Ordinary Woman, Extraordinary Life

This statement is true by defintion, even if it is just because I say so.  Whatever I think or perceive about something drives how I react to it.  You can tell me I am misinterpreting;  you can try to get me to see it your way; you can call me silly, tell me I am overreacting; none of that matters. In fact, that is your perspective, and I won’t bother trying to change it. 

While this might sound like a cop-out or a platitude, understanding this actually opens me up to being more calm and accepting of other people’s opinons on most topics (most, not all- I never claimed to be Gandhi-like).  If someone truly, deeply believes what they think, then it will be nearly impossible to change their minds for them; especially if it is based on past experience or effects them emotionally.  This is certainly evident when you read the news.  It’s not always a good truth, and sometimes can lead to really bad things.  That doesn’t change the facts.  I am not saying people don’t change their perspectives in the face of new evidence or experiences.  In fact, if you are “green and growing” then your ideas and opinions should change as you see or hear something new.  I am saying that I can’t change your mind by talking at you, although maybe I can help you grow by showing you something. Maybe.

You might have figured out that I am somewhat of an opinionated person.  I certainly am a thought-full person who is not shy about sharing her views.  I try not to judge others based on my opinions; but again, no Gandhi complex here.  I’m working on that.  The way this plays out in my everyday life leads to some interesting conversations.  It also leads to that social rule: “Do not discuss politics or baseball at a party.”  Especially in New York. 

Some things I believe (and don’t even waste energy trying to talk me out of them): 

• Children do better when there is a routine they can rely on.  They need boundaries to feel safe so they can focus on the business of learning about the world and of growing and becoming.  When they drive you crazy breaking rules, they are really testing you to make sure you mean what you say.  You do them no favors when you give in. In fact, you make them feel insecure and cause them anxiety.  Discipline that calmly teaches kids how to live as part of a society while getting their needs met (not wants, needs) is our job as parents and teachers.  I didn’t say it was easy, but they will thank us later. 
• Almost everyone has a gift or talent that, if nurtured, will lead to a productive, constructive, important place in our world.  The artist is as important as the firefighter or the small business owner or the stay-at-home parent.  We each have a potential that needs guidance to blossom.  But if this happens, look out!  The result is a fully-actualized human being who shines in her or his chosen endeavors, which has a positive ripple effect on others.  Believing this makes my job as a teacher both more challenging and more rewarding.  The child who cannot sit still to successfully complete seatwork but demonstrates leadership qualities needs different coaching than the avid reader;  the child who can solve any math problem I can throw at her needs something different than the artist who, at nine, can draw better than I ever could.  The boy who just won’t stop drumming rhythmically on every surface is different than the boy who builds amazing constructs with Legos.  This also leads to very interesting parent-teacher conferences.
• Traveling opens you up as a person.  It leads to new experiences and allows you to gain new perspectives on everything.  My brother-in-law is a good example of this.  When we first met, he had never really been outside his part of the world, the American mid-west.  We argued about anything and everything that was meaningful-politics, racism, women’s roles, religion.  At times it really got ugly, and it went on for years.  Then he got a job that required him to travel around the world.  He met people with vastly different lives;  he dealt with the red tape of vastly different governments; he lived under vastly different circumstances in each country.   After a year or so of this, he came to me and apologized for having been so small-minded.  I always knew there was potential there.  
• Life is for learning. It is too short to waste spending time doing what other people tell you that you should do.  As long as I am not hurting anyone, I can do what I want.  Of course, I have to deal with the consequences of my choices. One of my daughters taught me this: “It is better to ask forgiveness than to ask permission.” I like that.

I didn’t always know this about perspective, I am okay with admitting this.  In fact I was in my thirties when, as I was in the middle of a passionate rage about teaching and children that I was venting on my superintendent, he slapped me in the face with this statement.  It shut me up in mid-stream with its bald truth.  Funny how a seemingly simple statement can do that. 

When we were young and stupid, we did things without much forethought, or afterthought for that matter.  Sometimes it was a relatively small decision:  It’s Friday night in the Tucson desert and we want to go to the beach.  No problem- throw a bathing suit in the car, point it west, drive all night and arrive at the San Diego coastline with the sun rising at our backs.  Sometimes it wasn’t so small: It’s 1990 and we are tired of living in the desert. No problem- sell the house, close down Pat’s business, quit my job, and fly and drive east with three babies under the age of 2, no jobs, no place to live, a few thousand dollars and two old beat-up vehicles.   This is what I mean by “stupid”: no fear, no worries, pure unadulterated optimism.   What were we thinking?? Oh, wait, we weren’t. 

