Lost and Found

Walking down the side of the road, as a few cars whiz past, I carry with me a half-gallon container of “Five O’Clock” vodka (basically empty, just a shot’s worth remaining inside), two packages of cigarettes, a bag that once held beef jerky, a large clear McDonald’s cup shredded into small sharp strips, a flattened beer can, and a soda straw with yellow and red stripes.

It’s a holiday weekend, so the small road that runs along the river seems busier than usual, many visitors stopping to visit one of our town’s beautiful waterfalls.  I tuck the bottle over to one side, self-consciously wondering what people might think as they see a woman carrying a bottle of liquor, two small children at her side, all trudging through the light spring rain.

We had planned to stop first at the waterfall and then walk to a small cave (part of this year’s Driftless Safari treasure hunt), but I had forgotten how narrow the road to the park was.  As soon as I pulled our giant 1997 F150 pickup truck (nicknamed “Big Red”) off to the side, I realized I would block other cars when they needed to turn around.    I then complete what I like to call a 23-point turn to extract myself, praying my husband’s garden supplies will not find themselves floating in the nearby stream.   My two children suck in their breath and then merrily exhale once we are finally pointing in the right direction.  “You did it, Mom!” says my seven-year-old son. “Good job.”

As usual, even the most basic directions elude me, so after I park at the gravel parking lot by the river (where even I could easily maneuver Big Red), I misjudge the distance between the waterfall and our stop at the cave, which turns out to be a quarter-mile walk.

As we walk, my children are surprised to see the amount of garbage strewn along our route.  It was if they had found Easter eggs hiding–they stop to marvel at everything they find.   We talk about what would happen if every person threw their trash onto the ground like this.  Would the grass still be green? Would there be caterpillars?

We don’t have a bag with us, so we decide to pick up the trash on our way back.  We know with sad certainty that it will be waiting for us when we return.

Coming back from the cave, it starts to rain as we pick up the items.  “We’re better at this than you,” observes my son, as he spots bright pieces of plastic bag tucked in the weeds, “since we’re closer to the ground.  And we have young eyes.”

Finally, Big Red gleams in all his sturdy glory ahead of us, and as the kids get buckled in, I think about the irony of tucking our discovered “treasures” into our gas-guzzling vehicle.

At home, I sort the items into the garbage can and our recycling bin.  “I know what we need for next time,” says my daughter, even before she can finish untying her shoes.  “A little suitcase we can have with us–a little kit for picking up trash!”

We find a shoebox to serve the purpose, and within a few minutes she and her brother have it assembled—several small garbage bags rolled to fit in one corner, a tiny container  of hand sanitizer,  sunscreen, and band-aids.  To make it complete, my daughter asks me to find some medical gloves—“in case of something really icky,” and my son hatches a plan to build a folding “claw” device so he can extract dangerous items like pieces of glass or metal.  We write “GARBAGE KIT” in large letters on the top of the box, and my son decorates it with stars and writes “THANK YOU” in several places along the sides.

I praise their work, and then feel a small pang of cynicism.  How long will they be this hopeful, this confident that they can make a difference?   How long will they feel excited about picking up other people’s trash?  At what point will they turn away?

Not today, I think, in relief.  We add gloves to our grocery list so we’ll be fully prepared for our next adventure.  Who knows what we might find, as long as we stay close to the ground, looking with our young eyes.

The Choice

Yesterday my kids were out shopping at our local thrift store with my mother, and they came home with some very special items, which they were quite proud to present to me.

This morning, their gifts were still in the kitchen where I had unwrapped them, and my daughter pulled out the earrings, so proud of her choice.

“Will you wear these today?” she asked.  “They are SO pretty.”

I paused for a minute.  The earrings are gaudy, a bit flashy, not really my type of thing.

Then I saw the look on her face, and knew there was only one thing to do.

My son came downstairs and watched me adjusting the backs of the earrings.

“How about my necklace, too?” he asked.   “It’s so cool.  You know, it is a real bone!”  He ran his fingers along the rough edges of the pendant, showing me.

Now I was really in trouble.  I was going to be quite a sight, walking the kids to school in my flashy gold earrings and my rustic necklace made of apple seeds and some poor animal’s vertebrae.

So I proposed wearing my daughter’s earrings today, and my son’s necklace tomorrow.

But then my son gave me that same sorrowful look I had seen minutes earlier, and I quickly realized the injustice of this suggestion.

Every day my kids help me choose what kind of mother I am going to be.   There are many days when I don’t make the right choice—I lose my temper, I expect more from them than I really should, I check my email when I should be giving them my full attention.

I can’t say I wasn’t embarrassed by my ensemble as we walked to school, but I want to be the kind of mother who cares more about honoring my kids’ generosity than whether my jewelry matches.

At least for today.

P.S.  My little blog turned one year old today!   A big piece of birthday cake to my readers–thank you so much for your support!

