn’t look very happy; she had her head down on the table. Your family sat near the bar. We sat right behind you. And you were wearing this shirt!”

“You are kidding me?!?! Yes! My grand-daughter got hit in the nose with the cab door. She had a bloody nose; poor thing, she really felt rough.” Blink. Blink.

I replied. Blink. Blink. “And you ran into a client of yours with his wife, near the bar, and you introduced them to your family.” And now, I realized how I must have sounded. “Oh my goodness! I’m not an eavesdropper, really! But I do like to people watch.”

We were both awed by these chance happenings: that we were in the same place in the Caribbean and that we happened to enter our office building at the same time, having never before met.

I’m left pondering...

First, I think chance encounters and human in-person connections like this are declining because of the advent of ear buds and iThings. If either of us had been so connected to a gadget this story wouldn’t be. _The coincidence wouldn’t have happened._ Of course the argument could be made that more “meeting” is happening via social media. However, this one involved eye contact.

Second, I now firmly acknowledge that people watching is a hobby of mine. Sometimes sitting in a public place I may take a book with me, but if the area is filled with people, I don’t read. I watch. This makes me think back to one of my favorite classes I took in college: Sociology. I wonder what I would be doing if I had majored in Soc?

Hmm, perhaps sitting right here writing stories about people and places.

Chasing Chickens through a Sunny Pasture

Through trials and talks, I’ve discovered that Vitamin D is important – as a breast cancer survivor and as a human than can run a little low on energy.  I’ve felt a boost of energy after taking a multi-vitamin with a hefty amount of Vitamin D.  However, after a long winter, my blood work still shows a deficit, and I’ve been told to take an additional supplement.  I bought the bottle and I occasionally remember to take it. During a sugar detox at the Y a couple years ago, the nutritionist was over-the-top excited about the health benefits of eggs.  According to the National Institutes of Health, eggs are one of our few food sources with natural Vitamin D – ranking just after fatty fish (salmon, tuna, swordfish, etc.) and beef liver.  Most foods that rank high in Vitamin D have been fortified with this nutrient.  The nutritionist suggested eating chickens that had seen the light of day most of their lives, as well as eggs from the same sun-drenched hens.

In pursuit of Vitamin D, I now try to have eggs more frequently – including the yolk, where the Vitamin D lives.  And, reflecting on the nutritionist’s suggestion, I switched to eggs produced by happier chickens.  Free-range or even organic chickens sounded good.  Then I saw the word “pastured” to describe eggs.  Let’s just say there are chickens surviving the bad life, many living some version of the not-as-bad life, and finally, those that are wandering free on idyllic pastures pecking away at grass and bugs.

According to a study by Mother Earth News, chickens who graze on grass and eat bugs in a sunny pasture produce eggs with 4 to 6 times the amount of Vitamin D as the traditional eggs we find in the supermarket.  Given the science of how Vitamin D is produced -- I think of it as human photosynthesis: a touch of the sun’s ultraviolet rays sets off the creation of Vitamin D in our bodies -- it seems logical that these sun-bathed flocks would have more Vitamin D in their legs and their eggs.

On occasion, if my grocery run includes Whole Foods, I’m grabbing a dozen “pasture-raised” eggs.  “Cage-free organics” are $3.69 a dozen.  “Pasture-raised” from Vital Farm's  “girls on grass, free to forage” are $7.69.  I won’t buy the Vitamin D supplement any more.  And, perhaps less meat?  And, I will keep these pastured gals in mind...

(From National Geographic website. Photo of the Day:  Chicken Farm, Pennsylvania. Photograph by Peter Essick) 

Note that this is a photograph, not a painting.

 If only a chicken could smile.

Save an Albatross: Twist Caps Back onto Bottles

Living in colonies on the Midway Atoll in the Pacific Ocean, adult Laysan Albatross skim the water to catch fish which they regurgitate to feed their young.  Floating on the surface, small items like bottle caps are scooped up and fed to fledgling albatross – who cannot live with plastic trapped in their stomachs.  An estimated five tons of plastic are fed to young albatross annually. The Midway Atoll is located nearly 1,500 miles northwest of Hawaii; 3,400 miles from California; and 4,700 miles from Asia.  These albatross are feasting on bottle caps originating thousands of miles away.

Often I pause over the recycling bin with a bottle in one hand and a cap in the other: Are the caps recycled on or off the bottles?  We are making better choices with limiting plastics we consume and with recycling those that make their way into our home, but how can I keep caps from ending up on the Midway Atoll?

According to Hiltz Hauling & Recycling, the curbside hauler in Marblehead, MA, bottle caps can be recycled on or off the bottles.  Hiltz delivers recycled items to Casella Recycling in Boston and plastics are sorted by type using computerized optical sorters: cameras, lights, and air jets.

When the plastics are transferred to mills, where they will become new products, they are further sorted.  In a relatively new process, plastic is finely shredded, cleaned, and placed in float tanks where the materials are separated based on whether they sink or float.  Specifically, the cap material, polypropylene (PP), floats and  bottle material, polyethylene terephthalate (PET), sinks.

With this advanced sorting float/sink process, the Association of Postconsumer Plastic Recyclers (APR) has set guidelines for recycling caps: twist them back onto the bottles.  However, the APR points out that this process is relatively new and that it may take a while for all communities to adapt to the “cap-on” guideline.

From earth’s perspective, if caps can’t be screwed onto bottles, then they shouldn't go into our recycling bins but rather in the trash.  Since the caps are so small, they are apt to become litter during transport.  And possibly breakfast for an albatross.

Source websites:

Earth 911, May 1, 2015

Smithsonian, National Museum of Natural History, May 1, 2015

Marblehead Recycling Guidelines, May 1, 2015

Hiltz Single Stream Recycling Guide, May 1, 2015

The Association of Post Consumer Plastic Recyclers, May 1, 2015

 

Beauty Tips

It may or may not surprise you that I do not read the “beauty tips” sections in magazines.  I’ve accepted the adjective ruddy to describe my natural complexion. I use a day moisturizing cream called “age-defying.”  Because I choose to believe the title.

Before I garden, I may or may not throw on some sunscreen.  My Vitamin D runs a little low nowadays, so sometimes I want an uninterrupted one to two hour hit.  I love seeing my freckles pop out from my ruddy complexion after a Vitamin D session.  I think I look a little feisty.  Beware a redhead with freckles.

When my eyelashes grew back after chemo, they stuck straight out, reminding me of a pointer dog.  After reading about this phenomenon in a blog post back then called Hair Moments, my neighbor appeared at my door extending an eyelash curler to me.  It has been one of the best beauty tips, most thoughtful gifts, and most hideous torture tools I've ever received.  And I think of her fondly for 16 seconds every morning as I give each set of eyelashes a firm upward 8-second grip.

