The longest journey to Costa Rica

Ah, blog, how I’ve missed you…


I had this whole thing planned out, you see; to regale you with stories about past trips with my son, and then give you hints of our upcoming trip’s exotic location. That would take at least three blog entries. Then there was the fun preparation part, the deciding of the itinerary, the packing, the lead-up, another couple of posts. I’d give my small but loyal readership the play-by-play of air travel with poetic and/or political commentary right after arriving. But nothing ever turns out like you plan it, does it? We started to plan our trip with our friends Ray and Heidi who are here on a semester-long sabbatical, and our friends Michael and Alejandra who live here and raise bees and make mead and cheese and honey beer. We used email, Facebook, and Skype sessions to round out our itinerary for our three-week adventure. And then on May 20, a phone call stopped our worlds from spinning temporarily; my 21-year-old stepson had been critically injured in a car crash and airlifted from his hometown about 40 miles away to the large hospital in our town. He and the other passenger survived but the driver did not. He spent two weeks in the hospital trauma center, and had two surgeries to reconfigure almost all the bones in his face. His jaw was wired shut, and after release he would be spending his recuperation with us.


Needless to say, all of our plans and to-do lists went out the window as we shuttled back and forth to the hospital, then took care of him at home, trying to help him regain on a liquid diet the 20 pounds he had lost in the hospital.


Unfortunately, one of the things on the to-do list was to double-check our passport validity. Oh, yes, you guessed it, we discovered a mere two weeks before we were to leave—at 4pm on a Friday, no less--that my son’s passport would expire in two days. The passport office at our local post office was closed, my son would leave the following Sunday for a five-day overnight camp, and the expediting service requires three weeks’ turnaround time. There was no choice but to make the trek to the passport office in Chicago the following Friday.


I tried not to be too nervous. People do this all the time, right? Just not me. I’m a planner. I don’t do last minute passports.


On Thursday I drove to the campsite to pick up my son. Lucky him, he was among 50 campers and counselors (the number reported on the news; my son swears it was half the 300 campers at the camp that week) that contracted norovirus the last couple of days of camp. My son had a fever, and cheerfully reported when we picked him up that he had vomited eight times that day already! How could I put him in a car to Chicago and back the next day?


But we’re a tough lot, and when I reminded him of all the fun things we would be doing on our vacation—ziplining, white water rafting, seeing monkeys and turtles and volcanoes—his eyes lit up. He ate soda crackers and slept in the car, and we managed to get his passport that same day. $165 on an expedited passport, $71 on parking (I kid you not), $200 on an unintended Trader Joe’s run (to kill time between the appointment/interview and picking up the passport), gas, and lunch. Costa Rica trip, priceless. For everything else there’s Discover, and a nice bill when we get back.


The story gets more complicated, but I won’t bore you with the details. Planning went back on track, and I hammered everything out while my husband was at a conference for the weekend. I just want to say thank goodness we were able to get Mick taken care of by his mom, who came out from South Carolina for the duration of our trip; the baby dog is being taken care of by a lovely family who will probably train her better than we could; and the house is taken care of by a dear friend and neighbor in whom I have the utmost confidence.


Thursday morning said friend and neighbor’s son with his shiny new driver’s license shuttled us off to the airport. I had gone through my normal weeklong packing ritual in two days, thus I over packed. Husband and son packed more reasonably. In my defense, we didn’t know when or where we’d have laundry facilities access, and I knew I wasn’t going to a climate where I could wear the same outfit two or three days in a row, so I threw in a few more shirts at the last minute. The flight from Chicago to Miami—our second leg—was completely full, so my attempt to have only carry-on baggage was thwarted by very strict baggage size limits, and I ended up having to check my bag. Fortunately, it was checked all the way to San José.


We had a 30-minute delay, but then managed to get to Miami almost on time. There we had barely enough time to run to the other gate, go to the bathroom, and order some food to go before they called our flight to San José. We arrived in San José in a thunderstorm, a frightening but thrilling sight from a plane window. We picked up my bag and passed through customs without incident, and saw our friend Michael right away. He drove us to his friend Tommy’s finca, the Ark Herb Farm, up the twisted roads of Alajuela, about ten minutes from the airport to a stunning paradise of exotic plants, trees, and flowers.


