The hurricane headed for New York has nothing on my week.  I speak metaphorically of course because I haven’t been walking around soaking wet… although it feels that way.

It’s been “rough seas” and “high tides” for me.  And somehow in this moment, even though I know it will pass, I am unable to summon up the spunk to brush it off. 

But don’t worry.  I have some people and things that always seem to help me make it through (I was going to write “help me weather the storm” but that felt as though it was pushing the water analogy too far… but I guess by parenthetically confessing to you that I WAS going to write that I actually probably just did, oh well).  See it’s just not the time for blogging.

So I turn to one of my stalwarts.  Oh Natalie Merchant, how you have soothed and comforted me.

And since words still seem to escape me, here’s my other trusted musical balm from her.

I hope that you are safe and dry this week.  Take care of yourself,

Louise

I go through these phases (maybe not the right word but I’m sleepy so let’s go with it) where I have raging boughts of insomnia (hence the earlier referenced sleepiness).  I’m not sure if I can officially call it insomnia because it’s more of a difficulty in staying asleep than in falling asleep.  I have never really had much trouble falling asleep.  But when my mind is particularly active or when there’s a seasonally change (from AC to open windows) or when it’s a Tuesday (just kidding), I find that if I wake up during the night it is really damn hard for me to regain my REM state.  And not being the world’s most patient person, you can imagine that my tolerance for this action gets smaller and smaller (or is it lower and lower? not sure how that phrasing works).

I try to tell myself that this only happens when I have great stuff brewing and I can’t seem to turn off my brain at night.  It’s when I’m working on something amazing or doing some writing or some other variation on creative activity.  And if I can tell myself to just wait, to simply remain in bed and try to be calm, often I do drift off to sleep again.  But most of the time I get all fired up about being awake and end up out in the living room with two pillows and a confused kitty who doesn’t understand why I’m up when it’s not light yet. 

And adding to the mix is the fact that when I am in my insomnia-prone condition, I tend to have super vibrant dreams.  Usually related to whatever creative matter is at hand.  They are often wild and fantastical or so real that it seriously takes me a bit of time once I wake up to register the dream vs. reality variables.  This occured last night, lovely and purposeful dreams in direct correlation to a brewing event with all details and circumstances going the way I want them to actualize. 

It made me think of that song in Cinderella- A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes.  I love that song, and yes a big part of that is all the animals (especially Gus Gus, he rocks), but also because I often foolishly believe that my wishes and hopes may influence an outcome. 

“A dream is a wish your heart makes
When you’re fast asleep
In dreams you lose your heartaches
Whatever you wish for, you keep

Have faith in your dreams and someday
Your rainbow will come smiling thru
No matter how your heart is grieving
If you keep on believing
the dream that you wish will come true”

You’re laughing at me, right?  That’s okay. I get it and you are probably right.  My neural activity is most likely NOT the reason things roll out the way they do.  But I ask you-  does it hurt to hope?  To dream?  Okay, that might have been a bit over the top but blame it on the fairytales.  Or on Jim & Donna who taught me that I can do anything… because I will gladly embrace my fantasy-laden and sleep-deprived state if it means that I get a victory dance at the end of it all. 

And because the world brings with it constant reminders, I cannot think of my ability to dream without knowing how fortunate I am to do so.  How lucky I am to be able to dream.  Because in many parts of the world that is not an option.  We watched the movie Invictus recently so Nelson Mandela is also on my mind (not that he’s ever that far from it when I think of hope or the true power of personal conviction).  He’s said many great things but a very simple quote sticks with me today (and helps me feel less cuckoo pants):

“When the water starts boiling it is foolish to turn off the heat.”

I guess I’m simply boiling some water right now and I’d better leave it alone.  I wish you peaceful sleep but if you do toss and turn at night, I hope it’s for some delicious reason.  Oh, and if you have some extra good wishes to spare please throw some my way!  Fingers crossed.