In that same post, I referenced the re-appearance of my post-chemo eyebrows in a much lighter tone.  Five years later, they are still light, so I rely on an eyebrow pencil to give them color.  Some women won’t leave home without a splash of lipstick.  I won’t leave home without eyebrow color.  Every day.  And, because it’s every day, the application isn't always consistent.  Some days I see Grandma Murphy’s un-symmetrical brows appear.  The only recovery from this is to completely cleanse the brow palate and pull focus to re-apply.

Until our spring break trip, I varied the darkness of the eyebrow color application.  Perhaps a little lighter during the day, maybe adding more color for evening.  Or when I am fairly freckled, adding a bit more color thinking my face can hold it.  Getting ready to go out for dinner one night in St. Martin, Liam was nearby as I added color to my eyebrows.

“Do you do that so you look meaner, Mom?”

So in my effort to look striking, I look like I’m about to strike.  More eyebrow color must make the “Mom look” more intense.  Not my intent.

We added this to the list of "things-you-never-say-to-a-girl."  And, I go easier on the pressure of the pencil.

My beauty tips come from unconventional situations and memorable people.

Still Enough for a Butterfly to Land

Shifting into drive after a week of vacation in the world of “No problem!” is an arduous process.   St. Martin is a land of heat, sun, and water.  Of half Dutch and half French and all Caribe.  Of gourmet food.  Of long expanses of time of nothingness.  Getting used to that rhythm took a couple days: letting go of “should, need, must, remember” and settling into days less articulated. Bill and I were last on St. Martin twelve years ago.  Then, the island was quieter and less built-up, freer from American influence.  The island’s infrastructure is trying to catch up with the influx of time-share tourists and new concrete resorts and big cars on small roads.

Years before that trip, we sailed the waters around St. Martin, anchoring in bays and visiting the bi-ethnic island via dinghy.  We carried our own scuba gear and dove on wrecks and reefs in those beautiful waters.  When we anchored at night, we were careful to drop anchor in sand, often snorkeling to find a sandy spot to for the anchor, and sometimes diving down to make sure the anchor set.  We didn’t drop anchor in coral; we didn’t let the anchor drag for yards on the bottom to grab ground.  We watched others who took much less care to set anchor for the night.  Last week, snorkeling the dead reefs in Simpson Bay – bone white coral skeletons – I thought of those “drop it and forget it” sailors we watched years ago.  Today, bare boaters are not allowed to drop anchor; they must pick up a buoy or go into harbor.  Maybe the reef will be back in 25 years?

Warmly, the Butterfly Farm was much like I remembered during our first visit there, perhaps hotter.  Water trickled down our backs, faces, and legs before the tour even started.  The heat slowed our vacation tempo even more.  Wiping sweat from our eyes, we watched an Atlas moth fluttering inside its pupa in mid-cycle of that mystical event called metamorphosis.

Each butterfly species has its own preferred plant on which to lay eggs.  A butterfly can smell that plant nine miles away.  The plants and caterpillars are as exotic as the butterflies and moths.

I’m interested in these facts, but I’m so hot I just want to leave the farm and get back to the beach breeze.  We probably haven’t made good use of the entrance fee, but it’s so very hot.  Hot, hot, hot.

I find shade waiting for the boys to catch up.  I hear gasps from the small crowd: people are smiling and pointing at me.  An owl butterfly has lit on my hat.  The owl features of the butterfly are so clear: When this arthropod flies, it looks like the face of an owl swooping through the air.  I stand still and have Bill take a picture before it leaves.  But, I needn’t rush, for it hangs on my hat for 20 minutes while I move slowly.  I feel like Minnie Pearl with a butterfly as a price tag hanging from my hat.

Continuing to sweat, the novelty is over. I need the cool ocean breeze.  The tour guide transfers the owl face off of my hat.  I’ve stood still long enough for a butterfly to hitch a ride.  That’s the speed of a relaxing vacation.

(The flowers from the Butterfly Garden reminded me of those in England -- perhaps not quite as exotic but beautiful garden inspiration!)

The Commonality Between Cat's Cradle and Crossback Bras

We are going on a warm vacation for spring break next week. I’ve dusted off the few sleeveless tops that I have and the one crossback bra that miraculously makes the criss-cross straps disappear under said tops. Yesterday – following coffee, two Advil, and a pep talk from a friend – I made my way into the mall for the spring shopping trip. I pulled the receipts out to make the returns on items I bought in November but never wore. From experience, I planned to have three full hours in this place: two to find shirts and one to find bras for under the shirts. This plan was derived from lessons learned in past less well-planned shopping trips. On one trip, I found the most delightful, summery bras: one with bright pink stripes another with beautiful plum and soft yellow stripes. Living on the edge, I bought them in preparation for summer. A couple weeks later, I went shopping for tops and was quite successful in finding light cotton tops with my signature necklines that scoop or are v-shaped.

I’m not one to plan my outfit for the next day before I go to bed. At 7 a.m., excited by my new purchases, I pulled a spring mint green v-neck over by head and stepped back to see my reflection in the full-length mirror. Then, I counted the pink stripes on my bra. Through the shirt. My entire spring wardrobe was mismatched: the light colors and material of the shirts were opaque to the screaming striped bras. The spring bras went to the back of the drawer and waited for their re-assigned season: winter, under black v-necks. My black shirts and khaki pants look simple and hopefully stylish, but it’s a hot style mess underneath. Bras screaming, “But I was meant for spring! Spring, spring!”

Yesterday, I found brightly patterned v-necks and scooped tops. I’ve discovered that in addition to those particular necklines, patterns draw the eye away from my current roundish mid-section. A few of the tops were sleeveless. I took that shopping bag directly from the top shop to the bra shop, determined not to create the seasonal drama of last year.

I knew the size and the style I wanted in the bra – the exact same crossback style as the one that worked at home. At the display case, I threw open my shirt bag and worked at color coordination. Finding three that would work, I decided to try them on with the tops just to confirm. It had been an expensive seasonal goof last year.

Peering into the puzzle of straps and holes and judging where my arms and head must go, I had forgotten the game a woman must play getting into a crossback bra.  I yet again think of Cat’s Cradle: the string game played with two players. As you create the cradle and pass it back and forth between two sets of fingers, one slip and that’s it. There’s no recovery and the string must be re-strung to play again. Looking into that upside-down crossback bra, the view is the same as the one requiring a player to go into the cat’s cradle, pinch the x’s, and bring them out, up, and under the outer strings, taking the string off their partner’s fingers with just the right tension. Getting a crossback bra on is equally as complicated. Only it's played naked.