Picture This

Me at around 6 years old, helping to document the height of corn in my parents’ garden, (and the last time I was seen revealing this much leg)

Every summer when I was a child, we took at least one long family road trip.  While my sister and I argued in the backseat, whining to stop for ice cream, my father drove with the single-mindedness of an efficiency expert (“No more stops, we’re going to make TIME,” he would announce several times a day).   My mother negotiated our squabbles and worked on her summer project during these long, hot drives–culling through a year’s worth of pictures she collected in tote bags to make the next volume of our family album.

These albums still sit in the lowest shelf of a bookcase in my parents’ kitchen in Virginia, below the cookbooks and above the dog beds.  The first one is filled with professional black-and-whites from my parents’ wedding in the late 1960s, and the most recent ones hold pictures of my own children attending my sister’s wedding.

Every time I visit my parents’ home, I love to pull out one of these albums and look through it, seeing how our family evolved from the tiny sepia-toned photos in which I wore atrocious 70s-style bell-bottoms (“That was the style then,” my mother reminds me, when I chastise her for dressing me that way) to the lush close-ups of my children as chubby babies.

My mother captured so many little moments that I am not sure which childhood memories are my own and which exist simply because of the photographs.   The day she and my father bought a  Datsun station wagon, she took a picture of me in standing front of it.   I am smiling broadly, red Keds on my feet, holding a small paper bag with a cookie inside, a rare treat from a local bakery.

I know that the smile is for the cookie, not the new car.   But do I really remember eating that cookie crusted with oversized sugar crystals, the thin, sweet layers shattering when I bit into it?  Or do I just think I remember it because of the photo?

Whatever the answer, I am grateful for my mother’s hundreds of photos and the time she took every year to assemble the album.

As a mother, I have become equally (if not more so) obsessed with documenting everything so we don’t forget.   It’s both a product of my increasingly faulty memory and my own illusion that I can slow down my children’s rapid growth by freezing them into still images.

Because my children have become so accustomed to the click of the camera, and perhaps because they lack the self-consciousness of adults, they enjoy being photographed.  I’m sure this will change as they grow older, but right now they come to me a few times a week, entreating me to take a “very special” picture.

“Very special” snail on our first spinach of the season.

And while I don’t photograph our darker moments–the bickering, the hissing and scratching and needling that siblings love to do–what’s funny about taking pictures is how they also jog my memory of the not-so-sweet moments that arrived before or after.

A hat full of sunshine. (Not seen–the bitter, tear-filled argument about who had more dandelions. My husband’s explanation that there were plenty for everyone fell on deaf ears).

Lording over her queendom of dandelions. Fortunately, her bitter tears dried quickly in the sun.

I was thinking about photographs and what they give us, when I read a dear friend‘s great  essay, about what we focus on, what we find to nourish us when we feel marooned.

Long ago I started a list of things to cheer me when I’m feeling blue–silly things like taking a hot shower, a short walk, listening to a good book-on-tape.    Looking at photos ranks high on this list of pleasures.

For me, looking at photos feels less like mourning the past than a reminder of the trips we still get to take, the fun we can still squeeze into our busy days, and the adventures still waiting for us, if we can just stop and make plans.

Not seen–the tearful release of “Catty” the caterpillar back into the wild when my daughter learned she could not bring him home as a family pet. Also not seen–whispered negotiations of parents to adopt a goldfish or hamster instead.

Favorite Things, Volume 9

• An inspiring essay I keep returning to from Jenna’s great blog.   It’s amazing what can happen in your life if you just make the commitment to write it down.
• Delicious and healthy Asian chicken wraps we enjoyed recently–reminds me a bit of a dish I had years ago at P.F. Chang’s.  (Cook’s note:  We didn’t have the right kind of lettuce so we used romaine, and it was a little more messy but still very tasty.)
• My husband made this fish soup for dinner earlier this week — such humble ingredients, but so rich in flavor.
• I want to try this simple craft with the kids soon – and wouldn’t it be a neat gift for them to make for a friend?
• A few weeks ago the kids and I checked out some free samples of these sweet, seasonally-inspired audio stories, and we’re hooked.   They will come in handy during some long road trips this summer.

Favorite Things, Volume 8

• Last weekend we had a ball with this sidewalk chalk paint.  So easy to mix up, and you probably already have the ingredients in your kitchen.
• My favorite use for leftover mashed potatoes is this easy recipe.  We had some last night with a few chopped chives mixed in–a lovely taste of Spring.   We also liked this moist cornbread with a surprise ingredient.
• Our kids are enjoying these cookies, a great use for leftover cooked quinoa.   We sweetened it a bit by adding a few mini chocolate chips.
• Such a haunting poem from Amy Dryansky.  I keep thinking about her line about the white moth, so beautiful.
• Really enjoyed the gentle pace and thoughtful mood in this novel .
• These free and hilarious podcasts from Marc Maron take me deep into the minds of popular comedians (adult ears only, please–Maron is very fond of a certain “F” word.).  An interview with Steven Wright from earlier this year had me laughing out loud.

