Month: July 2018

Training a Human

Having Lost one or two cats to the toothier beasts that inhabit our forest, i’ve made it a habit to bring Princess Jane and Jim-Bob and at night. Jean came in early this evening, but Jim was hot on the trail of a moth, and he was none too happy when I scooped him up and brought him in, telling him it was for his own good.

 

The cats in, I ushered Thing2 to bed and went to my study to write.  Jim-Bob joined me, and I thought all was forgiven. So I opened a notebook and started scribbling. Jim hopped up on my desk to play.

 

He sat on my page then stuck his head in my water glass, almost knocking it and the water over and onto my laptop. 

 

Then he sat on the edge of the desk, craning his head to look at what crap could be knocked off the nearby shelf. He knocked off a book and then a stuffed animal.

 

Play time was looking a lot like revenge.

 

Then he lay down on my writing pad, “nudging “ my writing hand until it was petting exactly the way he wanted. He didn’t want revenge, he wanted servitude.

 

Behavioral scientists may tell us that humans can’t fully understand cats, that we anthropomorphize them. lBut I think it’s safe to say that they — at least some of them— have clearly learned how to understand and train us.
Jim-bob thinks I could be just feline-o-pomorphizing my own species. 

Pie in the Sky

I went out for a treasure hunt after work, sure the entire blueberry crop would have been poached by Japanese beetles. Fortunately, the heat that every Vermonter has sworn they won’t complain about and the humidity we will gripe about seems to have produced a harvest big enough for us and the bugs. I should be happy with enough for a few desserts, but, this year, I want more.

 

This time most summers we’re planning a trip out to Lake Michigan for an almost annual, unofficial family reunion near South Haven, Michigan. We’re not this year.

 

I’ve been going to that spot in Michigan since I was a fetus. My grandparents are buried there. We’ve solved the world’s problems sitting around the table on the porch there, watching the sun set over the lake, noting how much the wind in the trees sounds like wave lapping the shore. We’ve forgotten the answers before bed and celebrated the fact of family there for almost every summer of our existences.

 

But It holds another meaning for me.

 

Eighteen years ago, the Big Guy and I missed Michigan for the first time. In April, my job had moved us to Germany while I was six months pregnant, and Thing1 was due at the end of July. There would have been no travel that summer.

 

Thing1 refused to vacate my womb until the last possible minute. The extended family had convened along the lake. Early in the morning the first week in August, the Big Guy phoned th gang in Michigan. They huddled around their speaker phone, as the Big Guy, Thing1 and I took turns talking, crying and babbling about the newest member of the family.

 

The next year we were all together along the lake.

 

We celebrated Thing1’s first birthday there.

 

We celebrated his second birthday there and, because his birthday falls smack dab in the middle of blueberry season, we celebrated with blueberries and cake.

 

Thing1 has celebrated almost every birthday there with his parents and grandparents and cousins, always with blueberries, and for the last four or five years, blueberry pie.

This summer when Thing1 turns eighteen, we won’t be in Michigan because the Big Guy is getting ready to get a new knee. It’s a good reason to stay home.

 

As I write this, however, we’re getting ready to take Thing1 back to the hospital for the second time this week to address his anemia, to talk about a new medication and possibly stronger measures to get his auto-immune disease under control.

 

He is barely eating. He is getting winded after short walks. He is not looking like his normal almost eighteen-year-old self, and we need for him to get at least a little of his own back before he flies our coop.

 

Last summer, just before we left for Michigan, Thing1 marked his birthday with a hike up the back of Equinox Mountain. He texting us updates of storms and bears on the path until his cell phone died and shortly before he home announcing that he felt truly alive.

 

We don’t know what the next few weeks or even months hold, but, barring a miracle in the next few weeks, there will be no 10 mile hike. There will be no blueberry festival or typical 18th birthday bash.

 

There will be a celebration, however. Even if it’s just our family of four cuddled on the couch, we will make sure he knows that, no matter what the circumstances, his being part of our clan for the last eighteen years, his having made us a clan, is something worth celebrating. And, if I have any say in the matter, it will be with blueberries.