Tommy is an American, an older character who has lived in Costa Rica for 28 years. I could probably fill a book with just a few stories from his interesting life (and maybe someday I will!), but he is a charming, laid-back, generous host. He offered us refreshments when we arrived, and introduced us to Jason, another American who had spent time working on the farm. Michael then drove us down a short road to our room for the night, a tree house. A real tree house.



Now, when we were told we’d be sleeping in a tree house, I hardly knew what to expect, but this exceeded every expectation. Built into an enormous strangling fig tree (a parasite which uses another tree as a host and eventually strangles it), the tree house has several levels. On the first level is a small kitchen with a fridge and sink; the stairs leads to a large, open bedroom with a full, functioning bathroom adjoining on a slightly lower level. There is electricity and running water, including a hot shower, a prized commodity in Costa Rica. Saying the view is spectacular, even at night, is an understatement; in front of you, the Central Valley, San José, and the mountains beyond, spread in front of you, a surreal vista after many hours on a plane. We settled in, said goodbye to Michael, spread the mosquito net across the scenery, and slept like tiny birds in a nest.

The view from our bed

The next morning we made our way back to the main house to a breakfast of pecan waffles, bacon, and coffee brewed with cardamom seeds as we chatted with our amiable hosts. Tommy then took us on a tour of his amazing collection of plants, telling us about medicinal properties of each. Michael came back and met us and we loaded up to go to the bus station to get to the bus for two hours to Turrialba. My husband and I were both reminded along the way of our travels in Brazil. The heat, the noise, and the smell of gas fumes blended with the conversations in a language we barely understood. My son and I tried to nap away our motion sickness on the mountain curves, waking to see glimpses of misty hillsides of coffee plantations, ramshackle houses, and rocky rivers and streams. We arrived in Turrialba and met our friends Ray and Heidi with their two children, and tried to beat the rain to a small bar and restaurant where we feasted on simple Costa Rican fare: carne asada, sausages, ceviche, beans and rice, beer, fruit juices. In the pouring rain Ray got us a taxi to Sitio de Mata, the tiny village where they’ve been living since January. The taxi driver couldn’t take us all the way down the hill to the house because of the rain and mud, so Ray and Heidi’s landlord picked us up and drove us to the house. We had a wonderful evening, catching up on each other’s lives.


Saturday morning we climbed back up the steep hill that our hosts have been climbing every morning to take the kids to school. It’s only about 10 minutes, but it’s straight up, and I’m glad I’ve been working out lately! If I spent much more time here, I would have legs of steel! We caught the local bus back to Turrialba, meeting friends they have made here along the way. At the farmer’s market in Turrialba, we met their favorite vendors, and were welcomed to the market with a fresh coconut—an incredibly refreshing drink on a hot day. We explored the market, bought fruit, had more ceviche, and went for ice cream, then made our way back to catch the bus back to Sitio.

Fruit at the farmer's market

Ceviche in a styrofoam cup with crackers

Sunday emerged clear and sunny, and we were fortunate to have such glorious weather for our whitewater-rafting trip! We went with Roberto, a local guide, on the their small bus to a point on the Pejiballe River. We loved every minute, especially the kids. Two hours straight of nonstop Class 2 and 3 rapids (just my speed) were exhausting and exhilarating. The guides then served us lunch on the riverbank before we made our way back to Sitio, just in time to clean up and watch the Costa Rica vs. Greece World Cup match.


We were invited to the landlord’s house for game watching, snacks, and a goodbye party for Ray and Heidi’s family. What a perfect sendoff, a victory for Costa Rica (after overtime and penalty shots) and entry to the third round, some Nicaraguan rum called Flor de Caña, delicious food, and then dancing. Ray and Heidi have learned salsa, cumbia, bachata, and merengue, and showed off their moves. The family gave lovely and heartfelt speeches, thanking Ray and Heidi for making the effort to get to know their family and community, and for enriching a cultural exchange. Everyone we’ve met here has been incredibly kind and generous. The smiles are warm and genuine. They say Costa Rica is the happiest country in the world, and I’m beginning to believe it.


