To Do: Make To Do List

What a surreal day. It disappeared under a pile of: cupcakes; an unexpected assignment for a major presskit for an upcoming exhibit due… NOW; a big pot of Irish Stew; Momma swooping in with lunch to rescue me; overnight guests in the forms of my oldest friend Melle and her little son, Trey; a too-brief conversation about death and heaven with my friend Wallis; an article to edit for a local magazine; ironing; a visit with Melle’s little brother and his wife and their daughter plus Melle, Trey, and her two girls; my sister dropping off her central registry form stating she’s not a sexual offender (Jack’s preschool requires it… we’re all so pleased that we aren’t pedophiles. Yay for us.); teaching Jack to use a plastic cookie cutter to make PlayDough ghosties; dinner out with friends; and an Obama rally at our historic, downtown movie theater that was sparsely attended and snackless… so we left early.

Funny how I didn’t get to that new book, isn’t it? I’ll add it to the list tomorrow. Right after the trip to the farmer’s market and donut shop run.

Life this week

Life throws a lot at you sometimes.

In the space of a week there’s been a reunion, a funeral, a wedding, and a vigil.

Joy and sorrow get all mixed up. A bittersweet smoothie.

My high school reunion was disorienting. The girl I was and the woman I am collided in a room full of strangely familiar yet strange faces. Some of my classmates have accomplished impressive feats. Some are far more attractive now then when we were teenagers. (“We really missed the boat on him, didn’t we?” my pal Gail and I agreed.) Some are more interesting, some are more kind… Still. I felt a little lost somehow. And ordinary.

The funeral was for a newborn– his little life was measured in days and hours yet the church was full. Is “good funeral” an oxymoron? Because it was. Our pastors are good people and they grieve, too. The homily that day started, “A life is a life no matter how long or short…” or to that effect. The parents wrote a letter that was read to us– an eloquent sermon in itself about remembering and about the wide ripple their little son made in the world.

The wedding was my friend Brad’s. Brad, at middle age, met Beverly and shed his bachelor trappings easily. I’ve typed before about weddings– how sometimes it’s difficult to witness the utter oblivion in which many couples cast their promises and intentions. Brad wrote his vows and he spoke them loud and clear with conviction. His new wife did the same. There is something to be said about age and maturity. Our joy at their union wasn’t tinged with the usual pangs of hoping they know what they’re doing. In this case they do. We drank our champagne with gusto knowing that each “May you always have this happiness” toast was more than wish– it’s expected that they will indeed.

And now a vigil– my friend’s mother is dying. Cancer, in it’s insidious way, is spreading and wreaking it’s havoc. So my friend is making the decisions and arrangements that must be made while her family gathers and prepares itself. It is a Christian family, for the most part, who agree on what happens next– her soul goes back to God while her body will be the subject of all kinds of arrangements.

Like I said. It’s been a busy week.

Beach volleyball? Seriously?

We missed the first week of the Olympics when we were in the woods at camp. It nagged at me a little. I like the Olympic coverage. Bob Costas and I go way back. (At least in my head.) I really like the goofy coverage of the Today Show. They get a little punchy when they’re on foreign soil and aren’t as carefully edited. Around the campfires we’d get updates from the people in RVs that had smuggled in their little tv sets. (Or their big, plasma screens– I don’t know. I was in a tent. I was excited that Robby rigged up a light bulb and a place to plug in my electric tea kettle.) It was surreal to sit near the edge of a fire pit carefully rotisserieing my marshmallow and hear, “Phelps did it again!” or “USA plays at 9 p.m. we’ll update later…” One guy sat at the fire watching it stuff on the internet via his cell phone. That was weird.

When I was a camp counselor, at the same camp, it was in that pre-cell phone period. Not that any of the early cell towers would have covered that area. They hardly do now. We didn’t have to think about kids calling home– we knew when they did. We’d have to walk them to the only pay phone on the property in a shed that was out of bounds to the campers. I made a lot of calls from that phone, too. I was glad to see it’s still there. There aren’t many pay phones out there anymore. Have you noticed? They’re all disappearing. What do they do at youth camp these days? Do the kids have to check in their phones? I hope so. Or do the counselors text them, “Please pass the potatoes– BTW you’re on KP duty. LOL.”

This week we’ve been catching up on the Olympic moments we missed. Unfortunately the coverage this year is especially biased. The US beach volleyball team gets nearly a full hour of coverage but sailing is just a mention? The coverage of the gymnastics gala only featured the two US girls, one US boy, and two others. That was it. WHAT? We watched a long segment of diving preliminaries and it occurred to me that if they would lay off some of the prelim coverage of certain sports they could focus more on the finals of others.