Until next Thursday,

Louise

Two things have come up this week that make me incredibly aware of life’s fragility.  And in turn I have tried to actively embrace all that I have (literally and figuratively).  The kitty has probably had enough cuddling to last her the next year. 

The first is that someone close to someone I know (I’m being vague to protect people) is in the last week of so of life.  And this person isn’t that old at all, and he/she thought it was a simply cold but it was so much more… and so much worse.  Now everything around him/her has stopped and everyone is just waiting.  Waiting for the inevitable to come.  Anywhere from 2 days to 2 weeks and that’s it.  Over.  I can’t really handle that.  I spontaneously burst into tears when I think about it. 

Just did again right now as I type.  Because I think of all the people who take their daily journey for granted.  Like the guy on my subway this morning who went completely insane because the train was delayed.  And yes, were were seriously delayed (as in it took me over an hour to take a 15 minutes subway right) but still.  It’s a subway making you late to work.  I understand that your day might be completely screwed but you will have another.  Many more hopefully.  And we were above ground for most of the delayed part with people even offering their cell phones to neighbors if they needed to call in.

But this person, he/she doesn’t have time.  Doesn’t have days.  And there are insurmmountable waves of loss and sadness around that.  A spouse, children, family and friends who all sit there numb at the thought.  I’ve been having that line from a poem “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may” going through my head.  You need to do all you can because you just never know.

The other thing is that I heard an interview with a blogger and businessman (and a bunch of other things) named Jon Morrow.  He has Spinal Muscular Atrophy and should have died when he was two.  A couple decades and 20 near-death experiences later, and he is as fierce and passionate as any writer or business person I have evern heard speak.  I listened to an interview with him as part of the Punk Rock Entrepreneurial offering Question the Rule and it blew my mind.  He tells this story about how his parents didn’t give up on him, how they simply did not accept the seemingly enivitable outcome. 

So left with the massive contrast in these examples, I am speechless.  There is no rhyme or reason in life and that scares me.  Both because it means anything is possible and because it means nothing is possible.  One person lives decades beyond what the doctors predict and one waits in a hospital hospice unconscious.  And you can’t plan or prepare or even think to hard about any of it, because you just never know which end of the spectrum is yours.

And as someone who has done a bit of death defying…. I feel both blessed and guilty.  I want this friend of a friend to live because he/she has a family and this all came down in a matter of months.  Feeling under the weather turned into metastasized cancer.  How does that happen?  And what kind of jerk am I if I complain about the MTA or whine about doing laundry in the rain.

How do we remedy this feeling?  How do we keep making plans and enjoying each moment, because sometimes that duality is really damn hard.  I guess we do our best.  Wait, no.  We do more than that.  We do more than our best, we do all we can each and every day.  At least that’s what I’ll try to do.  More than I think I can and more than is expected of me.  I hope you’ll hold me to that, and maybe join me in the quest.

I feel like this is a pretty mournful post so sorry for that.  I appreciate you and I wish you health and happiness.  I truly do.

Louise

“Life as if you were to die tomorrow.  Learn as if you were to live forever.”

~Mahatma Gandhi

For the first time in my adult existence (well, in my entire existence but this feels like a very adult thing to do) I spend five days at a conference.  It was an Arts Conference of sorts (it’s mainly about this awesome software) but even though there was a rock band made up of attendees it was still the land of buffet lines and power point presentations.  It was amazing and overwhelming in the same breath.

I met some great people, I really did.  People I want to know for longer than a passionate discussion about arts education or the closing night celebration where we danced to oddly transformed cover songs while avoiding a huge plastic ball being tossed around the dance floor (who in the world thought that was a good idea, I was going to pop it if it came my way because it was a concussion waiting to happen- seriously it was huge and really annoying).