What is it about being a young adult that allows one to act on impulse with little or no thought to repercussions and consequences?  If it feels good, do it;  but is this a bad thing? I actually think it is not.   Looking back, I believe that your teens and twenties are your time to test your mettle and see what you are made of.   The world is still full of endless possibilities and your idealism is strong.  You also have the energy for passionate engagement in subject matter and meeting new people with ideas different than your own.  You give a crap.  About everything.  Politics, injustice, love, exploration; all out there for you to learn about and to fix. 

Among some of the things I did during those years, I find the twisting and turning timeline that has become my life story.  At seventeen, after graduating high school in New York City, I packed a suitcase, left my bedroom a mess and bought a one-way ticket out to Tucson.  I had been accepted at the University of Arizona, but I was going out there even if I hadn’t been.  At eighteen, when my then-boyfriend of only six months impulsively abandoned his own set plans to follow me out west, I agreed to marry him.  As a junior majoring in Spanish, I suddenly decided to become a bilingual teacher.  When I found myself working in a violent and impoverished school area, we became foster parents.  After ending our ten-year stay in the Old Pueblo to search for our destiny back on the east coast, we bought an abandoned crack house with our last money and converted it into a gorgeous show place.  Even now, looking back, I can see that all of these seemingly impetuous decisions were part of a fabric that has led me to where I am today. 

If the opposite of “young and stupid” is “older and wiser”, then I wish there was a middle ground; maybe “middle-aged but still with a measure of carefree.” That is what I aspire to be now that the nest is empty.  We can once again make last minute spontaneous plans on weekends; we can making slightly daring business decisions; we can stay up late having deep discussions and solving the world’s problems.  It doesn’t have the same edge and abandon that it once did, but we’re not doing too badly for a couple of not-so-young and hopefully not-so-stupids. 

Today is my Oma’s birthday, the only grandparent I really remember.  She was a  strong, imposing woman who measured less than five feet tall.  Oma was born in 1898 in Amsterdam.  In her  years on this planet, she bore witness to the invention of everything we take for granted today- electricity, television, automobiles.  She also was around when someone came up with the bright ideas of the teddy bear,the safety razor, the  vacuum cleaner, the lie detector, crayons, tea bags, cornflakes, instant coffee (invented by George Washington!),  the crossword puzzle, the zipper, bandaids and PEZ candy, to name just a few.  She lived through two world wars and almost all of the historically important events of the 20^th century.   To me, her only granddaughter, she was a little on the intimidating side; she was the undisputed matriarch of the family.

Her legacy to me was vast:  a love of languages and travel; of Peter and the Wolf and Mozart’s Flight of the Bumble Bee; an impatience with bullshit but an ability to love unconditionally.   I hope that before she died, she saw some of her own strength budding in me.  It is my lasting regret that she passed away while I was pregnant with my twins.

She would have been 114 today.Oma, this one is for you:   Lang zal ze leven, Lang zal ze leven, Lang zal ze leven in de gloria. In de glo-ri-a, in de glo-ri-a. Hiep-hiep-hiep hoera! Hiep-hiep-hiep hoera!

!

The world is an incredibly diverse collection of flora, fauna, and landscapes.  I have been fortunate enough to visit two other continents so far and have at least three more in my sights.  But in all honesty, traveling by car around the United States has given me some of the most amazing experiences in my life.  I will always recommend a road trip around the good old U.S.A.  to anyone looking for fun and adventure.

I did my first road trip when I was sixteen.  My friend learned to drive in January of our junior year of high school, and her father gave her the use of a 1971 Dodge Dart.  When he got wind of our plan to drive it across the US in July, he hid the car in Brooklyn.  She found it, picked me up, and off we went-no spare tire and no idea about how to take care of a car, but there we were heading to California.  Neither of us had ever been west of New Jersey before, and our geography studies did little to help us.  Thank goodness for Rand McNally and KOA (that would be “Kampgrounds Of America”.  Really. They actually still exist.).  We spent six weeks on the road, doing stupid and incredible things.  I must have angels watching over me who enjoy a good laugh.  We crossed an active train bridge across two mountains in the middle of the night in Eagle, Colorado; stood on the corner of four states in the incredible Navajo Nation near Monument Valley, Utah; bought guitars in Phoenix and later strummed out tunes under the Golden Gate bridge in San Francisco; and crashed at the house of a senator in California whose son I had met in New York.  We covered over a dozen states, delighting in pulling over to explore any place that caught our attention.  Ah, youth…