I study the path, knowing only too well that I haven’t done this since late summer. Focusing, I see the two holes to either side where my arms must go and the one in the middle, under the X, for my head. Taking a moment and a small breath, I dive in. Instantaneously, I am ensnared. My head and left arm are through the left arm hole. Two clear visions of possibility strike: Just take my head out of the arm hole and put it through the head hole. Hit the call button to get some help. Neither are good: the first impossible and the second too embarrassing.  I must heave the elastic contraption completely over my head and start again. Trembling, I push the bra up and pull my arms and head out. I have escaped! Attempt number two results in twisted straps, and I again disentangle -- easier this time.  On the third attempt, the cobwebs of fall and winter fall aside and I succeed in spring’s first game of Cat’s Cradle.

Now I am set for the season.  I will remember not to try any quick re-adjustment techniques from twisted straps or misplacement of limb or head, for there is no recovery. The string must always be re-strung.

Let the styles of spring and summer commence.

(My 9-year-old Liam helps me with Beauty Tips.)

P.S. Lazy summer afternoons and long car rides beg for the real Cat’s Cradle!

Tolerance of Cow Manure Between Your Toes

When I promote my stories on social media – Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest – I know that I will get a good handful of followers to click on my story if I use this picture of Mom and Dad’s barn: People love it.

I look at the photo and think about 48 years of stories that could be written about this barn.  Now, having 9- and 11-year-old sons and living in the city, I have stories bubbling in my head with a common theme: tolerance.  Of fresh cow manure between your toes.  Of picking up eggs from underneath a mean setting hen.  Of keeping two paces ahead of a mean, nasty, spurred rooster.

When I take the boys to Iowa, my senses keenly pop open looking for experiences that get close to these.

Lately when I shamelessly post the picture of this beautiful barn, I have a flashback to a winter when I was around the same age as my sons.  And the setting was near the barn, specifically at the hydrant.

The base of the hydrant is surrounded by straw insulation to keep the pipes from freezing.  When the temperature drops and stays below freezing, the insulation can fail.  Back then there was no water heater in the tank.  A  pipe with a little basin at one end hooked over the hydrant and a long tube ran through the gate to the water tank.  The pipe was shaped the same as the one my grandpa used to smoke.  If water froze in the base of the hydrant, it needed to be manually thawed so the cattle could get water.

The etching on my mind: I was standing on the south side of the hydrant facing the barn.  Dad stood on the north side of the hydrant with his back to the barn.  It was late afternoon and Dad was using a blow torch to thaw the hydrant.  The sun was sinking, the temperature was too cold, and the wind chill was spectacular.  And I stood there helping.

However, I have absolutely no recollection of how I was helping.  After the sun sank, then perhaps, I held a flashlight.  The memory is so visceral I want a winter coat to protect me from that crazy cold.  We were out there for well over an hour.  Me standing, watching.  Dad silently, stoicly working.  I can’t imagine I was much help.  The cold ate at me as I hoped Dad would give up and call it a night.  He didn’t.  I remember thinking, “I’m not helping at all.  Why can't I go in the house?”  But I couldn’t move.  My feet stood firm next to my Dad.  How could I walk away and leave him out here by himself?

Last week, an Iowa opportunity arose in Massachusetts.  After a loud squabble in the back of the van on the drive home from school, I confiscated the iPods.  I sent Will into the house to do homework, and I took Liam outside with me to take down dead evergreen boughs and unwrap the 10 strings of 100 lights from them.  I was so hot that I didn’t ask, I didn’t use manners, I told:  “You are coming outside to help me.”

Our twinkle lights looked awesome in our 100 inches of snow this winter.  I had put a whole afternoon into putting them up.  Now, the transformation away from winter was more laborious.  I gave Liam a bough to unwrap.  “How do I do this?!?”  Start at one end.  “I’m never going to finish this!”  Keep going.  “OK, I’m done.”  No you are not; we’ll work on this one together.  “Look, now we’re done!”  No we are not; now we move to the front.  “More?”  Yes.

The boughs in front came down much easier.  As I freed each set of lights, I sent it with Liam to put it on the deck at the back of the house.  With only two sets left to untangle, Liam said, “Am I done now?  Can I go in?”  No, hold this string of lights.  It was a bundle of lights that really didn’t need to be held.  I needed his feet held to the ground to see the end of this project.  Liam held it, not knowing why he needed to hold it.

Scraps of needles scattered all over the steps.  I swept with a big barn broom and told Liam to pick up the little clusters of needles on the ground.  I watched as he scuffed them into the snow.  “Whatever you don’t pick up now, you will be picking up after the snow melts.”  He uncovered them and picked them up.  I pulled the dead wreath off the door.

We carried the wire cutters, broom, lights, boughs, and wreath away from the front.  “OK, I’m done!” No, not yet.  Wisps of steam escaped from his ears.  In the garage, I found the spring wreath.  I gave it to Liam to carry to the front door.  I told him it was a crown, and he put it on his head.  “OK,” I said, "turn it any way you like and hang it on the nail.”  He did.

“Now, every time we come home and you see our front door, that wreath will remind you how much you helped today.”

Liam comments on the wreath every day.

 (There will be some aspects of growing up in Iowa that my kids will never know, no matter how often they visit.  The whole "chicken experience" is one chasm between my farm experience and theirs.  The Fowl Story is not for the faint of heart.  If you ever helped your family butcher chickens, it might give you a chuckle!)

Give a Starter Library! 10 Children's Books for the Early Years

Starter libraries are great gifts for newborns and their families.  Often times I pick out a combination of books: some will last through their toddler years and some into early elementary school.

Starting with the littlest chunky board book, like Farm Animals (A Chunky Book(R)), a well-loved first book will have teeth marks around the edges.  And when the reader is two, she will look at the cover and grunt like a pig.  Then, turning the pages, she will baa like a sheep or meow like a kitten as she re-reads her chewed up book. Moving from the barnyard to the zoo, Dear Zoo: A Lift-the-Flap Book (Dear Zoo & Friends) showcases the many zoo animals a child receives after writing to the zoo requesting a pet. Finally, a puppy arrives in a zoo crate.

Visual clues in wordless and nearly-wordless books make the youngest non-readers jump in and tell their own story.  Whether “read” aloud by grown-ups or children, the story is a little different every time.  Good Night, Gorilla is a cheeky gorilla’s adventure following a zookeeper. As the zookeeper says "good night" to each animal, the gorilla unlocks each cage with the keys he has sneakily removed from the zookeeper's belt. In 10 Minutes till Bedtime the same gorilla makes cameo appearances on every page as a little boy tries to get ready for bed.  Due to a group of wide-awake mice that has arrived at the boy's house 10 minutes before bedtime, getting ready for bed is nearly impossible!