The early darkness here has been hard to get used to. Being ten degrees north of the Equator means that the sun comes up at about 5:30 a.m. and goes down at about 5:30 p.m. year round. The natural tendency has been to go to bed early and get up with the ubiquitous roosters. Not to mention, that hanging out outside the mosquito netting after dark is an obvious invitation for those nasty little bloodsuckers.




Today I’m happy, but a bit tired and sore. Right now it’s raining for the third time today. I can’t see the mountains facing us, they’re lost in the mist. The neighborhood dogs are taking shelter under the deck. There’s a bird calling, making a sound eerily similar to my old Motorola cell phone when the battery was dying. It’s damp and buggy, and even the myriad hummingbirds are taking shelter. I love it. I love the sound of rain on the tin roof. I love the brilliance of the hibiscus flowers in the lush green forest. The rain is cleansing, slowly washing all my travel worries and travel weariness away.

Travel? What travel?

So…this is supposed to be a blog about travel, right?  I mean, it says it in the title and everything.  Sure, I've been blogging about traveling through mid-life in a more theoretical sense, but I can hear everyone either yawning and clicking away from this site to see pictures of ugly cats or cute babies, or frowning and asking their respective computer screens, where’s the damn travel story?!  Well…travel plans are afoot, my friends.  That’s your official teaser.

My son’s spring break is just around the corner, and someone just asked me if we were going anywhere.  Not this year, I sighed.  But I began to reminisce about the two spring break trips he and I took together—last year to Washington, D.C., and the year before to Oaxaca, Mexico.  Just yesterday he was saying how wonderful those trips were.  So while you wait for our next travel adventure to unfold, the next couple of entries will bring you a little look back on our past mother-son travel adventures. 

But I leave you for now…with the first hint of our travel plans…

Behold! Spring!

Spring is finally in the air.  I can see it in the back yard—slowly transforming from snowy backdrop to oozy, swampy, dog-poop-filled backwater.  I can hear it in the air—birds chirping, and the neighbors ditching work or classes to drink on the back patio on a Friday afternoon.  I can smell it, too, from the scent of clean dirt to the dour smell of rotting compost.  The dog is starting to shed her baby coat, and the child is shedding his puffy jacket.  My shoulders are starting to relax from six months of tensing against the cold, and my feet are itching to walk my erstwhile three-times-weekly path, a loop to downtown past the bars and restaurants and bakeries and coffee shops and churches and stately old homes and my son’s school.  Soon the brown and grey will be replaced with green.  There will be lawns to mow, grasses and vines to trim, a garden plot to dig up, and seeds to plant.  The sounds of construction, road repair, Harley-Davidsons, car stereos blaring, children playing and weed whackers will fill the air.  Come quickly, Spring!  How we’ve missed you! 

Puppy Love

If you're wondering why I haven't blogged for a while, here is the reason:

Persimmon, 7 weeks

OK, so it’s happened:  I’ve become one of those annoying people who post a zillion pictures of his or her dog on Facebook.  I mention the dog in every email I write.  She sneaks artfully into conversations with friends, and she weasels her way into every aspect of our home life.  Fifteen pounds of fluff which vacillates at an astonishing pace between a chewing, biting maniac and a cuddly, sleepy love-bug.  Even as I write this, I am totally enjoying her sleeping twitches out of the corner of my eye.  Her tail flops on the floor and her paws paw the air in circles.  My animal-hard heart has melted into goo.

I wasn’t always like this.  I grew up with Buffy, the runt Collie-German Shepherd with the shortened tail and bum back leg from a nasty fight with a raccoon.  She was the best ol’ dog anybody could ever imagine.  When she was hit by a car, my dad tried unsuccessfully to save her, then lovingly buried her in the woods next to the river.  It was one of only two times in my life I ever saw my dad cry.  I think I hardened my heart that day against giving my unconditional love to a pet.  I was not terribly sad when our next dog, Friendly, got sick and died.  I didn’t want a puppy or a rescue dog as a young adult; I wanted to be footloose and fancy-free, not tied down by man or beast, so to speak.  When I got married, we lived in an apartment building that didn’t allow pets, and I was so glad.  After all, wasn’t it just about cleaning up a smelly mess all the time?  When we had our son and moved into our own house, it was all I could do to keep up with a toddler while both of us were working full time.