My husband and I took a road trip in 1983, in a 1968 Toyota.  That car had already done lots of traveling around the Southwest, but now it was time to really put it through its paces.  We traveled through Texas (which is torture: 21 hours from the southwest corner to the northeast corner), across the southern states, stopping at places like Hot Springs, Arkansas, and up through the breathtaking  Blue Ridge mountains.  We spent time in New York before heading west to visit family in Iowa.  Finally, after five weeks on the road, it was time to go back to the desert and pick up our real lives again.  Another journey took us to the White Mountains on the Mogollon rim of Arizona for skiing, followed by a night in Las Vegas, ending at the Rose Bowl parade and Disney in L.A.

I tortured my mother with road trips when she came out to visit me in Tucson as well.  On one memorable trip, we drove deep into Mexico with my younger brother with the plan to pitch a tent on one of the beaches of Puerto Peñasco.  Only one or two little problems- we discovered when we got there that we not only forgot the tent, we also forgot to exchange dollars for pesos. That far south in Mexico, they don’t deal in dollars… On another trip with mom, we drove to Flagstaff, and then wound down the frightening s-curves and switchbacks of Oak Creek canyon, only to park in Sedona and have the steering wheel fall off in my hands.  Not sure why mom ever trusted me enough to join in these adventures…

My two brothers and I did a relatively quick road trip from Tucson up to the Grand Canyon, where we hiked nearly to the bottom with no food or water (Oh, that big sign warning of imminent death if you hike with no food or water? Pooh!).   That was one story we almost didn’t live to tell.  Once back at the rim, we jumped in my two-seater Ford EXP, one of the boys crammed on the back ledge, and drove on to Las Vegas for a night of revelry.

Most recently, two summers ago, I flew out to Los Angeles to drive back to New York with a friend who had helped her son relocate on the West coast.  We took a northern route and I got to see Yellowstone Park, Lake Tahoe and Mount Rushmore, and nibble on Wisconsin cheddar on the way to Chicago.

Our country is a vast, varied land.  The only way to really know it is to spend time on the ground, checking out as much of it as you can.  Once I started to do so, I found that I never want to stop. I am very happy that my kids are following in our nomadic tradition as well; all three have done their share of wandering the country.  I have been to thirty-nine states- only eleven more to go and then I can start all over again.  America the Beautiful, indeed!

The phone in my classroom where I was a bilingual teacher rang one morning-the school secretary wanted me to take a call from Central Office.  With typical efficiency, the caller gave no greeting: “I’m filling in the forms for New York State on employee ethnicity.  Do you consider yourself Caucasian or Hispanic?”

Not sure exactly how to answer, I joked: “Do you have a box that says, ‘Spanish-speaking Jew with an Irish Name?’”

There was a slight pause (was she really looking?) before she answered, “No.”  I told her just to check “other,” and we hung up.

Even though I had been joking with her, my own response started me thinking more about who I really am; the “I” that is both more and less than mother, wife, daughter, tía, teacher, writer, adventurer.  The “I” that is at its most basic: a first-generation American kid from a working-class Jewish family growing up in New York City, who wound up with the moniker Maureen Morrissey.

How did I get here? For that, and sometimes with bitterness, I have history to thank in general, and Hitler to thank in particular.

As near as I have come to understand, both of my parents started out in more than comfortable circumstances.  Mom was born to a wealthy community in Berlin with surgeons and opera stars as relatives. Her family had been there for generations and were well-established.  She would have grown up to be a German debutante with a large choice of wealthy suitors. Dad spent his early youth bouncing back and forth between Brussels and Amsterdam, the grandson, son and nephew of diamond dealers.  He was a careless youth, who preferred ice skating long distances on the canals to attending to his schoolwork.  His mother, my Dutch “Oma”, was on her way to becoming a well-known cellist in her corner of the world.  

And then BANG- down comes Hitler’s sledgehammer and suddenly my German Oma and Opa are grabbing my then nine-month-old mother and little else, and making for the next ship out of port, bound for whatever country would take them in.  They left, according to stories, amid the jeers of the rest of the family-jeers of disbelief that they could be so crazy…which later turned to pleading letters begging for help, which soon turned to silence.