I also spend five days without any TV.  It wasn’t necessarily intentional.  It just happened.  After a full day of meals and training and break time snacks and peer-to-peer sessions, I just didn’t want to hear another voice.  So for some reason, even though I am exhausted and writing this on my laptop on an Amtrak train, my head is clear than it’s been in a long time.  I don’t think I’ve been without TV for that long (or for even a day) since a Girl Scout trip when I was little.  I don’t think there was a TV there… at least not in the cabins, maybe there was one in the common area so it could be even longer, it could be… EVER.

So that was interesting.  I realized that although I have a ton of stuff going on and it’s all swirly, I am surprisingly calm and focused and happy.  Don’t get me wrong, I have tons of things I want to work on and it’s always in flux, but something felt really nice about being at peace with my nuggets of clarity.  To be able to take comfort in the projects that are brewing and the plans being set in motion.

Also, I really missed home.  And in a vastly different way than any other time I can remember (a theme is emerging… stuff I’ve never…).  Trips have always been for a project or on a holiday or to visit family and although I miss Mike, the rogue kitty and my home, I know that I am off doing something great or fun or important.  And not to say that this wasn’t a bit of great or fun or important but it wasn’t on that same level, at least not to me.  Oh this is when I hope that no one from my day job reads this blog…  This time I felt that tug of being away, and it felt like a long time to be gone.  I guess it’s just another experience that wakes you up to the good stuff.  I am not a traveling salesman or another vocation that takes me away from home over and over again.  I imagine that some people have two or three conferences like this (or equivalent trips of this nature) in a month.  They probably know how to pack better and they never forget to grab their sweater (who thinks to pack a sweater when it’s suppose to be over 90 degrees but the conference rooms are near-artic?!).   They probably get used to the buffet meals and small talk with strangers.  They probably have thicker skins and more patience.

But you know, besides all the great knowledge I learned (it’s confidential so I am not allowed to blab), I also learned some pretty great skills.  Or I rediscovered them.  I can get up at any time I need to and function pretty damn well.  Even if I’m a little shy about it, I can participate in a conversation with anyone.  In fact, I can walk up to the president dude of the entire organization and introduce myself (apparently he’s a total superstar to this crowd and that made meeting him an imperative).  I can survive on a weird diet of food and not go insane (well, I think I might be avoiding mixed greens and fingerling potatoes for a bit, it became absolutely epic).  I can handle feeling scathingly stupid (I know, I didn’t sound that stupid, it probably wasn’t stupid at all but I felt lame) and completely brilliant with equal ease.  I prefer the brilliant but since I often didn’t know what was going on (damn you finance and coding conversations!), it was usually the former!

I guess I’m thinking that if you have to go do something you’ve never done before and you’re kind of scared (or really flipping scared), it’s probably going to be fine.  It might even be really fun.  But I’m saving the best realization for last.  It is that I surprised myself with all the above.  I was kind of shocked at how I was able to slide into this conference and groove along with the pros (wearing my glaring “first timer” badge with pride because it cut me some slack).  And I am enjoying how much I want to get back to my life in NYC.  It’s so nice to be reminded that you are happy, that you love what you are doing and the life you are living.  It’s a balm of protection for the times that feel less than perfect, a small and fragile tent for the storms that will undoubtedly wail.

So the train is getting somewhat close and I need to get my stuff together.  I am surprised that I could keep the coherency this long (please don’t tell me if I didn’t, let me blissfully believe that this post made sense).

I hope that sometime soon you surprise yourself and maybe see that there are those little pockets of perfect in your own life (well, it’s silly to write “perfect” but it’s nearly there, right?!).

Have a great week,

Louise

I was going to title this post “I am Louise’s gallbladder”… maybe I should change it.  You know, an homage to Fight Club, which I really love.  I do.  That movie is great (particularly on a day where the world is treating you a wee bit crappy).

I have to say that before Monday night, I hadn’t ever given much thought to my gallbladder.  I think I knew where it was anatomically located but don’t hold me to it.  So Monday night began a stretch of thinking I might have an appendicitis (please no) and then learning WAY more about the mid to lower right quadrant of  stomach/rib/abdominal area than I ever needed to know.