Then I stopped working outside the home.  And my son, who had been begging for years to have a dog, saw it as the perfect opportunity; we could no longer defend the position that no one would be home and available to take care of the dog.  Of course, he promised to take the dog for walks, brush it, feed it, bathe it—whatever was required (which is different than the actual doing, of course).  He begged.  He cried.  He whined.  He negotiated.  And he won.  At Christmas, Santa wrapped up a leash with a note, granting his wish.  We would finally welcome a dog into our home.

Trouble is, finding a rescue dog is more than a little like online speed dating.  You get to base a potentially lifelong relationship on a fuzzy picture and a ridiculously short, loose description.  “Fido here is full of energy” (read:  will destroy everything you own), or, “Fido is a sweet-tempered dog who’s patiently been looking for his forever-home” (read:  no one else wants him for some glaringly obvious reason which you’ve yet to discover, but which will have you running back to the shelter within two days).  “Fido is an adorable lab mix” means they have no idea of his parentage.  To make the situation worse, most of the rescue organizations are run by volunteers, and the communication is spotty.  Web form-generated emails generally go unanswered.

Meanwhile, for our family to agree on a desired breed, size, temperament, or color became a monumental task.  My son favored the ever-sunny golden retriever.  My husband, the more independent, big-as-a-pony Great Pyrenees.  And of course I was still looking for Buffy.  I scoured the rescue organizations.  I emailed.  I filled out forms.  Nothing.  I started looking in the newspaper classifieds to see if someone needed a rescue.  We were finally scheduled to go to Indiana to visit a Great Pyrenees with a well-documented barking problem, but the weather wouldn’t cooperate.  While glancing through the classifieds from a neighboring town, I caught my breath:  Collie puppies for sale.  They were only five weeks old, so we would have to wait three weeks to pick them up.  AKC Registered, but the price indicated that the breeder was not the long-established, high-end variety; it could mean a “puppy mill” or it could just mean lack of experience.  We would give them the benefit of the doubt and go visit.

We drove for an hour and a half, getting lost twice, to find the place out in the country.  When we got out of the car, we were greeted by the father and his five kids, all between the approximate ages of 5 and 11.  The mother soon came outside, and I recognized her hairstyle with doily hairpiece and clothing as Apostolic Christian or Pentecostal, a look I know well, having grown up in my grandmother’s Pentecostal church.  The children’s names were all biblical, and she explained that the puppies were her oldest son Daniel’s, as he was in charge.  We went to the large workshop/garage where the puppies and mothers were kept; there were two litters, one with eight puppies and the other with a singleton.  I commented, “Who needs TV when you have so many puppies?”  The reply was, “We don’t have a TV.  Our kids play outside and take care of the dogs and the chickens and the garden.”  Although I disagree with the religious principles, I must say that this lifestyle has its appeal.  Maybe my son wouldn’t be so obsessed with electronic gadgets…..

Anyway, I digress…the singleton was a female, and a week younger than the rest, but just as big and feisty.  My husband picked her up and she fell asleep in his arms.  It was love at first sight for all of us.

My son and Persimmon--love at first sight

Love

 We put down a deposit and drove away, spending the ride back to come up with names for her.  Tulip was a contender.  Penelope.  Bast.  We ended our evening somewhat appropriately at Black Dog, eating barbecue and discussing names.  The next morning, before my son was even completely awake, he looked me straight in the eye and said “Persimmon.”  He explained that his third grade teacher had read them a story about persimmons, and had brought in persimmons to class for the students to try.  He instantly loved them, a combination of sweet and sour.  “Just like her!” he exclaimed.

The next three weeks were unbearable for him, and thus, for us all.  He was crabby.  He cried.  I sent an email to the breeder to find out how she was doing in the record low temperatures, and he kindly sent back a couple of photographs.  My son looked at them and was miserable for the rest of the evening.  