And BANG- my Dutch Oma and Opa throw together a nine-car caravan of family, friends and neighbors, heading for Portugal to grab a boat for the Dutch East Indies-leaving behind brothers, sisters, and my great-grandparents, as well as a handkerchief full of diamonds that was meant to be used as passage money or bribes as the need arose.  That handkerchief has remained a family mystery that divided us even further.  That journey was filled with death and heartache and led them, a year later, into the Japanese prison camps in the heart of Indonesia.  (see http://histclo.com/essay/war/ww2/cou/indo/w2i-intern.html for details on this little-known piece of history.)

Many years, deaths and changes later, my parents met in Ecuador as teenagers and then re-connected in New York City in the mid-1950’s.  And less than a decade later I was born and named after mom’s favorite movie actress, Maureen O’Hara.  I was raised in a home where Dutch and Spanish were the first languages, but admonished strictly by my father not speak Spanish outside of the house for fear of being labeled Spics.  His mistrust and loss affected his entire life and all of ours (and, without doubt, that of my children as well).  It was simply fate that I then married an Irishman, winding up with an name as common in Ireland as John Smith is here.

If you met me on the street, you would have no idea that behind my relatively benign façade hides a wild torrent that doesn’t exactly know where it is supposed to flow.  Yet, flow it does.  I am a living piece of history, a direct result of a world-changing era.  My future and that of my family is as unknown as my past was indefinite.  I am a link in a twisting chain; whether I am a weak link or one that holds it all together remains to be seen.

Whatever will be, will be…this is an old song that rings true today.  The proof is in the lives of everyday people, and the song says simply accept that some things are going to happen and you will just have to deal.  Sometimes you set things in motion that play out in a way you never planned or thought of; sometimes the affects take years to show up.

A friend of mine from Israel lives a two-continent life.  One of her daughters, born a US citizen, lives in New York City. The other, a sabra (Israeli-born) lives in Haifa.  An accident of timing, since there are only two years between the girls, my friend followed her husband here as a young wife with a baby and wound up having another.  Now the girls are grown, and the older daughter has returned to Israel, preparing to marry this fall.  What my friend did not forsee was the issue with immigration that impedes her ability to go freely between the two countries.  Dealing with the tortoise-pace of updating statuses, the current current of world politics, and some human error at the federal level, she now has to decide what to do.  If she returns to Israel for her older daughter’s wedding, it is likely that she will have to wait ten years to return to her adopted home, where she has become established and begun a small business.  In that case, it is also likely that her younger daughter will be planning her own wedding in the interim.  Torn between going and staying, my friend now has to wait as long as she can for our government to straighten the mess out before she makes her decision.  I feel her pain and cannot imagine facing such a choice.  The title of this blog is a quote from her during our conversation on the phone yesterday.  It was said with resignation and some feeling of helplessness; but it also showed a hidden strength and a hopefulness that all will work out the way it should.

Many of my other friends, now in the middle of their lives, are facing and dealing with the consequences of decisions and circumstances from long ago.  One found her husband later in life, in her late thirties; they now have five children under the age of ten!  A wonderful family that my husband and I are both in love with, these fifty-somethings admirably juggle the responsibilities, time and energy needed for  their large, young group.  They should probably be featured in an HBO special.   One friend just met the man of her dreams at the age of fifty, after a lifetime of waiting and some rather interesting relationships in the interim.  One friend is pondering launching her third career, having just retired from teaching (which followed a career in nursing).  Several have recently changed jobs- a scary thing to do in this economy. Brave strong women, all!

The choices of today open the paths of tomorrow.  I wish that we could see those paths  before we made the decisions; if pigs had wings….Sometimes things just seem to happen- meeting someone who becomes part of your fabric when you least expect it, or a deal that falls into your lap.  Sometimes seemingly tiny choices ripple into huge outcomes.   I wish I had better advice, but all I have is this: buckle your seatbelt and be ready for a rollercoaster ride through life.   There is a saying, “expect the unexpected” that touches on this, but doesn’t really satisfy.  When I have a big decision to make, I sit quietly and actually write down a list of pros and cons.  The longer, more weighted list wins…and then I cross my fingers.