You may cringe at the thought of adding paperback books to a young child’s library; it may be less painful if you send a roll of transparent tape with the book.  Beyond an unfortunate tantrum, tears happen while reading a beloved book.  Remaining calm and pulling out the tape is a great problem-solving skill to demonstrate.  If it’s paper, it’s only a matter of time before it rips, and there is a way to fix it.  The paperback Duck in the Truck fits nicely into the problem-solving genre as does the board book Sheep in a Jeep.  Duck and the sheep reveal how vehicular problems can be handled in very different ways.  Methods of problem-solving depend entirely on one’s own personality.

Let the imagination wander… commence King Bidgood's in the Bathtub!  After all, where else and who else could spend an entire day in a giant bathtub feasting, battling, fishing, and dancing?  Great short rhyming and beautiful illustrations lure the readers – parent and child – into this paperback fantasy.  Another fantasy for the very young, the board book Jamberry has readers rhyming through meadows of strawberry jam and other whimsical berry settings.

The beginning of The Rain Came Down (Avenues) features rain and a squawking chicken setting off a domino effect of frustration throughout a neighborhood.  After the rain stops, the people of the neighborhood re-connect through kindness.  With every letter of the alphabet used in this book, it was a favorite multi-purpose book to take on vacation.  "Let's find the Q!"

Despite the rumpled edges of A Bad Case of Stripes (Scholastic Bookshelf), it remains a stronghold on our bookshelves – perhaps more for me than my now 9- and 11-year-olds.  Packed with text, this is for a child who has eaten up stories since birth and enjoys read-alouds.  Starting out with a very normal first day of school, Camila’s journey gets a bit rocky as she tries to be the Camila that makes her popular.  Unusual physical changes hound Camila but are eventually reversed with the eating of a few beans.  For the younger set, it’s a story about a bad day.  Older kids will connect with the bigger theme in this “be yourself” book.

Damaged... chewed, torn, stained, taped... and well-loved, these are some of the most worn out books in our collection.

Here's a quick look at the covers and the author of each book. To order any of these, click on the cover to get to Amazon. If you are in a pinch for a present, most are available through Amazon Prime.

Winter 2015 Ski Report -- It's a Wrap!

We still have an 8-foot snow bank next to our steps on the north side of our house.  With the melting, raining, warming, then freezing, it is more aptly termed an ice bank.  A land glacier. On the inside of our Massachusetts house, the hallway is still lined with heavy duty winter equipment.  Hard plastic ski boots.  Hard plastic ski helmets.  Wool socks.  Over-sized ski bags.  Given the amount of snow still on the ground, I don’t have the heart to pack it all away, but I’m 90% sure the Malcolms are done with ski season.  This is my official Winter 2015 Ski Report.

The first ski attempt for Liam ended in tears before he even got on the slopes.  We were coaxing him to put his feet into his ski boots – the ones he wore last year.  We rented boots and skis that weekend after that torturous experience.  If I knew he wore bigger shoes than last year, why didn’t I assume he would need bigger ski boots??  I don’t know.  Perhaps because the ski boots look three times bigger than our feet.

Trading in the ski boots and skis from last year, Liam and I made a new friend in the young owner of the nearby ski shop.  I was set on buying used equipment.  I don’t mind if the skis are purple and the boots are orange.  With growing feet, we will get by year-to-year with mish mash.  “Look at these, Liam,” the shop owner was holding a pair of green and blue skis.  I noticed they matched Liam’s coat.  “Both ends are tipped, so you can practice your tricks going backwards down the mountain!”  Liam’s eyes reflected the sparkle in this young mountain man’s eyes.  My Iowa eyes went stoic and my Iowa lips pulled into a thin line as my flatland heart skipped a beat.

Liam proved they worked while he and I were on a run together.  “Look, Mom!” that sparkle was in his eyes, smile, and backward-facing skis pointed downhill.  Fine.  That’s fine because there is a ski patrol on this mountain.  Then, waiting in line for a chairlift, Liam’s face tilted up to mine.  “That was a sick ride, wasn’t it, Mom?”  Simultaneous thoughts: Liam is talking like a 14-year-old but he’s only the height of a 9-year-old & how do you spell that kind of “sick”?  On the way up the mountain, Liam clarified that it was most likely spelled “sik.” Here's a little skiing clip of my skiing grammarian beast.  Note the nice cross-mountain traverses until he's away from me... then his skis point straight down the mountain.

We skied at Smuggler’s Notch over winter break.  Will is in the highest level ski class, and there were only two or three kids in his class each day.  And they all wanted to ski the same place: the glades.  For my fellow flatlanders, that translates to “through the trees on steep hills.”  I ski one level:  the gentlest, easiest runs, the greens.  Trails marked by simple green circles.  For this reason, skiing is the one place in Will’s life that I am completely hands-off.  No choice: I’m on green circles, and Will is on black diamonds.

We received an email from the ski instructor the evening of Day One to let us know how Will had done that day.  They ski with GPS gadgets that also monitor speed.  Will’s top speed that day was 31.7 mph.  Must they torment me?  “Will, you would be breaking the 20 mph speed limit in my hometown!”  A grin in return.  Day Four, Will returned ecstatic.  “We went down the triple-black diamond!  The Black Hole!”  I calmly congratulated him.  That evening, I Googled “triple black diamond.”  What is the first thing that pops up?  The world’s scariest triple black diamonds in the United States. Number one, the Black Hole – pitched at 53 degrees – at Smuggler’s Notch.  The only triple black diamond east of the Mississippi.  My beast, Will, thinks it is spelled "sic."

After this short recollection of the Malcolm ski season, my heart is beating quickly.  Erratically?

Tonight, I’m packing up the ski gear for the year, for I feel a little sick.

(Have you read this Malcolm skiing adventure? Ski School.)

Friday Frittata: Turkey and Swiss

A solid three-day breakfast!  Not as light and fluffy as on Day One, but still a good, tasty hit of protein on Days 2 and 3.  This recipe is not perfected; I would try a good straight-forward hunk of Thanksgiving turkey breast next time. Motivation for this one?  Leftover sauteed vegetables from the evening before and leftover salad ingredients of cubed cracked pepper turkey and cubed Swiss cheese.

Ingredients:

5 beaten eggs, seasoned with a little salt & a little pepper

A handful of cubed low-fat Swiss cheese

Leftover sauteed veggies: peppers, broccoli, onions, sugar snap peas

A handful of cubed, cracked-pepper turkey from the deli

In 10-inch skillet over medium-high heat, add veggies and turkey.  Since the veggies had been sauteed in olive oil, no need for additional oil or butter. Heat through then spread vegetables and turkey evenly over the bottom of the pan.