My favorite part (layer in the necessary sarcasm that cannot be instantly inferred in written form) was that I took a shower and couldn’t put my pajamas on.  Seriously, I couldn’t bend forward without a wave of excruciating pain.  This brought tears to my eyes but the hilarity of perhaps having to rope Mike into dressing me was making me laugh.  A very weird and rather stupid stretch of crying because of the pain and then laughing at how ridiculous I was ensued.  Then later (after talking to the overnight on-call nurse and eventually my mother) it was the reverse, I would find something funny and laughing would be painful and almost make me cry.  It was definitely a bit of a circus freakshow for a day and a half.

The good news is that the pain dissipated (with the help of some prescribed stretches and apple juice, yep apple juice) and I am avoiding surgery for now.  Woo-hoo!  But as I spend much of Tuesday flat on my back I also realized how lucky I am to have a doctor and nurses to call for help, to have a mother who can be a caregiver, a cheerleader and a comic all in the same phone call, a kitty to check on me when I can’t sleep and someone like Mike who would have probably helped me put on my pants if I asked.  And he offered to remove my gallbladder for me too, now that’s love.  

While I don’t wish you a day of pain (in fact I would wish for NO days of pain), I hope that there might be a few quiet moments where you can think about all the things that you have and feel really blessed and loved.  It’s nice to be reminded of that fact that you are not alone.  I kind of feel like I have to do some good to counterbalance all that I have received.  I love Kiva or World of Good… so don’t be surprised if I send you a bracelet made in Chiang Mai.  A girl’s gotta pay back her karma.  And I had a really fun audition on Monday so I need to keep it on the up and up!

Take care and perhaps have a little juice…  just to be safe,

Louise

I am a very restless sleeper.  Let me clarify a bit.  I typically do not have trouble falling asleep or waking up but I have a pretty difficult time staying asleep.  And when I do sleep, I have been known to kick about, carrying on conversations and dream rather vividly.  It’s not fun.  The times when I’ve fallen asleep and wake up in the same position around 8 hours later are few and far between (and often involved incredible exhaustion or some kind of cold medicine).

Anyway, the vivid dreams part is what has been going on for the past week.  Each night, and morning, has been a series of diverse and wild dreams.  During one the other night I had something occur which has happened in the past and aways irritates me both in and out of my dream world.  In the middle of whatever event or conversation or action happening in my dream, I am suddenly chewing gum that I cannot seem to get rid of no matter how hard I try.  Now clearly it doesn’t take a doctorate in psychology to get that this means I am inhibited from speaking a truth or feeling somehow stifled in my waking life. 

I guess that’s true, currently it’s more about feeling unable to articulate myself.  And I guess I’m not getting the message so my brain has called in the B-team.  So thank you subconscious, yes I AM  unsure of what to say or how to address the evolutions in my life. I have a play that feels stifled (by me) and many events, tasks and conversations that simply don’t fit into the hours I have in a day.  Yes, I know I have the same amount of hours as everyone else but I challenge someone to try to get all this stuff done faster and with more affection that I.  Seriously, it’s an open invitation.

The hardest thing to deal with is just that- I am the creator of my dream time gum chewing.  And it’s exhausting.  I wake up worn out.  It’s also rather irritating that I don’t have anyone else to blame.  Wouldn’t that be nice?

In this moments of self pity and personally directed frustration I long to be someone with peaceful sleep, who says “I never remember my dreams” with a playful giggle and clear eyes.  Nope, not me.  I am often pregnant (it means an idea is brewing, believe me I looked that one up right away!) or deep into a mystery or on some other kind of risky adventure during the overnight hours.  Isn’t there a way to put in a dream request for a paradise island vacation instead of some epic mission?!

But the two generations of women before me (mother and material gandmother specifically) have always said that we are adventurers.  That we are meant to have lives of spirited travel and great quests.  After all, I wasn’t born in an easy fashion, I don’t tend to have ordinary experiences and I have curly hair.  Definitely a sign.  Not a smooth path or a lake with no ripples in my future (or smooth ponytails with no frizz).