People watching is the best entertainment, especially in a crowded place like New York City.  It has all the elements of great performance: drama, excitement, mystery, comedy, sweetness.  And the best part- it’s all free!  A favorite pastime of ours is to sit in a spot where we can observe unnoticed, and make up stories about the people we see.  You can really let your imagination run wild!

That lovey dovey young  couple snuggling as they walk down Fifth Avenue?  Ah, young love, we think…they are probably here from Nebraska.  It’s their first time in New York City; in fact it’s their first time anywhere at all but Des Moines, Iowa.  They are high school sweethearts.  He works in an auto parts store; she works at Walmart.  They got engaged last night at an Irish pub and they haven’t told anyone yet- not even her mother or her best friend.  They are planning to go to the top of the Empire State Building and take a photo of the ring on her left hand and text it to everyone later today.

That young man sitting on a cardboard box leaning up against the storefront, holding a sign that says, “I am on a road trip. Please make a donation.”?  He’s probably from Dallas, Texas.  He got a girl pregnant there and took off.  Left all of his belongings in the dingy apartment he shared with the guys from the construction company where he worked- didn’t pay his last month’s rent either. That was the money he used to start out on his travels.  Hopped on the train headed anywhere east and landed in New York City.

Here comes a family.  The little ones are skipping ahead of the parents, laughing as they go and oblivious to the parents’ heated discussion.  They are speaking Hebrew.  They  just arrived from Tel Aviv yesterday, and this morning she found a text on his phone from a young woman in his office asking how long he would be gone.  She is accusing him of having an affair.  He is angrily denying it and explaining that he left some work for her to do- she’s just asking when he will be back so she will have it done before then.

Here comes another family.  They are speaking French; arrived only an hour ago at the hotel after a long day of travel.  The children are older teenagers, and they are saying they are hungry and want a glass of wine too. The parents are explaining that the drinking age in the United States is twenty-one.  The son starts going off- this country is stupid, I should have stayed home with my friends.  The parents roll their eyes, thinking we should have left you home.

AWWW, look at this couple coming down the street.  They are old; I mean really old.  He has to be around ninety and she is not much younger.  They are walking slowly through the rushing throngs- this is what made them stand out.  It is like they are in their own movie and everyone who is zooming around them is just scenery.  They are holding hands and smiling.  They are so cute! They are probably locals-  they are from Brooklyn and have lived in the same house for almost seventy  years.  They met when they were twelve or thirteen; married three years later.  They had two children and now have five grandchildren and two greats!  Life has been hard but good. They feel blessed and we feel it too, just watching them.

People watching can be done anywhere.  I love to sit at the beach and watch the families or the crowds of teens. Last time I was there, a group came and plopped their stuff down right next to me.  They were speaking Spanish- a mom, her mother, her friend and her two sons- one around 14 and the other around six.  Immediately the older boy started yelling at the little one.  He was angry as only a fourteen year old can be, and taking it out on his brother.  He probably was supposed to meet his friends that day and spend the day playing World of Warcraft.  His mother insisted he come to the beach on this beautiful summer day instead of spending it cooped up in front of a television screen.  He is determined to make everyone as miserable as he is. The little one is ignoring him, happy to be at the giant, warm and sandy spot with his mamá and his abuela, who is feeding him pieces of mango and rubbing his head with love.

Watching people and making up stories is a bit stalker-ish, I’m aware. But its entertainment value far outweighs the feeling that I am intruding.  Besides someone is probably watching me right now and making up a story about me! Good for them.

And so it begins. The next generation has begun to marry and make babies.   My daughter called me the other day to announce that her best friend from home is engaged.  She said it with such wonder and happiness, which I also felt. But underneath, I felt something else. Something like veiled dread.  I knew it was coming, but until it happens it is just a story you’ve heard so many times it can’t be real.  The kids are really all grown up.  Now some of them are beginning to make life commitments and plan the future with a significant other. Yes,I know- I did it, why shouldn’t they?  Those who know me well know that I married at the age of eighteen, a source of amazement to me now that I am a reflective “mature” woman (HATE that term, but that is what I am called.  Also, “middle-aged” although that would mean living to 100; and “older” which is what someone says that is too polite to just say “old”.  Next stop: elderly). But this feels different.  It’s one thing when you do something;  a complete other thing when it’s your kids.  When that same daughter graduated with her master’s degree this past Spring, my first thought (other than bursting pride) was how can I be old enough to have a woman with a master’s degree as a daughter??  I don’t feel that old.  I certainly often don’t act that old.  At least that is what my friends tell me.  I take that as a compliment.  Now the kids are getting engaged, planning weddings…all of which often leads to having babies.  Someone is getting old…