Oh well. At least there are the closing ceremonies to look forward to. And Al Roker’s chinese words of the day. (My Today Show viewing has been vindicated in the face of the fantastically appropriate Rythmic Gymnastics routine spoof. Good job boys. I raise my glass of juice to you!)

Home is Where the Sand is Brought

I’m back from the Woods. It was a good escape from the reality of losing my hard drive. At camp there is only the reality of, well, camp. And that’s a good thing. Cooking, for example, even the abbreviated camp food version, is a process that requires you to slow down. Showering is a 75 yard walk through the woods to the bathhouse. Fires need to be built. Tents swept out.

All those little tasks add up to fill your camp day. It pushes out all the thoughts of files that have to be recreated, rebuilt, remembered. The photos that don’t exist anymore. The banked episodes of “Deadliest Catch” that I didn’t get to watch.

And then there are all the camp activities that we look forward to– the campfires and singing and comraderie. The hike to the beach. The hobo pies and s’mores. Those things that work their way into the cracks of the walls you build the rest of the year.

While we were at camp our phones had spotty coverage– we’d get text messages hours past when they were sent. Most of the time the little bar was through the little phone icon meaning we had no service at all. When my nieces left in the middle of the week we abandoned our phones entirely. It was nice.

I read a couple of books– my Friend Wallis’ Dad’s book, Deep River was the first on the list. Family seemed simpler when I was younger. The older I get the more I realize how very complicated families are. And how schewed our individual ideas of “normal” are because of our families. Wally is a true patriarch in all the best senses. He, the Christian pilgrim, is relatively uncomplicated. Yet only a generation separates him from the chaos and destruction of an alcholic grandfather. The book I read is an account of his father’s early life and conversion and subsequent ministry. Wally’s born in the last third of the book and it was startling to remember that these weren’t just characters in a story but flesh and blood people that I’ve met and loved. Weird.

A Year Without Made in China was my beach reading. It’s one family’s attempt to give up anything made in China– to extend their consumerism to other countries and other economies. Wal-Mart gets a lot of the brunt of the experiement– but really, my beloved Target isn’t any better. The fact that it is almost impossible to buy shoes manufactured this side of the Great Wall is scary. What kind of world will Jack grow old in? Will there be any industry left in the good old US of A at all?

It was good to read. Even better to have an excuse for not bringing along my laptop and work. Good to shake sand out of my shoes at night. Good to shiver in the 45 degree mornings waiting for the tea kettle to hiss. Good to see my little son take such joy in the singing.

And good to be with the church family for a week. They’re good people. Reality snuck it’s way in to the camp. One of the families at camp– a big, rollicking clan with three generations that are nearly impossible to sort out– had a hole in it. the oldest generation, the mother and father, weren’t at camp as one of the middle generation had just had a baby that wasn’t doing too well. On Tuesday we got the news that the little babe had passed away. His aunts and uncles and cousins stayed at camp and shared their grief and resilience, too. It tempered the rest of the week in that the petty annoyances disappated in the face of their loss. My lost laptop was suddenly less of a tragedy. The headcolds that Jacky and I were hosting were only a nusiance.

A lot of our friends don’t really get why we go to camp with our church. Or why we go to church for that matter. Maybe this year I can learn to articulate why it is worth the sand in the dryer vent and all the bother of organizing equipment and supplies and cooking under a tree.

Did I mention the s’mores?

Tenting tonight. And tomorrow night and…

I’m shunning technology and heading for the woods for a week.

I’m going to live in a tent.

I had big plans to take my poor, dead laptop. Blog from the beach. Get some work done by the campfire.

God laughed.

So I’m off with my marshmallow fork and my hobo pie maker and a stack of books.

Take that Bill Gates.

I’ll see you all in a week.

Crash and Burn

My laptop crashed.

My hard drive went to wherever it is hard drives go… as did the ridiculously named “Back Up” feature. HA! Yesterday is an entirely lost day of dealing with various computer people– a smug lady from India, and two entirely seperate local computer companies… all with little avail. About 8% of my files/images were recovered.

The rest is, well, gone.

I cried a lot. Screamed some. Ate some chocolate. Rode the centrefuge ride at the county fair. And finally resigned myself to the fact that I can’t do anything about it.

It’s the photos that other people sent me that I’ll miss. And the little home movies with the webcam of Jacky. And the guilty realization that I’ve now been paid for hours and hours of work with nothing to show for it.