Mix cheese into eggs.  Turn heat down to medium-low and slowly pour eggs and cheese into pan in a circular pattern, starting around the outside of the skillet and ending in the middle. Spread cheese evenly.

To prepare for the final stage of cooking, turn broiler on and make sure top rack is in the third position from the top.  If the rack is in the third position from the top, the frittata cooks slowly and browns evenly.

Continue to slowly cook eggs on the stove and, with a spoon, occasionally scoop down in the center of the pan and lift the cooked bits up to let the runny bits get to the heat.  When only a little wobble is left on the top, pop under the broiler.  Watch carefully until eggs meet your desired done-ness.  Remove skillet from broiler and take a picture!

...then eat!

New Adventures!

I have an over-the-shoulder reader of my stories. Liam. Yesterday, we reread the story about the afternoon he was pretending to be a seal and stuck a rock up his nose. He was three years old. Yesterday, at the beautiful age of nine, he put his editor hat on, looked at me and said, “Do you know that you spelled “booger” wrong?” No. Actually, I hadn’t caught that! He is a lovely grammarian. A couple weeks ago, I made a significant change in my life: I now have a space dedicated to writing in a “co-working office.” I pay a small fee per month and have 24/7 access to a desk in a large room with other entrepreneurial types. My first day I met Aidan, a marketing consultant who started working in the office two days prior to me.

“Yeah, I moved here from Starbucks,” he said. “Hmm, I was at Panera Bread.” We wore our coffee shops like badges. “I even stayed at Panera after I got locked into one of the stalls and had to crawl out from underneath. I didn’t even get a free coffee!” For the record, the bathrooms in this office building are lovely. So much cleaner than the grocery store – and the locks work perfectly. Unlike my previous office.

The boys know I write and publish stories on a blog. After going to my new office space for only a few days to write, they have been asking more about my craft. “Mom, how was your writing today?” Will asked after school yesterday. “It was great, Will!” And, as I opened a can of mandarin oranges, Liam asked, “Mom, do you think you could write a story about mandarin oranges?” I puffed my chest out, reflecting back to the black bra story, and said, “Honey, I could write a story about almost anything. Yes, I do believe I could write a story about mandarin oranges.” He grinned.

I shall spare you that story.

“Inventory” is a driving force behind many of my stories. I see a candle, cook a meal, pack for the day, or find a picture of the barn at Mom and Dad’s… and writing ideas pop. Sometimes I document these visuals – the springs to my imagination – with a quick snap on my phone. Others find their slot in my memory where the image is burned.

(Remember Shabby-chic-practical?)

With my adventure into a dedicated writing space, I’m trying something new. When I write a story about a piece of inventory, I may “link out” to that product. If by chance you are struck by the fascinating or humorous story around my use of a product and want it for yourself, and, if you purchase it via the click from my post, then I will get a small percentage of that purchase to put toward my monthly rent.

I thought about starting this pilgrimage off with a link out to a black bra, but which one? And, I’m never going to buy mandarin oranges on-line – so why would I drop that link now? No, when you see a link to a product, you will know that it is something near and dear to my inventory.

Frittata Friday: Invigorated Droopy Veggies

Well, that title really makes you want to try this recipe, huh?  Honestly, it has been a week of eating out and pawing through the cupboards.  The inventory of fresh fruits in our fridge consists of crisp Fuji apples, a jar of mandarin oranges, and half a jar of applesauce.  The latter two are not moldy so they classify as "fresh." The veggie drawer doesn't look much happier.  Leftover chopped red bell pepper from last week's Raw Reds and three spring onions.  However, there were still plenty of eggs and feta on hand!  The resulting frittata was anything but droopy!

Vegetables naturally soften when they cook, so starting with droopy vegetables is quite OK.  No need for perfection here!

Ingredients:

5 beaten eggs, seasoned with salt, pepper, and paprika

2 t. butter

1/2 large droopy red bell pepper, chopped

3 droopy spring onions, chopped

1/2 c. additional chopped droopy veg of your choice (optional)

feta cheese, block or crumbles

Heat butter in a 10-inch skillet over medium heat.  Saute pepper and onion until slightly droopier.

Spread vegetables evenly over the bottom of the pan.  Turn heat down to medium-low and slowly pour eggs into pan in a circular pattern, starting around the outside of the skillet and ending in the middle.

To prepare for the final stage of cooking, turn broiler on and make sure top rack is in the second position from the top.

Continue to slowly cook eggs on the stove and, with a spoon, occasionally scoop down in the center of the pan and lift the cooked bits up to let the runny bits get to the heat.  When only a little wobble is left on the top, sprinkle with desired amount of cheese and pop under the broiler.  Watch carefully until eggs meet your desired done-ness.  Remove skillet from broiler.  Serves two hungry adults.

Safety note: Leave a potholder resting on the handle so you don't accidentally grab the handle to serve up your frittata.

Note: If you are cooking for one, try refrigerating half and reheating it in the microwave.  It won't be as puffy as Day 1, but the flavors are still great.

(If you happen to have leftover fresh squid, try this scraped together Simple Squid Dinner!)

Best small talk of the season. Most impressive skier I’ve ever seen.

Looking for spring skiing with good snow, we landed at Killington in Vermont on Sunday.  I heard there was a 30-foot base of snow.  The forecast was for 39 and sunshine. Mountain weather changes faster than Midwestern weather.  It was cold, snowy, icy, and cloudy.  The top of the highest peak was never seen from the base lodge by Malcolm eyes that day.  In fact, the slope was barely visible from the parking lot as Bill and Will started the day trudging toward the gondola line.

We split as usual: 3 to the big mountain and 1 to the littlest mountain.  In the gates to the quad chairlift for my second ride up the little mountain, I asked a mother/daughter combo if I could ride with them to the top.  If an employee isn’t telling people how to load, I believe, from observation, that the socially acceptable thing to do is to ask if you can join a group.  As we three approached the front of the line, we left an open space between me and them.

Just as we started moving toward the loading zone, where the chair would scoop us, a person zipped into the spot.  We loaded and settled.  Pulling the safety bar down in front of us, I glanced to the side to make sure no one’s poles were jammed in an uncomfortable position.  I noticed our 4th joiner’s coat.  It was a tatted trench coat that came down to mid-shin.  The seams were ragged.  The material was canvas-like.  My eyes moved up to the head.  It was covered with a black helmet which was covered with gray duct tape.  A gator (half ski-mask) covered the mouth and nose.  I could only see eyes through the goggles.

The eyes stared straight forward.  No words.  Shifting my eyes to straight forward, I chewed on the visual.  This looked like a homeless person on a ski lift.  I didn’t know if it was a male or female, young or old.  All of us were silent on the quad, looking straight ahead.  This could be the quietest five minutes of my life where small talk is supposedly still alive.  Or, as with every other ride up, I could start the small talk.