My other daughter (her twin) is a bridesmaid for her college friend’s wedding, which is coming up soon.  She has been sharing with me all that goes into being a modern bridesmaid.  I feel a bit sorry for her.  What used to be easy, fun, and cheap now mimicks the movie Bridesmaids in a “life imitates art” sort of way.  If you want a peek at what my daughter is going through, see that movie; it’s actually very funny. If you’re not my daughter.  Also, apparently, the show Bridezilla is dead-on.  The point is, my daughters are in weddings, for their friends.  That’s huge.

The other set of twin girls in the family, a few years older than my two, have made the leap.  One married this Spring and the other will be doing so in September.  These are now amazing young women, but I remember plopping one of my babies on each of their tiny laps for photos as if it were yesterday. The time warp is a more than a bit scary.  (See my post The Kids are Alright for more on time warps.)

There was a year, 1986 in fact, that we attended the weddings of five close friends and relatives in a matter of three months.  In five different states.   Friends in Tucson and Las Vegas, my brother-in-law in Iowa, college friends in Massachusetts at 8 p.m. on a Saturday followed by a noon wedding for a cousin the next day in New York City.  That last was a truly interesting weekend.  The Mass. wedding was an Irish Catholic riot that lasted all night; followed by an 8 a.m. flight to New York for an Orthodox Jewish wedding that began with an open bar before the ceremony, inside the synagogue.  These people all know how to have a good time!  So, we went through a few years where weddings were the driving social events (as opposed to keggers and boonies…)  That’s how it went for us, that is how it went for our parents’ generation (perhaps minus the keggers, but then again, perhaps not) and that is exactly how it’s going for this next generation of grown-ups.  So why do I feel a bit shocked about it??

Having been a teacher for almost thirty years means that my first students are now turning thirty-eight years old.  Once again, until you see it in action, this is just a number, albeit a pretty big one!  Last January, I reconnected with one of my first students (she found me on Facebook, and I am so very very glad she did).  She now has a daughter that is older than she was when she was in my class!  This is a perfect example of the time warp…Until we met up last year, she was, in my head, still the tiny third grader with the huge, warm smile and a hunger for good books.  Now she is a fantastic mom herself of a beautiful, smart young lady with a huge warm, smile (and, I hope, a hunger for good books).

This is life; this is the life cycle; this is how it goes.  I know all that.  I read the magazines. I hear my mother say she doesn’t understand where seventy-five years went.  And now it’s my turn.  Or rather, it’s their turn to take over- because they are creating the next generation.  Good luck, kids!!

Every summer as the kids were growing up, we packed the mini-van to the rooftop, and then we packed the rooftop, with coolers and cardboard boxes bulging with food and our faithful camping kitchen, bicycles, the dog, clothes for warm days and cold nights, swim suits and inflatable rafts, and our canvas home-away-from-home.  As soon as we arrived, the kids took off on their bikes to see the lake, to explore the camp store, to discover old friends from last year and new friends for this year.  Their vacation began as soon as the car stopped. My husband and I were left with the business of setting up house for the week. 

First we would take everything out of and off of the car, and try to organize it on the ground and picnic table as we went.  Knowing that eventually we would have to face the construction of the tent, we totally ignored the topic as we pretended to be really into creating our living space for the next few days.  It was too early in the morning for a drink so we would just use banter about the weather, the ride up, where to set up the camping stove on the picnic table, anything benign that would avoid the looming task. Finally, when the van was empty, the site was perfect and there was nothing left to talk about, it was time. 

The first discussion was always about where to place the tent.  One would think this would be the easiest part of the job.  One would be sadly mistaken.  Following are the issues on which this decision needed to based: Which was the most level spot where the tent would actually fit? Which was the most level spot with the fewest enormous rocks and tree roots?  How close were the neighbors on the most level spot with the fewest enormous rocks and tree roots?  Should we be under a tree or out in the open?  If it rained, how quickly could we make a run to the car from the chosen spot? If it rained a LOT, how quickly could we rip the tent up off of the ground in the middle of the night, pulling the stakes out as we went to plunk it down on the nearest level dry spot, regardless of rocks and roots? Which way should the opening of the tent face-toward the fire and picnic table or the road or the woods behind us?  You get my meaning; this was not a simple decision.  Once the place was chosen, and the tension from the one who didn’t get her way was well-established, it was time to actually put up the tent.