They Grow Up So Fast

Four-week-old Ralph and his mom were out in the small paddock enjoying one of Vermont’s finest summer evenings. I haven’t seen him in a week or so, and the shy, wobbly little colt I’d last seen was full of new tricks.

I left the car running so I could move if any one came up the hill behind me, opened the door and, using the car as tripod and camouflage, pointed the lens at Ralph and his mom. Before I even started to zoom, Ralph looked in my direction and started to trot to the fence. Then he got a little shy and went back to his mom to nurse for a minute.

Mom was eating and swished her tail at him to give her a minute and he looked back at me. He trotted right up to the fence and then back to his mom, nuzzling her for a bit of attention. Mom looked at me and then at nuzzled Ralph and sauntered closer to my section of the fence, Ralphie trotting close behind.

With Mom close by, the last vestige of hesitation, and Ralph cantered around the paddock and came back to the fence right next to the car. He craned his neck trying to see over the top rail and then, with a quick glance at me as if to say, “Watch what I can do!” made another lap around the ring. After his third lap, he stopped at the fence and tried to poke his head below the top rail then behind it, playing an equine version of peek-a-boo with me and my camera. It was clear that Ralph had been the subject of photographic adoration from the other residents on our road.

The last week had brought a heat wave and a day off, chores and bills. It was like every other week except that while we weren’t paying attention, someone was growing up. Something about watching someone else’s kid shoot up like a weed makes you wonder what wonders in your own life you might be missing when you think you’re having a week just like all the others.

Survivors

Ironically, not having a ‘real’ garden this year may have saved the lettuce during the heatwave. Tucked into self-watering planters in a shady spot on the deck, the Romaine seems to be surviving the heat, if not the appetite of the resident jolly Greens-Eating Giant.

Committed


I took a mental picture of the storm roiling from the Taconics, over the Equinox mountain to the Greens as I drove to the grocery store after work last night. I wanted to remember everything about this moment, this second when the radio announced that all twelve boys and their coach had been rescued from the cave in Thailand.

They weren’t my kids. I’m guessing you’re not reading this from Thailand, so they’re not probably not your kids. But for almost two weeks, they’ve been everyone’s kids, and they’ve caused an amazing phenomenon.

 

Volunteers from a dozen countries, allies and adversaries worked together toward the rescue effort. Articles detailing thoughts and prayers and efforts winging their way from every habited continent on earth to those kids appeared on liberal sites and conservative news sites.

 

For two weeks, the entire world was able to agree on one thing, to share a hope that these kids, who somehow belonged to all of us, would be reunited with their families, would be safe, would go on to whatever purpose their lives will hold.

 

Not too long ago, in this galaxy, I was a Trekkie (and obviously a Star Wars fan too). My guiding political philosophy was based on the prime directive of non-interference. I was the kid Bill Shatner was yelling at to get out of my parents’ basement and make something out of my life.

 

I didn’t just love Star Trek for the adventures or even the characters. I loved the premise.The very existence of an organization like Starfleet was predicated on a supposition that the human race would eventually evolve enough to make possible the kind of cooperation that would be required for that kind of exploration. It was an optimistic view of the future but also of humanity.

 

So much of the world is mired in division. The US is divided within itself, as are many of its allies and its adversaries. To follow current events is to invite challenges to the idea that, as a species we would ever cooperate to ensure our own survival, let alone achieve great discoveries outside our atmosphere.

 

Yet, as I dashed into the supermarket trying to beat the lightning, I overheard a woman asking her friend if she had heard about the rescue and then the man at the meat counter telling a customer, “Isn’t that great?” In the time it took to put milk and cereal and bananas in my cart, those conversations were repeated half a dozen times. They continued echoing when the car radio was turned on again for the drive home. It was as if the world was breathing a single, joyous sigh of relief.

 

Against my will, I remember what show I was watching when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded.

 

I remember the color of the sky when we first heard about the first plane flying into the World Trade Center.