Sent from the breeder at almost 8 weeks

The appointed Saturday drew near, and the weather forecast loomed.  Icy roads and a wintry mix were predicted for that morning, just when we were to pick her up.  The day before was my birthday, and we had invited over several people for cake and champagne late in the evening.  

I actually can't think of a better birthday gift!

As Friday progressed, and the weather forecast became more and more threatening, I called my husband and suggested he pick up the puppy on his way home, as it was closer to him, and since the weather wouldn’t be bad yet.  Of course he didn’t have the crate or toys or food or water with him, but my ever-resourceful husband keeps a stack of extra rags and some extra outer garments for winter weather unknowns in the back of his car.  He tucked her into his jacket, and home they came, to a houseful of people, and a late night.

Since that evening, life has been a blur.  I had forgotten what it’s like to have a newborn/toddler.  After three weeks, she finally sleeps through the night, has very few accidents in the house, and has figured out which chair legs are the tastiest.  She sleeps in a crate at the foot of our son’s bed.  She loves walks.  She loves snow.  She loves belly rubs.  She loves naps.

How could you not adore this girl?

She loves chewing our feet and hands and pantlegs with her sharp little teeth, and we are constantly redirecting her towards her toys or putting her in “time out” in the downstairs bathroom.  Her favorite spot is directly in front of the wood stove.  She eats every meal in approximately 24 seconds.  All in all, she’s a quick learner, and was the star of her puppy class last night.  Most endearing of all is how she loves to greet us every morning, her tail wagging her whole body.  I freely admit, I am in puppy love.

Adventures and Lessons on Parenting

As parents, we always want to teach the value of perseverance and hard work.  Brave on, we say, even when the going gets tough.  The rewards you will reap will outweigh the discomfort you feel now.  Discipline is necessary.  All good things in life come from sticking with something until the very end.

But when does “sticking with it” become so onerous that it’s destructive to our psyches, our souls; when does it start to chip away at our self-esteem?  When does the benefit no longer outweigh the effort?  These are questions that are, at best, difficult for us to know how to answer for ourselves.  But when we try to answer them for our children, it becomes monumental.  I remember a conversation with my dear friend whose son was extremely gifted in gymnastics, but had decided to quit the training program that could have been a trajectory to national and international competitions.  She and her husband were torn about sending the right message to their son.  He was desperate to quit the rigorous training program.  They finally realized that he had already accepted he would not fulfill his/their dream (whose dream was it anyway?), and that he would end up just resenting the hours and days of practice from that moment on.

My son quit 5^th grade band this semester; to some, that sounds like a little thing, but it was a major decision in our household.  I’m not exactly sure of his reasons for choosing the French horn in the first place (maybe because it was French?), or what his motivations were for being in band, but my husband and I were thrilled that he wanted to play music, as we recognize he has musical talent.

He started off the semester with promise.  We went to the music store, rented a beautiful French horn, a large, gorgeously fashioned piece of brass.  It lay in a beautiful coil in its velvet-lined case.  He practiced daily, he showed us how the instrument worked.  He mastered the mouthpiece.  He started learning little songs.  Then, bit by bit, week by week, it started to unravel.  He no longer wanted to practice.  He became frustrated at not being able to read the notes.  I tried to help him, but the French horn register is different from that of the piano, so I didn’t know the exact notes he was supposed to be playing.  He stopped filling out his practice card.  He complained that the teacher wouldn’t help him.  I tried to help him see the challenge of classroom management for so many small bodies with instruments.  I scoured the internet for help, I tried to teach him sight-reading, but I had no idea of technique, or how to produce notes on the instrument.  Practice sessions ended in tears.  He wanted to quit.

I looked outward for help.  The teacher had suggested private lessons at the beginning of the semester, so back I went to the music store to find a teacher.  We met a lovely young university student, and I think my son developed a tiny crush on her; her encouraging words meant a lot to him, and things started looking up again.  I told him not to make a decision about quitting band until after Christmas; perhaps the winter break would soften him up, and the lessons would help him find his French horn “mojo” again.  He insisted that he would continue the lessons, but didn’t want to stay in band.  He just didn’t like it anymore.  “Shh,” I said, “wait until after break.”