“Is this your first day at Killington?”

“Who, me??”

“Yes, you.”

“Oh no, I’ve been skiing for two weeks!  This is my last day.  I pay $59 for a season pass.  Can’t beat it.  This is the best mountain east of the Mississippi.”

“Oh!  Where are you from?” I asked the man.  And, how is it that you only pay $59 when the average adult season pass is over $1,000?

“Connecticut.”

A little more ski talk moved to me asking, “Are you originally from Connecticut?”

“No, I was born in New York City,” ah, yes, I can hear that accent, “then I moved to Pennsylvania, before I moved to Connecticut.”

“Oh, I was born in Iowa and live near Boston now.”

“IOWA?  I used to work in Iowa!  I worked in Cedar…  Cedar…”

“Cedar Rapids?!?!”

“Yes!  I sold industrial machinery to the corn mills.”

I chuckled, for I don’t know much about Cedar Rapids other than the mills.    Or rather the smell of Cedar Rapids because of the mills.  The city eternally smells like earthly grains being slowly baked.  It’s the first Iowa smell that hits us after we land in the Cedar Rapids airport on our way to Mom and Dad’s.  “Do you remember the smell of the mills?”

“Oh, yes!  They used to tell me if I was hungry just to inhale!”  Indeed, he knew Cedar Rapids!!

As we continued with our small talk, I noticed a plastic card fluttering on the sleeve of his jacket.  It was his season pass with his head shot.  The petite, gray head was that of an 80-year-old’s.  But, surely no… could he be?  Above the photo, were the words, “BEAST PASS.”

We wished one another well as we prepared to disembark.  Did I notice the chair slow slightly as we approached the off ramp?  We both skied to the right after exiting the flying chairs.  I stopped as usual to sort myself out before heading down the slope.  I tried to adjust my poles and gloves quickly so I could watch this skiing enigma move down the mountain, but he disappeared over the hill on a blue slope.

I scooted down the hill, thinking by chance we might pair up again on the lift, but he was long gone by the time I made it to the bottom of our little mountain.  On the way back up the mountain, I spotted him skiing down right under the chair lift.  He looked like he was born on those skis.  As if he had sprung forth solidly from the mountain.  With his long coat, he resembled a tree trunk traversing confidently, gracefully down the mountain.

With a little research, I discovered that there is only one way a person can pay only $59 for a Beast Pass to this mountain: as a Super Senior in the 80+ age group.

Greatest small talk of the season.  Most impressive skier I’ve ever seen.

Frittata Friday: The Raw Reds

In an 8-week sugar cleanse a couple years ago, I mastered an egg dish that I now claim as my morning masterpiece.  Off-hand, I can’t think of any other dishes that I cook without a recipe which are as satisfying as this little humdinger. The frame of the recipe is five eggs beaten with a little salt, a little more pepper, and a good solid sprinkling of paprika.  Other necessary elements include vegetables for color and texture.  Then, before the final bit of magic under the broiler, capping the ensemble off with cheese.

I thought the eggy dish was a pretty omelet like Bill used to make when we first met.  After a bit of research on my methods, lo and behold, I’ve been making frittatas!  Me… frittatas!  Coming off of a big granola bar era, this frittata ranks as a gourmet breakfast to me.

With this solid hit of morning protein, I charge into the day more confidently, less light-headedly, and clearer in thought.  Perhaps the confidence comes from the early morning shake-of-the-pan veggie flipping.  No utensil needed.  Just a little butter.  And an open mind to some of veggies flying to the floor.

Today, I welcome you to Frittata Friday with my first ever self-authored recipe!

The Raw Reds Frittata

Ingredients:

5 beaten eggs, seasoned with salt, pepper, and paprika

2 t. butter

1/2 large red bell pepper, chopped

1 spring onion, chopped

large handful of grape tomatoes

feta cheese, block or crumbles

Heat butter in a 10-inch skillet over medium heat.  Saute pepper and onion until slightly softened.  Add tomatoes and saute briefly just until skins start to wrinkle.

Spread vegetables evenly over the bottom of the pan.  Turn heat down to medium-low and slowly pour eggs into pan in a circular pattern, starting around the outside of the skillet and ending in the middle.

To prepare for the final stage of cooking, turn broiler on and make sure top rack is in the second position from the top.

Continue to slowly cook eggs on the stove and, with a spoon, occasionally scoop down in the center of the pan and lift the cooked bits up to let the runny bits get to the heat.  When only a little wobble is left on the top, sprinkle with desired amount of cheese and pop under the broiler.  Watch carefully until eggs meet your desired done-ness.  Remove skillet from broiler.  Serves two hungry adults.

Note: If you are cooking for one, try refrigerating half and reheating it in the microwave.

Safety note: Leave a potholder resting on the handle so you don't accidentally grab the handle to serve up your frittata.  (Surely I'm not the only one who will try this, right?)  Also, the potholders with neoprene rubber do not hold up well dealing with pans that have been under a broiler.

The Melt

We New Englanders are moving into pre-spring.  With temperatures in the 40s for a couple days, many of us have a bit of a lift in our step, smiling and soaking in the cool air.  Until we hit black ice and fall on our ass. I love the snow, and I much prefer snow season to the season of Melt.  The below-normal cold temperatures has kept our driveway snow-packed for the last couple months.  With a good pair of boots, my feet stay warm and my body stays upright with a layer of snow on the ground.

But Melt is a different story.  Melt is the warm sun during the day and hearing the crash of the icicles in the late afternoon.  After a few days of melt, these are all gone now.

However, at sunset, the ground proves its power and within a couple short hours, black ice replaces the wet shallow puddles.  Given the ground has spent months below freezing, one whimsical sunny afternoon is not going to break its freezing hold.

Our snow banks are much the same.  During the month of February, we would sink up to our thighs if we walked on the snow banks.  Now, with the Melt, the snowbanks are solid.  The sound of the van bumping the snow banks while making three-point turns in our driveway used to be a gentle “sploosh.” Now it’s more of hard crunch that leaves me wondering if it was a tail light or snow bank that gave way.

On ice, sensible shoes are only those that might have spikes on the bottom.  I ventured out to my book club last night in shoes with rubber soles.  I might as well have been wearing skis.  The driveway to the hostess’ house looked clear.  I parked near the back door and opened my van door into a snow bank.  I wobbled between the bank and my van, leaning on the van  like a crutch.  A little of the sand and salt encrusting the van would undoubtedly land on my clothes.