Robby’s done everything he can do. Jack’s patted my arm and said, “It’s okay Mommy. There, there. It’s okay” in the same hushed voice I use when he’s upset. My boss and coworkers have been very supportive.

I think, however, that I will use a quill pen for a while.

Argh.

Sisterhood of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

My nieces and my sister had a grand plan to go to the midnight showing of Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants last night. I went along for the ride– the first movie was cute enough and I don’t get to spend a lot of time with my nieces.

Today I feel like the floor of the movie theater– slighty sticky and tread on.

We drove to a theater about 35 miles away. Our local theater wasn’t showing it at midnight. My sister has a Toureg. [You might remember that it was MY dream car first... but God, laughing, put me in a Tracker and my sister in a sweet VW Toureg. Sigh.] She “let” me drive. Maddie, at 15, has her permit and normally would tackle anyone with keys for the chance to drive– particularly on the highway which better suits her lead foot. (It’s an inherited lead foot.) Maddie begged off on account of her leg being in spasms. She and her sister, Keegan, are in ballet camp all week. Ballet camp, by the way is more akin to time trials for ____ [insert grueling sport of choice here]. At the end of the week the girls that are still able to stand on their toes get into the Company. The other girls, I presume, take their ability to stitch on ribbons to shoes to some sweatshop.

At the theater I realized that my ticket said “12:05.” It was 11:13. The rationale, my sister explained, was that it might be a packed theater and at first-come-first-serve seating we might end up with crummy seats. Oh. Yes. Falling asleep in a good seat would be much better. We joined a queue that was, predictably, all female. My sister kicked herself for not being as smart as the two girls wearing sweats and pajamma bottoms. They looked comfortable. We’re dumb, we agreed. (On the other end of the spectrum was the trio that came in costume– one in a dress as Lena, one as Bridget, one as Carmen. We aren’t sure what happened to the Tibby portrayer. Maybe she had a boyfriend and was, therefore, in the line on the opposite side of the lobby for “Pineapple Express”..?)

Occasionally a knot of men would infiltrate the Sisterhood line… One pair was particularly amusing in that the boy in front barreled ahead in a man-like way of not wanting to ask for directions or notice his surroundings… while his friend, lagging behind had the dawning suspicion that the weren’t in the right line all over his face. One boy actually belonged in the line– he had a girlfriend. I’d have felt sorry for him if he wasn’t so obviously gay. He bore a striking resemblence to a young Jimmy Osmand. Lots of white teeth. He seemed more excited than the girl.

We finally got into the theater– Maddie’s big purse opened and our snacks were distributed. Maddie’s purse is her schoolbag. She’s kept it with her– on her– all week. My theory is that there is a severed head in there but she insisted she was just trying to get used to having a schoolbag again. High school pressure– does it never end? I had Twizzlers, by the way. And a ginormous tub of salty popcorn to share with Trish and Maddie. Keegan and her pal, Bryn, had large tubs of Coke Zero. (Bryn, by the way was so quiet I’m not sure I even knew until the point that we were picking seats that she was even with us. I like Bryn. Out of all Keegan’s pals she’s the nicest to me.)

Maddie and Keegan set up my new cell phone with T9. Supposedly it will make texting easier but since it took three of us 10 minutes to get the word “me” typed in (and then with the “ab” function and not the T9) I’m not so sure.

The theater filled up with females. Loud, chattering groups of females. Trisha and Terri aren’t kind to movie talkers. We shush them. So, as the movie started, our worst theater nightmare came true– dozens and dozens of yakking girls saying things like, “Oh my GAWD!” and “I love that dress she’s wearing– oh my GAWD it’s so cute!” Sweet Moses. Shut the America Ferrera up!

The movie itself was better than the first one– all of us agreed to that… a nice little chicklet flick… It would have been better without the laugh-track from an early 1980s sitcom (complete with gasps at the cute boys/ interjections of “Awwww!” and “OMG!”, etc.) Trish gave bonus points to the audible sobs from the twits next to us. I can’t remember why they were crying. Maybe our respectful theater behavior was distressing them?

My only beef– and it’s my fault because I only read the first book. Maddie had it with her on a trip we all took a long time ago– was that it ends with SPOILER ALERT the damned pants being lost. WHAT? Well, link arms, girls and sing “Kum By Ya”– Lalala, We lost the pants… HUH?

I guess that rules out a sequel.

Moleskin + Customer Satisfaction

My calendar crisis is over. Today, in the mail, came a happy faced box from Amazon.com with my 2009 Moleskin calendar.