So, the first Tuesday in January--while the ice and snow blanketed everything, the roads were unforgiving, and the temperature was still in the single digits, the day before the first day of school--we were supposed to have a French horn lesson, the first in the second set, where I would have to pay for the month of January.  The time drew closer for us to leave, but I sensed he didn’t want to go, I recognized the set of his jaw.  He was done.  Done with French horn.

I begged, I wheedled, I reasoned, I bargained.  All to no avail.  In the end, I had to send an email, and since it was only a couple of hours before the lesson, I had to call, get a call back, and explain to his teacher while she fought her way through nasty traffic and poor road conditions that my son wasn’t continuing lessons, that it wasn’t about her, that I felt terrible about cancelling at the last minute.

I hate cleaning up these messes.

But….there was still a chance that he would continue with band.  He, of course, absolutely refused.  And there were more reasonings, beggings, bargainings.  And a “discussion” that frankly ended in harsh words and tears.  In a last ditch effort, I told him, “all the adults I know that heard you were learning the French horn, said, ‘oh, I love the French horn!  I wish I’d continued lessons.  I regret quitting so early.’  You might regret it if you don’t continue.”

His response?

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to be one of those people who regrets quitting so early.”

End of discussion.

I finally got him to agree to continue music in another way by joining chorus.  He has a lovely voice, and is an outstanding singer.  Really.  And he only agreed, he said, because he had already told me that he wanted to switch to chorus.

I hadn’t heard that.  In fact, I realized, I hadn’t heard anything but those voices telling me from my own parents or other parents that “the rewards you will reap will outweigh the discomfort you feel now.  Discipline is necessary.  All good things in life come from sticking with something until the very end.”  I hadn’t really been listening to my son.  He’d given it his all, but it just wasn’t right for him.  And he had told me so, on several occasions.  He’d even tried the lessons to please me, but he really didn’t want to continue.  And I still hadn’t been listening.

After the canceled lesson, I went upstairs and sat on the couch next to him while he watched TV glumly.  I reached over and hugged him close to me.  “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,” I said.

But, the story’s not over.  

There was another email exchange, this time between the band teacher and me.

Dear Mr. Band (obviously not his real name):

Over the Winter Break, we have had a long conversation about his playing the French horn and being in band.  My son has been trying the whole semester to keep up, and has even taken private lessons, but he has decided he no longer wants to participate in band.  His father and I were torn, not wanting to give him the message that it’s OK to quit something just because it gets difficult, but also not wanting him to end up hating music because we forced him to do it.  We decided to allow him to stop playing the French horn as long as he agrees to be involved with music in some other way.  He decided, with the teacher’s permission, to join Chorus instead this semester.

His response:

Dear Mrs. Garling:

Your son has the ability to play, but his skills are very inconsistent.  He never has a practice card filled out in class, so I cannot tell if he is spending time on the skills in the manner that I suggest.  I would like to see what would happen if he would spend 15-20 minutes practicing each day, using the practice card to help him focus on the specific song/skill. If you want to pull him from band, that is your decision and I will support it.  I believe that playing French Horn “looked” easy and fun, but he did not realize the work that was involved to make it look easy.  He can do it, but like everyone else needs to spend the time practicing.  Some students need to practice more, some less; just like math homework takes some students more time and some less.  I hope you will consider this in your decision.

I was puzzled.  Hadn’t I explained that he had already made the decision?  After some niceties, I pointed out:

My son doesn't give up easily in general, so I'm certain he is overwhelmed to the point where catching up is not a goal he feels he can achieve.  I was hoping the individual lessons would help him with this confidence, but it hasn't worked.

And then I got a message from the chorus teacher, who had been included in the email exchange:

I am happy to have him in chorus – was hoping that he would have also kept trying to play French horn – it’s not an easy instrument to play but with a little extra effort he no doubt could succeed.  This was Mr. Band’s suggestion as well.  But we honor your decision whatever it is.

Hmm….that almost sounds like you disapprove of our decision.  But no matter.