At the end of the evening, two hours later, five of us exited the same back door and gingerly made our way toward our cars.  “We are using your van to balance, Linda!”  I replied, “Sorry about the dirt!” as I rounded the front of my van.  Then it hit.  Or rather I hit it: the black ice.  I waddled over it and placed a foot onto the sloping snow bank for surer footing.  I slipped and yipped.  “Are you OK, Linda?”  Yes.  I continued dancing on the iced-over snow bank until the maneuver landed me spread eagle against the driver’s door.  I had made it.  Only my back was against the door that I needed to open.

I stood still, except for the belly laugh that was shaking my core.  As I steadied myself, I heard the other women crunching their way around their car.  I immediately recognized the sound that interrupted the steady crunch.   “Splooonch!”  A slow slide down the side of a frozen snow bank.  Steadying myself against the door, I turned my head to the left and saw Samantha’s silhouette sitting against the snow bank.  She was facing the driver’s door of her car.  “Are you OK, Samantha?”  Without hesitation, Samantha replied, “Yes, I’m fine.”  The tone was of ice exasperation.

I flailed out and away and spun to grab the handle of my van door.  My body quaked with the hilarity of it all.  We were living a fast action, slapstick video.  Safely but not gracefully, I landed behind the wheel and let one of those uncontrollable laughs fully live its life.

The women in my book club are gracious and graceful.  And now, wet and dirty from my van and from snow banks that look like this in the daylight.

We are hardy New Englanders.

(This winter is Defying Logic!)

Defying Logic

Defy logic.  That’s what 100 inches of snow and sub-normal temperatures do. I picked up one of my son’s friends for an overnight late one afternoon.  Popping open the swinging gate to their yard, I was greeted by two big, lick-happy dogs.  Two days and one 12-inch snowfall blizzard later, I took Will’s friend home and the dogs greeted me in the front yard.  I must have looked at the mom a little perplexed.  “I know!  With that last snow, they just walk over the fence!”  The four-foot high fence.  I don’t think I have ever seen such gleeful dogs.

Our 4-foot high fence -- two storms ago.

***

Where we stayed while skiing in Vermont was heated by forced air.  The bedrooms were on the cool side.  Liam slept like a rock and, back at home, said he missed that coolness.  I agreed.  I turned the heat down from our standard 69 degrees to 65.  The next morning when I turned the thermostat back up to 68, the heat wouldn’t come on.  I picked the wrong night to drop the tempurature, for I set off a domino effect:  I turned the heat to 65.  The water stopped flowing through the pipes.  The outdoor temperature dropped to minus something.  A cold breath of air found its way into the wall and gave the water pipes a cold blast.  The pipes froze.  I called therapists for the pipes.

First, just keep the heat up high in the rest of the house and that should take care of it within hours.  Many hours later, no change.  We ran our gas fireplace in the bedroom for hours a day and set up a little space heater in the boys’ room.  After days of a balmy 75 - 80 degrees on the main floor, I couldn’t do it any longer.  Then, let’s just wait until an above freezing day and that should take care of it.  That day came and went.  Finally, after Will came into our room with a morning chill, I scratched out all appointments for a day and pulled space heaters up to the walls and pipes in two suspicious rooms.  Bill pulled heavy furniture away from walls so the heat could get to hidden pipes.  Finally, ten days after the initial freeze, I felt a spring of hot water rush through the pipe to the boys’ bathroom radiator.  Oh the relief of having un-constipated heating pipes.

***

We Malcolms are fortunate to be a snow-loving family.  I use the royal “we” here as Bill is a ski-lover but not a snow-lover.  This year I found that a chairlift up the mountain is one place where small talk still exists.  Fingers would turn blue outside of gloves in -9 degree weather.  Plus, there is that long drop from the high-flying chairs to the slope: That keeps cell phones zippered tightly in pockets on the ride up.  The small talk experience is akin to flying in the 80's.

***

The spring thaw should be interesting.  We’ve installed two sump pumps in our basement in preparation for the inevitable week of 45-degree temps, a big brilliant full sun, and a ginormous melt.  Our sled inventory has suffered over this winter.  We are down to only one good sled and one duct-taped together -- and two others are under a snowbank.  Two saucers – dug out from the loft and used only in desperation – nearly disappeared in the scant four inches earlier this week, but I believe Bill rescued them.  I think there may also be a glove and a snow shovel re-appearing in May.  Thinking it might be good to replenish sleds soon, and these Paricon Winter Lightning Sled (3-Pack) look great!

***

Then, there are the ice jams… the science behind those is a whole wondrous story in and of itself.

Happy Winter!

(Fierce Mountain Gnomes also defy logic.)

Ski School

We put smooth boards on the bottoms of our feet last week and took advantage of the snow in Vermont.  The mountain was filled with winter break skiers from Massachusetts and New York – no school for us. Mid-week and on one of the coldest days, I booked a morning massage.  Timing was perfect: I could drop Liam off at 10:00 for his 2-hour lesson and walk 25 yards to the massage center.

Throughout the week, Bill took Will to the bigger mountain for his lesson while I took Liam.  After two days of running late, we made a big effort to be early the third day.  We got on the same shuttle – even though it took less time for me to get Liam to his mountain starting spot.

On the bus this -9 degree morning, Liam’s skin started crawling under all the layers.  I peeled layers off of his face, but it didn’t matter.  Once your skin crawls, it takes more than that to calm it.  I knew a cold lift to the top of the mountain and an exhilarating ride to the bottom was necessary.

Liam and I disembarked at our stop and headed to the lesson meet-up spot.  I was surprised to see so many kids waiting there so early.  We must have waited longer than I thought for the shuttle.

Liam was also in a fighting mood over what level he should be in.  Tuesday’s instructor said he was a solid Level 4; Wednesday’s instructor said he needed to be with the Level 3’s until he could skate with his skis.  This is the Malcolm boys’ mode of thinking: If I was a 4 yesterday, I will most likely be a 5 today and a 6 tomorrow.  I definitely won’t be a 3 today.

After consulting with the ski supervisor, who told Liam he had to parallel ski if he wanted to be in Level 4, Liam was still giving me an earful – over the level and the garments.

We met Liam for the first time on what would have been my Grandma Murphy’s 90th birthday.  She died in July, and we brought Liam home from Korea in September.  I swear there is a cosmic connection between those two: his stubbornness equals hers.  A trait that will serve Liam well when he’s an adult and standing up for what matters to him.

I put Liam’s skis on the Level 4 stand.  I glanced at the instructor’s name tag.  I was only inciting anger with my presence.  A lightening rod in the midst of a massive electrical storm.  I pointed to the stand and very clearly stated, “Liam, there are your poles and your skis.  Have fun.”  And, I walked away.

Once in the massage center, I realized what time is was: I had dropped him off at 9:30.  A half hour early.  Strange there were so many kids there that early.  I felt guilty for leaving him there to wait that long, but… There is a saying I often quote: “Parents are the bone upon which children sharpen their teeth.”   This bone needed some renewal.  I managed to defer the guilt.  Slightly.