I love Moleskin books. I’ve used them for years for journals and jotting. The discovery that there are also calendars has me giddy.

Take that At-A-Glance. You’ve just lost a customer.

And speaking of customer service (we weren’t but humor me) kudos to Zingerman’s. This spring I was treated to the ballet by our friends Dorrit and David. It was a wonderful weekend of being well fed and well housed and entertained. They’re always doing nice things for us. There is a long list of kindnesses that we won’t ever be able to repay. I thought I was very clever when I came up with sending them a Zingerman’s gift card. They love food– they occasionally drive through Ann Arbor– it seemed perfect. I wrote a brief note on line to include with the card and sent it off…

This weekend I found out they never received it. I’m mortified. What if they thought I wasn’t grateful?? Robby called Zings and they immediately dispatched another card overnight with very few questions asked. Yay for Zingerman’s.

In an age when customer service seems to be at an all time low it’s good to know that the Zingerman’s out there still exist.

In praise of Annie Dillard

In college my favorite professor (though at the time he wasn’t my favorite– time and a modicum of wisdom has done that) introduced me to the American author, Annie Dillard. Her prose and her poetry are carefully worded– spare even– but still evoke a rich opulence of layered meanings and descriptions.

Her details are exquisite. I love details. I like the nuances of individuality that would be lost if the sentences contained just noun and verb. It’s the adjective and the adverbs that are important. Yet, having alluded to the idea that her sentences are loaded with descriptive words– well, they aren’t. They are neat and tidy. It’s like a spare room at a dear friend’s house– fresh linens on a simple bed and a place to put your things without all the to do of the master suite and it’s comforts.

Back in college we dove into Holy the Firm, Teaching the Stone to Talk, and Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. An American Childhood came later. This weekend I finished her novel The Maytrees. The cadence of it, like her other books, was measured out so that I had to slow my brain to wrap around her set out words. My breath and pulse, I think, went stiller, quieter, too. It’s a good story about marriage and love.

I like that the author blurb about her uses the word “recluse” — it would be disconcerting to find out that she’s a member of Stephen King’s band or some late night poker gamer with some hack like Nicholas Sparks or Danielle Steele.

I’d rather think she’s standing near some place where the water runs across multi-colored pebbles. Cold, clear water that isn’t polluted. Maybe– on the hottest days of summer– late July, perhaps, she dips her toes into that cold, cold water while words gather about her head like swarms of tiny gnats.

I’m glad the copy of The Maytrees I’ve just read is paperback. It means that maybe, soon, some new thing will emerge on the shelves at Borders. Meanwhile, I’ll dig it out one of the old friends and read it again.

You say Tomato…

The tomatoes are in the garden. There are heavy branches of them with dozens of green tomatoes… in a few days I’ll be up to my ears in them… As much as I hate summer (and I do. It’s hot. It’s sticky.) I really love the weeks where the tomatoes and beans are coming in. All winter and spring we endure dreadful tomatoes with only the memory of what they should taste like… and then! Pow! they’re back in all their explosive-flavor glory.

A few tomatoes have made an early entrance. They’re sassy these Early Girls– they flaunt their bright red jackets in the faces of their still-green neighbors. They’re fat girls. They have round shoulders and they make the vines sag.

My Granny had put in a request for a summer tomato. It came to me through my Aunt Becky who passed the plea along to my mother who turned it over to me. Granny lives in an assisted-living studio apartment. It’s a nice place– the halls are carpeted and there are antique prints and pieces of china decorating halls and nooks. The “girls” that work there are friendly and kind to us when we visit. (We assume that they are friendly and kind to our Granny, too– and not viciously beating her when our backs are turned like an episode of CSI.) They have delicious smelling meals made in a little kitchen off the dining area– we’ve all eaten there with Granny for a meal or two and while the food is simple it’s good.

Still– there are gaps in the menu. Tomatoes, with all their acidity, aren’t generally served. Cooked ones are. But the raw tomatoes tend to be the icky, whitish ones that you get at the grocery store. Granny’s been jonesing for a dripping, red summer tomato.

So, the other day, Jack and I popped in with farmer’s market bread, a jar of mayo, and a couple of fresh off our vine ‘maters. We spoiled Granny’s supper appetite completely and picnicked in her room with thick slices of bread and tomatoes squishing out in between. I brought her a glass bottled coke, too– it’s what you should wash down a tomato sandwich with…

This week I won’t grumble at the weeding. This years gardening efforts are worth it now.