 

Two weeks ago, Thai officials despaired of finding the boys in the cave, let alone finding them alive. Then officials despaired of getting them out and then getting them out before they ran out of supplies, so, twelve kids and their coach getting out of the cave was a cause for rejoicing.

 

But today the almost 7 billion people waiting for the news of a successful rescue found something around which they could unite. We had at least one moment of shared joy. That’s the kind of moment that’s rarely repeated, but, when it does, it’s worth committing to memory. It’s worth remembering that the seemingly impossible actually is possible.

Fall Colors

Ironically, the first pile of firewood in the driveway is still a sign spring is still springing. The day-lilies still so brilliantly blooming announce and celebrate summer, but for me, the Black-eyed Susans are the first color of fall.

They open just after the middle of summer and the orangey yellow is a reminder to stop complaining about the heat, but take the time to enjoy it because it won’t last.

For Pulpy Mountain Majesties

The first wave of firewood arrived shortly before the heatwave. Conquering Mt. Cordwood is a family affair, and it has to happen quickly, as more is on the way.

It takes a little over 4 cords of wood to heat our earth-sheltered house. We don’t use any other heating source. Some years we cut more than others, but the Big Guy and I mind paying to have it delivered far less than we minded paying for oil in our old house. We know the woodcutters, and it’s nice to have the bulk of the money coming into the community.

Yes, at the Dinner Table

Denial isn’t a river in Egypt. It’s a pitcher of Kool-Aid, and as the heatwave wore on into its fifth day on Thursday, Thing1 and I were sporting faint purple mustaches, reality about to crash through the walls — again.

 

Heat advisories all week had included warnings for people with chronic illness. The advisories didn’t specify what care the chronically ill should take beyond staying out of the heat. Thing1 and I, however, still mentally had him in the ‘warning doesn’t apply here’ category, and, when Thing2 suggested going to the driving range, I got my keys.

 

It was 92 degrees by the time we put our money in the honor box in the barn that doubled as a pro shop and plant nursery. Thing2 and I were happy to make contact with the ball. For Thing1, every shot matters. He’ll hit one 200 yard ball for every three his eleven-year-old brother knocks into the ruff. Thursday Thing2 swung his way through half the basket before Thing1 had teed off four times.

 

“I need to sit down in the shade.” Thing1 grabbed his water and headed down the small hill to the car. He sat on the shady side, hand resting on the open door, sipping and breathing slowly.

 

“Do you want to go?” I asked, ready to put my foot down and force an exit. Thing1’s illness, however, has kept him indoors most of the summer. I wanted him to enjoy a normal day out.

 

He shook his head ‘no’, waited a few more minutes, and trudged back up the hill for a few more shots. We quickly realized practice was over for him, and he went back to the car for a minute while Thing2 hit the rest of the bucket. We headed home thinking Thing1 only needed a dip in the Green River and some rest to be better for work the next day.

 

Friday morning, Thing1 woke up with a fever and a phone call from the hospital telling us that his latest blood test showed his anemia — a side effect of the ongoing six month flare up — was worse. Neither of us was surprised. His lips had no color. His energy level, briefly improved in June, was almost non-existent again. He didn’t work Friday and stayed in bed all Saturday, determined to go to work today.

 

This morning he woke early and got breakfast. He headed out for his shift, and I took another mental sip of Kool Aid hoping he was over the worst.

 

<<I’m coming home.>> It was three hours into his four hour shift when the text came. <<If I stay any longer I won’t be able to drive.>>

 

We texted back and forth, arguing if should be driven. He was already on the way home by the time he managed to text enough teen tone to convince me of his alertness. He spent the rest of the day on the couch, hydrating to control a new fever, once wondering aloud if his body will ever let him out of limbo. Thing2 waited on him, bringing him water while I worked.

 

When work was done, the Big Guy and I sat on the deck as he grilled burgers for dinner. We talked about the fragility of Thing1’s plans for school in the fall and beyond. The wall of reality was crashing in.

 

Thing1 used his last bit of energy for the day moving from the couch to the table. He looked at the burgers.

 

“I’m not really hungry,” he said. “It smells great. I know I need it, I just don’t have have any desire for it.”