So I guess I need to teach the dream me to extract her gum and soldier on.  After all, I was flipping around on the TV and caught some chunk of a show (not sure what it was) where Lauren Hutton was giving advice to a group of women.  She said that the trick to success, to achieving your dreams (no double meaning intended) was simply to work 4 times harder than anyone else. For me, I guess that’s waking and at “rest.”  I have to believe it’s all worth it.  That crazy stories and unbelieveable whismy is my destiny.  That it couldn’t be any other way.  But maybe I should have some Nyquil on hand just in case I need some downtime. 

Wishing you sweet dreams, of every kind,

Louise

Whenever things feel a little rocky for no reason (or no concrete discernable reason), I draw from my “Polyanna bag.”  This is what I have chosen to call the group of stories that remind me of the possibility for a horrible day/experience/etc to turn into something wonderful. 

Here is one of my favorite.

Early on in my graduate school year in England I spend a Friday evening dancing and having a good time at the studio union club called the Lemmy (hmmm, I still don’t know it was called that).  I was with a few other ex-pats (4 Americans who were also studying abroad) and as we spilled out of the club in the wee hours of the morning we noticed a large bus in the parking lot.  It was one of the those nice touring buses.  We found out from some of the people boarding it that the bus was going to London.  Now this sounded like a great idea.  None of us had been to London yet, except for the airport when we flew in to the UK.  We figured, a few hours on a bus and we’re set to go.  A Saturday in London, how perfect.  So we naively borded the bus with the others.

Quickly we realized that everyone else had pillows and snacks and tooth brushes.  They were prepared to sleep for a few hours and arrive in London ready to go.  We were sweaty and at the end of a night of festivities.  We quickly crashed and awoke in London far less ethusiastic than we anticipated.  We borrowed toothpaste and deodorant from fellow students (who probably wondered why were so unprepared) and started to plan our sightseeing.  But as the bus was making its way through the streets of the city, a few people started passing out thse plastic containers, little tote bags and city maps with markers on them.  It quickly dawned on us that this bus was full of students set to spend the day raising money for Oxfam on the streets of London.

I’ll wait and let that sink in.

Yes, my dear friends…. myself and my four companions were part of a philanthropic charity outreach.  Us and all of our heathen-esque glory.  It make matter worse it appeared that my little contingency (which was clearly a mystery to the rest of the group) was assigned to one of the busiest neighborhoods in the city.  So we made our way to Oxford Street and panhandled.  My friend Heather and I couldn’t help but sing songs from Oliver as we stood on our corner pathetically shaking our plastic charity containers.  The three guys were across the street trying to drum up some kind of street performance to attract a crowd.

After about an hour in we made a pact.  We needed to fill our damn coffers as fast as possible so that we could at least have a few hours of sightseeing before catching the bus back to Exeter.  So we kicked it into high gear, channeling our most charming and endearing selves (and making the most of our unavoidable American-ness).  And we did it, we filled them up in under two hours.  Mostly by making complete fools of ourselves.  And to be honest, the containers weren’t that big.

Then we sat down on the sidewalk in the center of London and planned out our whirlwind adventure.  And I tell you, it was a blast.  I cannot imagine a better way to first experience what is now one of my favorite cities in the world.  We rode a double decker bus and ran the steps at the Tower of London.  We fed pigeons in Trafalgar Square and got the giggles in St. Paul’s Cathedral.

And the craziest part of it all was that we were in the restaurant at the Tate Museum having some food when we realized that it was completely silent except for our conversation.  But the restaurant had this other huge group sitting a few tables away.  Then we noticed that they were all speaking in sign language.  It was a deaf tour group.  I swear someone should put that in a movie because it was priceless.  Five stinky Americans, sunburn and windblown, sharing sandwiches and sodas, having the time of their lives in an enormous, pin-droppingly silent dining cafe.