Whoever invented the modern family tent with its one page of instructions including drawings, arrows and numbered steps, had to be a heavy drinker.  Or a serious joker.  Or a horse’s ass.  Maybe all of the above.  It didn’t matter how many times we had done this, it didn’t matter that every year we would say we’ll just figure it out and not get mad at each other.  Camping is (supposed to be) a relaxing, enjoyable, calm, woodsy experience.   I actually really love it. I actually really love staying in a tent.  I just wish someone else would put it together for me.  The silver poles clanked against each other as we wrestled them into places around the chosen spot.  Stakes of varying shapes, materials and sizes rolled under the car as we shook them out of the canvas bag; we had accumulated extras from past tents and always had more than enough for future tents as well (sorry, I had to do that).  We then unrolled the tent itself, marveling that we had been able to fit that giant thing into that little bag; and secretly dreading that, when we were done, we would have to do it again.  We looked at the instruction page.  We moved silver poles around.  We looked again.  Moved them again.  Compared the length of them, looked at the ends to see which belonged on the ground and which were meant to be connected on one or both sides.  Moved them again.  By this time the kids were back and hungry.  By this time, I had forgotten we had kids.  “Food after tent,” I would tell them.  “Come help out, this is part of camping and you are old enough to help.”  Great idea, now five of us were moving the poles around, and arguing over the drawings on the stupid piece of paper.  By the time the tent was up, it was thankfully time for lunch and a cold drink.  Now we could relax.

Until late in the afternoon, when the mosquitos discovered new blood in the campground.  And the skunks or bears invited themselves to look for left overs.  And, as soon as we were all tucked in for the night, someone had to go to the bathroom.  And one of the neighboring campers let us know he had a badly deviated septum all night. And the birds woke us up at the crack of sunrise.  

We spent our days fishing, swimming, playing cards, cooking, reading books, rafting around the lake, singing around the campfire, roasting marshmallows, and generally having a good old time. And after a lovely week of togetherness in the woods it was time to for my husband and I to repack the tent, try to fit everything back into and onto the van, let the kids say one last goodbye to their new friends;  and then home we went.  Another successful camping trip over!

No wonder he wants an RV.

Seasons of Love

You can never truly appreciate four seasons until you have lived without them for a while.   Having spent  the end of my teens and most of my twenties in the southern desert of Arizona, I can vouch for this.  While the desert has its own unique and incredible beauty (which is what drew me there to begin with), it always felt like there was something missing.  In the end, I realized it was not something, as much as it was an atmosphere, the very environment that I found lacking.

When we returned to the east coast, I found that I could not drive past any open water without stopping the car to gawk at the wonder of streams, rivers, lakes, ponds, ocean that just lie there minding their own business as if it was the most natural thing in the world.  Which it is; if you don’t live in the desert.  Flowers, broadleaf trees, green grass…all things I took for granted until I spent time without them.  Then suddenly they became a source of wonderment and awe, and although I have lived back in New York for over twenty years, I still am so aware of them.  And of course, you can’t have all this flora, fauna and water without seasons.

For some reason, people love to ask each other, “which is your favorite season?” Teachers love to ask their students this as well.  To me, now, that is like asking my favorite flavor of fro-yo.  Come on, they are ALL good. Honestly, although with frozen yogurt I admit that there are flavors that I really like tremendously, I don’t think I would ever be able to say “yuck” to a single one. Sorry, I digress and openly admit that I have a new obsession with frozen yogurt since the opening of the new Frannie’s Goodie Shop in Mount Kisco.  Yes, I am shamelessly advertising Frannie’s; they just opened a new kiosk in the Plaza Hotel in NYC and if you go there, mention my blog!  Oh, but wait, I was discussing seasons that people like best.  I no longer have a favorite season; they are ALL that good.