After the massage, the therapist told me I had really needed it.  I could feel her pushing knots out of my shoulders; it was painful.  At 11:50, I left to pick up Liam, and the receptionist reminded me to drink lots of water throughout the day to clear out all those toxins that had been released during the massage.

A bit more centered – and with thicker bones and relaxed muscles – I watched and waited for Liam to come flying down that hill.  Around 12:10, I approached a Level 4 instructor – a different man than I had left Liam with that morning.  This instructor hadn’t had Liam in his group and said Liam must be with the other Level 4 instructor; this instructor would wait with me to make sure I had Liam.

At 12:20, I noticed that I was the only parent standing at the bottom of the hill.  The instructor agreed; it was getting late.

No Liam.  I fell the onset of panic.  Millions of little lungs in my muscles sucked those toxins right back inside.  Every muscle went stiff and prepared for battle.

The instructor assured me Liam had not been with him.  “I realize that.  I’m not doubting you.  I just need to know, what we do now? “  Had he gone in for hot cocoa?  I checked all the skis along the fence.  Had he gone back up the chairlift on his own?  No, that’s not Liam.

We scooted over to the ski school office, bumping into Will and Bill on the way.  “I can’t find Liam!” I exclaimed.  I stationed them at the bottom of the hill in case Liam came down while the instructor and I were in the office.

“We are missing a child,” the ski instructor told the man behind the ski school desk.  I gave this man the instructor’s name and the time I had left Liam with the group.

“OK, let me make a call.”  He showed no signs of distress.  He couldn’t turn off the informal chit-chat from the person who picked up the phone on the other end.  Finally, he got to the point.  We are missing a child.  With no thumbs-up, no smile, and no eye contact with me during the conversation, I went to the darkest spot a parent can turn.  The minute phone call felt like hours.

Finally, he hung up.  “Liam is having lunch on the other side of the mountain.  He’s with the all-day ski group; somehow he got mixed in with them.  Each of them wears a GPS on their ankle, so we located him that way.  Do you want to leave him in all day?”

NO!  I want him back!

Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be early.  Being on time for ski lessons is better than being early -- particularly when the all-day ski lessons start at 9:30.

Fortunately for Liam, he didn’t know that he was lost, for that day, Bill and I were the bone that took that blow.

(Ski school... perhaps ski instructors could have helped with Bill's Ski Goggles?)

Taking a Bath with a One-Eyed Pirate

I'm not one for New Year's Resolutions, but I do like the freshness of a new year.  The beginning. We travel to see family over the holidays, and at some point during those trips, usually on the plane flying home, I visualize what I want to accomplish.  Relying on a fresh mind's eye to identify projects that I will sink my teeth into when I get home: Walking right by the red flags begging for attention and taking care of what I've deemed important in the sky.

This listing in the sky is a cleanse.

We arrive home on Saturday leaving Sunday, January 4th, to chill and to get ready for the week.  The new week.  The first week.  The beginning of a new year.  I nearly float through the morning -- so very fresh from this cleansing.  As the boys hunker down to do their own thing, and before I start on those crisp new lists, I grab the opportunity to take a bath.

I drop the plug and reach for the "H" handle.  And I graze the "C" handle, and that handle flies into the tub.  Dang it!  I forgot that the little screws have come out and the handle is only sitting there gingerly clinging to the ridges in the post on the cold water side.

I watch and listen as the handle dances boldly in the tub.  Just as it did before the holidays.  Then, the white enamel piece marked with a bold "C" starts a solo routine.  Finding its freedom away from the handle, the round disc travels like a clean shot on a pool table and violently disappears down the drain.

Stunned, the blood of Grandma Murphy flows through my mouth, and I can only utter: Well, I'll be damned.

I look into the tub rewinding and replaying that scene.  What a crappy way to start off the year.  An omen.  Still... I slide the cold handle onto its post and open the hot water wide, taking the edge off with a dash of cold.  Using the previously marked cold handle cautiously.  Then I think, what the fuck?  Who cares if it drops?  The worst that could happen has now happened.   I sit in the tub and stare at the vacancy.  I try to read.  And my eye shifts to the hole.  The emptiness is small but vast, and it perpetrates what was a beautiful tub-filling system.

Days go by, and I find a weekend morning for a bath.  Oh man... I had forgotten about this incident, but since then I had had an MRI that showed a little something different than before. The "C" in the hole: It was an omen.  Looking at the hole on the right side of the faucet, I think about how to resolve this.  I need to get an enamel "C" ordered.  I relax a bit in the tub and read -- only occasionally throwing an eye over the page at the hole.

Days go by, and I find a weekend morning for a bath.  Damn!  I forgot to call and order that part.  But I did get an MRI-biopsy scheduled.  Irritated, I think about other ideas that never bloom beyond the bathroom bay: Buy deodorant. Buy soap.  Make a dentist appointment. Write down this story line.  Yes, there is paper in the bathroom to jot these ideas down -- but the ideas scatter when my foot hits the bath rug outside the shower, preoccupied with the present, immediate conditions: Get dressed.  Get lunches made.  Get kids to brush their teeth.  Get them to eat something.  Get the kids to school.

Valentine's Day morning.  I'm harried - even though the biopsy has returned showing a benign spot.  It wasn't an omen.  I think a bath might calm me.  I moan only slightly at the missing "C" and think the aroma of the bubble bath and the heat of the water and a good magazine will override this oversight.  I sink into the tub and quickly put the magazine in front of my face.  But I can't help it: I peek over the top.  Then around the side.  Over the top.  Around the side.  Something is different this tub time.  And, I see it so clearly.  I am taking a bath with a one-eyed pirate.

My steady glare does nothing but fully shape the pirate's face: his long trunk nose, his puckered whistling lips, his uniquely plumed tall hat, the wart under his nose, the 1:00 scar between his eyes.  I can't attack him from the tub.  I storm out of the tub repeating "one-eyed pirate" like a mantra.  This must end.  This is my priority today.  I am leaving this bathroom and taking care of this.  From beginning to end.  I'm photographing the pirate, emailing it to the rep at the plumbing store, calling the rep.  It's only 8:00 on a Saturday morning, but come hell or high water, that man will have a message on his machine when he sits down at his desk.  I need grub screws and a "C."

I am a raging bull poked one too many times by the picador.

I am a raging, recovering perfectionist...

..."Hello, my name is Linda, and I'm a perfectionist.  Saturday, I went overboard because the one place I expect perfection has let me down."

"Hello, Linda.  Tell us about it."

"I'm not one for New Year's Resolutions, but I do like the freshness of a new year..."

(The English Laundry Maven had similar personification issues.)