By the time we made it back to the bus we couldn’t have imagined a better day.  Seriously, it was one for the record books.  We proudly turned in our cash-filled containers.  I think the rest of the group was impressed, they started to embrace us and chat it up on the trip back to the Southwest.  I think we remedied our rather awkward first impression.  I actually participated in many more University organized philanthropy for the rest of my time there. 

As we appraoched school/home, the sun was starting to sink on the horizon.  I rested my head against the window and tried my best to soak in the day.  I couldn’t seem to do it justice.  It was hilarious and important (I firmly believe in the good of Oxfam) and magical.  So while I often felt stupid or stinky or a little too much like Oliver, I also participated in one of the great situational turn-arounds I’ve ever seen. 

So it’s good to dip into that memory when I am feeling challenged or unhinged.  Because if I can do that, I can do anything.

I would love to know what’s in your “bag” or fuels you during the stormy seas.  It’s always comforting to know that we are all in this together.

All the best,

Louise

This past weekend involved a weekend getaway.  Oh how I always wanted to be one of those people that went away on the weekends… and now I am (or I was and will be again).  Mike and I decided to take a trip to Washington DC.  First because I have never been there.  Please don’t start… yes, we did take family vacations, all the time and they were awesome but they never involved historical pilgrimages or any places with giant mice.  Moving on before the ridicule begins…. The second reason for a journey to the nation’s capital is because there are 4 more Vermeer paintings at the National Gallery of Art.  And that Johannes Vermeer, he has a hold on me.

The Monuments are amazing, really.  It’s incredible that dozens of cinematic viewings and photographic images still couldn’t prepare me for standing inside the Lincoln Memorial.

I was also excited to pay my respects at the Vietnam Memorial (my Dad was over there for a bit) and the WWII Memorial (my maternal grandfather flew P47s and even wrote a book about it).  It was a strange contrast to visit these two sites.  The Vietnam Memorial is much more abrasive, just the sheer volume of names and the deep, sober sense of presentation.  The conflict and outrage surrounding that war still echoes.

Then the WWII Memorial is all fountains and a big band, a beautiful celebration of hope and perseverance.  Now granted that was a complete simplification, as is most talk of war.

It’s just that we were struck by the noticeable contrast.  And hauntingly reminded that the current war is seemingly far from over.

The Washington Monument was pretty cool but slightly undercut by a preacher of some sorts doing a live performance with a choir on a small stage nearby.  I swear he was a real life version of Eddie Murphy’s preacher character in Coming to America.  I kid you not.  He was singing about a story where his car was shot at but not one bullet (no, not one bullet) hit him.  It was something else.

Finally the first grand sweep was wrapped up at the White House.  I had been remembering movie scenes that took place all around the other sites (Mike said he was going to run through the reflecting pool yelling “Jenny” but it was really dirty and the ducks seemed territorial) but this one… well I couldn’t believe it wasn’t a backdrop or a studio lot.  I said to Mike that someday I wanted to be invited to the White House, I hope it’s a cool President that I like because I’m not sure I could turn down an invite and I am horrible faker.

Day Two was all about the Vermeers.  Now I know that there were going to be a ton of landmarks and other things that we just didn’t have time to see and I promise to go back, but we had a mission.  The first thing that happened once we reached the main floor and guided ourselves to the correct room was that the gallery containing the Vermeers was closed off with a temporary wall.  Our hearts sank, not again!  But as luck would have it, our haste and excitement had us reading the map in reverse.  But we were ready to go raise a big old fit and get in that room, believe me.  Set on the right path we made our way to the small room that contained all 4 Vermeer paintings.  We inappropriately commented on how they were well secluded so a heist would be tough (good thing no one heard us or I am sure we would have been escorted out, guards are very touchy about those comments).

First, there’s Girl with a Flute that is attributed to Vermeer but they seem to be a bit conflicted as to whether or not he painted it (or all of it, as one of his children might have completed it after his death).