I guess I should begin with summer, since that is where we are right now.  Gloriously glittered with flowers and fireflies;  sweltering afternoons;  daylight that lasts until nine o’clock; people in fun, colorful outfits roaming and relaxed; bambis and baby birds and freshly mown lawns; motorcyclists in packs on the roads; the clatter of kids living the dream;  fireworks and campfires;  cooling salads, icy drinks and food from the grill; all the sights, smells, tastes and sounds that belong distinctively to sultry, sexy summer.   Those who have to endure subway rides in hell just to get to work in over air-conditioned, windowless cubicles still can enjoy summer nights that give them hours of time afterwards for a drink or meal on a patio, or a walk.  In the summer, which I am now fortunate enough to be able to enjoy without working, I spend my time outside as much as possible.  The one and probably only thing I am disgruntled about with being a teacher is how much time I spend indoors, from 7:30 each day until 4 p.m. when the best part of school-year daytime is on the wane. And so in the summer, you will find me outside doing almost anything that will get me and keep there.  Walks in the cool, leafy forest, walks along the sandy shore, walks through the bustling city; you get my meaning- in the summer, outside is the place to be.  Staying up late and waking up early because of my F.M.S. (see post on “Sleep” for an explanation) I make the most of every minute. The waning of summer, those dog days of August, can sometimes make me a little sad, but I perk back up when I think about what is coming next.

Autumn with its riot of bright hot colors almost outshines its sizzling sister.  This season gets a raw deal from those who dread the coming of winter and bemoan the end of another summer. But in its own right, Autumn has a singular feel; especially once you realize that  it is unique to small parts of the world. People travel many miles just to experience what is outside my door every September.  Earlier evenings and gentle cooling breezes usher in this time of year.  Apple-picking, Halloween and Thanksgiving, a new school year, and blue jeans and cozy sweaters are the joys that this time of year brings.  The smell of wet leaves in the morning accompanies the scurrying of squirrels planning ahead for hungry times.  All of our birthdays are in Autumn; we three Virgos and two Scorpios (with Sagittarius leanings) have even more reason to celebrate this season.  Autumn feels shorter than other seasons, sandwiched in between summer and winter.  But it stands tall as a time of change and beauty; a last chance to spend quantities of time outdoors before it’s time to hibernate.

And then there is Winter.  How Winter is hated by so many people!  Snowbirds flee south, neighbors rush into their homes without much of a sideways glance, darkness and gloom are the colors of this season. Unless you peel back that top layer and look a bit closer.  Winter creates a frozen desert of landscape- brown and black and gray hover over all.  People mimic the season with their bleak, drab wardrobe.  The odd person wearing bright colors seems to elicit derision from others (“Don’t you know that it’s winter?? No white, no flower patterns, no pink either!”)  Winter is known among some native peoples as the “little death.” But underneath this dark overcoat, winter is truly special.  Maybe it’s easier to take the negatives knowing that it is only a few months to endure…but to me there is something just as sexy about that lingering cold darkness as there is about summer.  Fires in the fireplace; nighttime walks in the hush of a recent snowfall; red cardinals contrasting the white landscape; cuddling under blankets; skiing (!!!) and watching the kids skating on the frozen pond;  only winter offers the need to work hard to make yourself happy.  This is not a bad thing- it makes me appreciate the easier times, and gives me a feeling of satisfaction.  I will admit that I love to shovel snow- it gives me a reason to be outside, and I get some fresh air and exercise while I am at it.  Holiday lights, food, music, family gatherings all warm this frigid time from the inside out. I probably will not convince a single winter-weary or winter-wary soul that this is a wonderful season. So be it; I choose to acknowledge the good in it.  Besides, in just a very few months, it will be Spring.

As I drive south each day to work, I begin to search for signs of Spring by the end of March.  My ride takes me far enough that I actually get to see seasons change twice- due to its longitude and its altitude, my home is almost two weeks behind my school. The first purple crocuses pushing through the dense brown matting of twigs and mud bravely trumpet the coming changes.  Then all of a sudden there are buds on the trees, small patches of grass and the smell of new growth all around.  Rain and rainbows tussle with the sun in its efforts to shine longer and stronger.  In the end, yay, the sun wins! Neighbors come out of hibernation, hats and gloves go back in the closet, out come the patio chairs.  Spring is here- we made it!  People seem to feel lighter; they certainly dress lighter- pinks, yellows and vibrant greens dominate the human landscape as well as the natural one.  It is a season of newness; a rebirth of warmth; happiness stretches ahead.  Spring reminds me to smile.

Seasons bring rhythm to my life.  This is what was missing out there in the desert- the four distinct parts of the year.  I have learned to allow the positives of each period to far outweigh the negatives, and although the passing of seasons also brings with it the fact of getting older, I choose to find ways to enjoy what each unique season has to offer. I guess that living without them for so long has helped me value them so much.