The Most Local of Libraries

Sometimes you wake up tired, with a twinge of annoyance as you face the same usual tasks.   You open your computer and the first cup of coffee starts to hit you, and you idly browse photos from your last vacation.

You wish you were drinking coffee at a quiet lake somewhere, rather than in your own kitchen.  You are still restless, and you want something new.

You and your husband start to have a discussion in the kitchen, and your daughter rushes in, handing you blank white cards she has fashioned herself.

“Come in,” she says.  “This is your card to get in.”

You enter the den, and to your surprise, you find a small, special place with comfortable chairs and all your favorite books.

It’s open whenever you want it to be.

If you are unsure what to read, the two workers will select something just right for you.  They know just what you like.

Please present your card.  Your name is already embossed on it in magic, invisible ink, and the staff will check your account for fines.

If you have any fines, don’t worry, you can pay next time.   Or perhaps you could bring some cookies as payment.

Show the workers the new books you want.

The staff will check your selections to be sure they are right for you.

They will stamp your new date in the book (also printed in magic, invisible ink), their hands moving so quickly you can barely keep up.  They tell you your due date–April 20th– and ask you to please remember.

Bid adieu to your library staff, who tell you to enjoy your books and to “please bring them back on time!”

Wait patiently for the most local of libraries to open again.

Create Your Way Out

Despite the beautiful spring weather, all deep blue skies, emerald-green grass, and flowers popping out everywhere, I’ve been in a funk all week.   I’ve felt sluggish and gloomy, unmotivated to get anything done or feel cheerful.

I tried all my usual remedies–more exercise, eating healthier (hello quinoa and salmon), and even reading some comfort food in the form of this and this.  (Yes, I may qualify for a PhD in celebrity memoirs, by now.)

But that restlessness, that feeling of fidgeting inside my mind, was still there.

Yesterday I picked my daughter up from school and brought her home for what she calls “girl time” while her brother is at art class.   We shared a big bowl of popcorn and discussed what we should do in the few hours before swim lessons.

“Let’s do some painting,” she decided, and swiftly pulled out the paper and our favorite watercolor pencils.

She got settled and I began to putter around in the kitchen, putting away dishes and straightening up.   We love keeping our art supplies in the kitchen for this reason, as I can squeeze in a few chores while still being available to the kids.

“Mommy, I want you draw with me,”  said my daughter.   She underlined her point by pulling out a piece of watercolor paper for me.  “We can share water,” she said, in an unusual gesture of generosity.

I felt that pull of guilt, thinking of things I could be getting done while she began sketching.   “Just a minute,” I said, stalling as I put a few more things away, and then began sweeping the floor.

My daughter was onto my tricks, and I saw the dangerous movement of her lower lip began to pull downward, and her brow furrow.   I sighed.  It was supposed to be girl time, wasn’t it?

So I put away my broom and accepted the piece of paper.  My daughter scooted over the pencils to me.

It felt strange at first to be sketching without a purpose.  The blank paper intimidated me.  I sneaked a glance at my daughter’s paper–she was working on a vase of flowers.

So I began drawing some flowers, and even after a  few minutes, I realized how much better I felt.   I could do whatever I want.  I could paint a flower that would never exist in nature.  It didn’t have to be a work of art.  No one else besides my daughter and me had to see it.

All I had to do was have a little fun with pencils, water and paper.

I could feel the grey waves of the funk lifting off me as I sketched.   Something inside of me unclenched and I began to feel nearly as fluid as the water that I dabbed over the pencil to release the colors.

I remembered a conversation with another mother who was commiserating about how busy she was, and how sometimes she felt her priorities got skewed.  “The other morning I had all these things to do in the house–clean, go grocery shopping etc.  But did I do them?  No, I sat down and worked on my scrapbook for an hour before I did anything else.  I felt so guilty but I needed to do it.  I needed to make something.”

Sometimes the urge to create is more than an urge–it’s a need.  I thought about this as I drew the petals of the flower, and about an article a friend sent me about the surge of writing workshops.   It argues that most writers are looking not for fame but something more elemental:  “They are hoping to find, by means of literary art, braver and more-forgiving versions of themselves.”

“The thing I like about painting,” said my daughter, “is if you don’t like the way something turns out, you can just paint over it, or make it different.”

I thought about this, as I continued to paint, and my daughter made encouraging remarks about my progress, like the wise five-year-old teacher she is.   “I like that stripe of yellow, Mommy, it’s nice and bright.”

Even at the age of 43, I’m still a sucker for a compliment, and I felt myself glow a little bit under her praise.

She hung our pictures along our large kitchen window for us to admire.

The next time the “funk” arrives, I hope to remember to take a deep breath, get out the colored pencils and “make it different.”  It might be all I need.