Then  there’s A Lady Writing which is thought to be an image based on his wife Catharina Bolnes.

Then my initial favorite (maybe on of my top favorites) Woman Holding a Balance. There is something so lovely about this painting, the way the light touches the balance or the strings of pearls on the desk.  Breathtaking.

I wasn’t quite prepared for Girl with a Red Hat. It has this haunting direct gaze, drawing you in and engaging with you.

All and all it was a great trip, filled with large and small scale wonders (as well as the best gluten free pizza I’ve ever had and a beautiful hotel room).  I felt really lucky to be able to get away, to fill two days with such amazing events.  And while I am happy to be home for a stretch after a few trips in a row, my travel bag can be packed in ten minutes so let me know if you are up for an adventure.

Take care of yourself,

Louise

We are currently in the middle of a heat wave in New York City.  I know, I broke down and used the terminology being spouted at me each morning on the news.  And not in a cool Irving Berlin way, in a completely brain and energy sucking way that leaves me inconsolably worried about my kitty at home.  She’s fine I know.  She has tons of water, the windows are cracked around the apartment and the bathroom floor’s tiles stay really cool.  But still, I worry because that’s what pseudo-mommies do.   But I am not going to moan and wail about the heat because you are either dealing with it too or completely unaffected.

My trip to the Midwest was lovely.  Family is all good.

A funny story from my time away.

My parents replaced the shingles or roofing stuff (forgive my non-technical knowledge of the roofing trade) on their house about a year ago.  And yes for those of you who know more about where I grew up, it was damaged a bit from a tornado and that’s why they had to have the work done.  My mother and I were watering her flowers along the front walkway and she pointed out this nail hanging in what was either a super-strength spider’s web or some plastic tarping (or a combination of both) that caused it to dangle from one of the top eaves of the roof and knock against the house.  Apparently she noticed it one day when she was in the study and the house was quiet (no TV or music playing). 

Since I am never one to back down from a ridiculous task or let a banging nail disrupt my mother’s online shopping, I decided that we were going to get it down.  Mind you the house is two stories at the eave in question.  So not an easy task.  I quickly enlist my Dad’s help because I can tell that my Mom has passed on the adventure due to her thoughtful pragmatism.  My Dad is in.  Seriously, in a matter of second he’s forming a plan.  Since we think it might be caught in a spider web, he grabs the hose that is watering the garden a ways down their property (they live on 8.5 acres, yes it really is out in the country).  We attack that swinging nail with a forceful blast of water… that proceeds to do nothing but wet the nail and plastic tarping (unfortunately it is not simply a spider’s web).  This dulls the tapping but only momentarily because the second it dries the banging will begin again.

On to phase two of the grand plan.  This gets a bit more dangerous (as my Dad and I do always tend to raise the stakes).  You guessed it, a ladder.  The new plan is that my Dad will climb the ladder, step onto part of the roof (which is sloped) and pull the nail/tarp combo off the eave.  But… yes, now the roof is wet from our attempt with the hose.  My Dad’s first trip up the ladder ends with this realization.  As you might imagine,  my Mom isn’t handling this very well and drifts off to the side of the house or inside (I’m not sure) because I don’t think she can watch us do this anymore.  I offered to climb up but my Dad is considerably taller than I am and has a greater wingspan.  He also said that he didn’t want me falling off the roof because I had to go back to New York in a few days (not that he wanted to fall off the roof either but I get his point).

I am half pioneer stock and half Irish immigrant so not long confounded by difficulty in any circumstance.  My Dad is also fiercely driven (in many matters, not simply man vs. nail).  A rake then enters the picture.  The thought is that if my Dad climbs the ladder and steps up onto the roof with one foot, the rake will extend his reach enough to get the nail/tarp without having to completely climb a slopped surface of soaking wet shingles.  I yell this news to my Mom to somewhat put her at ease.  He takes to the ladder for a second time and I hold it tightly and keep it steady as he steps on the roof, extends the rake… and SUCCESS.  He whacks at the nail/tarp bundle and it comes crashing down (well it’s a small nail in a piece of plastic tarp so crashing might be a bit of an exaggeration).