 

Thing2 had spent the day monitoring his brother in an unnatural state of quiet and was bubbling with energy as the Big Guy served the burgers. He waltzed to his seat, a speaker-connected iPad in his hands and a devilish grin on his face. He tapped the screen and a loud fart emanated from the speaker. He tapped again and a Beavis and Butthead laugh echoed into the surrounding forest.

 

Tap, fart. Tap, goat laugh. Tap bark causing the pets to look in our direction andThing1 to smile and then quietly chuckle.

 

“All that science and technology for a fart joke,” Thing1 murmured. Then he grinned at me and the Big Guy and reached for a burger. Thing2, never one to let an audience down, serenaded his older brother with more creative fart sounds as he ate until, as happens with all great jokes, the farts grew stale. But the farts and the technology had served a higher purpose.

 

It’s still early evening. Thing1 is already in bed as I write this. We have a visit to the hospital this week, and I’m pretty sure both of us are no longer drinking the Kool Aid. Thing1 is in the ‘really chronically ill, better heed the warnings category. He’s in the ‘no idea what his plans are past tomorrow category’. We’re off the sugar high of denial, but just because the walls fell in, doesn’t mean we’ve fallen down.

 

One of my favorite books growing up was Alice Walker’s Possessing the Secret of Joy which traces the voluntary circumcision of Tashi, an African woman trying to mediate her gender and and cultural identity. Through her physical and emotional recovery in the aftermath of the mutilation, she discovers and reveals to the reader that “resistance is the secret of joy.” I’ve never wanted or been able to forget the story and the beauty of Walker’s writing, but that missive burned itself into my subconscious. It resurfaces in chaotic times, it is guidance.

 

Since Thing1’s illness intensified this year, my resistance has been finding the right drug, the right strategy to get him well enough to start his adult life. As squeaky gassy sounds from the iPad surround us at the dinner table, however, it becomes clear that resistance is not about finding the solution to every problem. It’s about recognizing that some problems won’t be solved, but life will go on, and, if you’re willing to seize it, joy — however dinner table inappropriate — happens anyway.

Blueberries before Breakfast

The Big Guy discovered the treasure last night and sent the boys into the weeds with a bowl to retrieve it. Official sources say we may never know how many perfect plump berries were “accidentally” eaten on their way to the bucket, but the troops were able to bring back enough treasure for dessert. We have ours over Wilcox Dairy Country Cream ice cream. It’s local, so between the blueberries and the old-timey flavor, I’m pretty sure it’s approved on some diet plan.

Sweet Sort of Surrender


Thirty-six hours before the anticipated end of the week-long heat wave, and our well pump shot the bed. We had a new well pump ordered from Amazon five minutes after the Big Guy announced that the old one couldn’t sustain any more surgeries, but we still had over day without running water in 90+ degree heat. 
After living off grid for 10 years and a 200-year-old tinderbox of a farmhouse for five years before that, i’m usually OK with roughing it. As long as the woodstove in the water work, I’m good. 

Today I was not good. Something about not showering in miserable heat makes every follicle on my head itch, and 24 hours before the end of the heat wave, I waved the white flag.

For as long as I can remember I’ve had a fantasy about having long hair. I have a secret suspicion that being able to put everything into a ponytail is actually easier, but I had other reasons for wanting it really long. When I was younger, like a lot of girls, I liked fashion magazines, and for every thousand models with long flowing hair, there were .1 % with short hair like mine. Short hair might’ve been easier, but society sent a lot of signals that  it’s not quite as feminine or attractive.

The longest I’ve ever managed to get it is to my shoulders, but it always feels like it’s in the in between won’t stay out of your face stage and ends up on the salon floor. 

I started another run at the brass ring of pretty hair in the winter, reasoning that because I work at home, it doesn’t matter how I look while it’s growing out. Summer heat is a great leveler, however. Just like losing weight, it always ends up being a matter of how you feel and not how you look.

So 22 hours before the anticipated end of the heat wave, I walked out of the salon feeling less like I’d surrendered and more like I’d given up a ghost that was too damn itchy anyway.