Now my trip involved many wonderful memories (I don’t want you to think that conquering a rooftop nail was the highlight) but they are significantly sappier and less dramatic.  I did shoot off fireworks, it was a package from the Fireworks Stand called a “bucket of fun,” and I did NOT light my hair on fire.  I visited my grandparents and shared some laughs.  I also ate three meals a day, which is the craziest part of visiting (more of a critique of my usual habits than a mention of any Midwestern weirdness).  And we traced the history of our family pets for some strange reason.  I had a puppy names Hokey Pokey.  I know… so incredibly silly… and I am the one who named him that (are you surprised?!).  He was apparently very wild and feisty.  We were living in town at the time so my parents found a family friend in the country and he went to live on a farm.  No really, he did.  Mike made fun of me when I recounted the story (yeah sure, he “went to live on a farm”) but it’s true.  We visited him.  I saw pictures.  Ah Hokey Pokey… you were a cutey. 

Now I am back in the Rainforest that is masquerading as New York City but I have to admit that I always have a bit of a Midwestern hangover.  I wish my family lived closer but I do my best to make every visit count.   And clearly there is never a dull moment during the journey.

Wishing you a little adventure and a cool place to sleep,

Louise

Today I am winging my way to the Midwest.  I know it sounds much better when it’s “winging my way to the coast” but it involves seeing my family so I couldn’t be happier.  To top it off I will be spending yet another 4th of July in a lawn chair on my parent’s driveway watching a near 360 degree display of fireworks in the sky all around my hometown.  There is something to be said for a rather flat landscape yielding a sky full of stars I almost forget exist.  The big city will do that to you.  Now I love New York in a way that only grows and deepens but I relish any time spend in the quiet, spacious “prairies” of my birth.

(seriously, this is from my parent’s front porch….

they live in the country and have a small lake)

When I was little we always bought fireworks, not much but some stuff to do in the driveway before going to see the city fireworks either down by the waterfront or at the stadium (the waterfront rocked as long as you had bug spray but I never really liked the stadium).  I started trying to get back to visit twice a year and the holiday weekend always seemed to be a good fit.  Nothing much is going on artistically in NYC, it seems as though everyone leaves the city each weekend in the summer regardless, and there’s nothing like the Midwestern heat & humidity combo to put summer in perspective.  And then the bonus of fireworks…

Now my Mom always tolerated the fireworks (hating the loud ones and fearing that my sister and I would catch our hair on fire with the sparklers), only putting up with them because we loved them so.  My Dad was cool with most of them except for Bottle Rockets (illegal and there is a really crazy story from the past that I am not allowed to tell, it wasn’t our family, I swear) and the snakes (a little black disks that you light to make them ash upwards forming a snake and leaving behind a tar-like substance on the driveway).

So I am always able to coax him into stopping by a fireworks tent and grabbing some stuff.  I’ve grown rather brave in the last two July visits.  Now I can light the Roman Candle and hold it while multicolored balls shoot out into the night sky.  I also tend to do about five sparklers at once (it’s not the same without my sister there) and never seem to get tired of writing my name in cursive.

What I love most is that I have all types of firework memories, come to think of it.  There are various years of firework watching, each different and unique.  Such as a family trip in Colorado where it was freezing (that toilet seat is making more sense upon reflection) and the booming sounds echoed around the mountain canyon, firing off black cats with other expats while living in the UK or standing on the walkway at the Astoria Blvd train station in my pajamas and flip flops.

This weekend I will make some more memories to add to the list and hopefully keep from catching my hair or the corn in my Dad’s garden on fire.  I hope the sky is colorful where you are (and if you’re not in the States then I promise some pictures after the fact).

Take care,

Louise