To make it as clear as possible, I responded:

Unfortunately, he doesn't want to pursue band any longer.  I have learned to pick my battles, and this one is my son’s call.  We've been trying to get him interested in singing as well, so I am thrilled that he's showing an interest in chorus.

It seems that I’m not the only one who’s not been listening to what the child is saying.  After all, it is his decision, right?

Parenting is hard.  But of one thing I am sure, is that parenting is sometimes about listening to your child before s/he gets to the end of his/her rope.  It’s not always about perseverance versus quitting, being tough versus letting him have his way.  It’s about listening.  Really listening. 

I’m so glad he reminded me of this.

Traveling forward to 2014--New Year's Revolution

It’s one week and one day into 2014, and I’ve decided it’s time to form my new year’s resolutions.  That is appropriate for me—I’ve always been a late-starter.  I was born eight days late, and been running about that late ever since.  In this household, we adhere to the 12 days of Christmas, so Christmas officially is over at Epiphany, January 6.  We didn’t take our tree down until the 4^th. I’m just now getting the last of the Christmas cookies and fudge out of the house (why do I make them, anyway?).  And—most importantly—my people are finally back at work and school, allowing me to resume a daily rhythm, allowing me time to reflect, allowing me space to incorporate.

A little over a week ago, my son told me he was going to make his new year’s “revolutions.”  I jumped to correct him, then hesitated.  Why not a revolution?  Because, sometimes, you gotta blow things up a little bit to get something new started.  So…what would I blow up?  Well, for starters, I’d like to blow up my unreasonably high expectations for everything.  Lose 50 pounds in four months!  Clean out and organize the whole house!  Keep it organized!  Stop spending money!  Learn to knit sweaters, make all my own clothes, design all my own shoes!  Be ready for a marathon in four months!  Bake all our own bread!  Become a vegan chef!

Random photo of fireworks taken by my husband to simulate explosion and represent New Year's celebrations

Boom. 

Blown up.

And then, I’ll start to build; small steps, covering more than one goal at a time.

Instead of this:                                              >>>>                        This:

Lose 50 pounds in four months!                                                                       

Be ready for a marathon in four months!     >>>>                   Increase my exercise to

include three days of higher-intensity activity; doctor has already told me to avoid running, so probably a marathon is out, unless I become an incredible power-walker, something it will take longer than four months to achieve.

Bake all our own bread!                              >>>>                   Building on our already

Become a vegan chef!                                                             healthy food repertoire, I will

try to bake bread once every two weeks, and start the family on two vegetarian days per week.  It’s not that hard, really, and we’ve already kind of started.  Yesterday’s example was pumpkin soup for lunch, and tofu pad thai for dinner.  We ate lots of veggies at just these two meals.

Clean out and organize the whole house!    >>>>                   Our son is already on a

Keep it organized!                                                                   schedule for weekly chores

and cleaning.  I just need to make a similar schedule for myself and follow it.  Bigger projects will be broken down as much as possible; instead of “organize the attic,” my weekly goal will be something like “clean and put books on one shelf.”

Stop spending money!                                 >>>>                   Um, yeah.  Always need

money.  But my goal could be more extensive meal planning, however, and then only buy the items on my grocery list and nothing else, right?  Also, looking first into my chest freezers to see if I could make a meal from there instead of going to the grocery store for something else.  I already don’t buy much for myself, well.....  Oh, and, renew my library card.  I spend a ridiculous amount of money on e-books.

Learn to knit sweaters, 

make all my own clothes,                             >>>>                  Right.  I did learn to knit a little

design all my own shoes!                                                        bit, but it will take me years at 

                                                                                                my current pace to finish an

actual sweater.  Better to make a plan to go to thrift and second-hand stores before buying new things from the internet.  I can save money AND get unique items.  I think I’ll have to save shoe design for my next life.

I’ve seen arguments for and against making new year’s resolutions (or revolutions, or goals, or whatever you want to call them).  For me, the only way that they have a chance of making an actual change in my life, and of outliving the tinsel and gift boxes, is if I make realistic, tiny changes towards being the person I want to be.  Actually, all these goals are superseded by my desire to be kinder to myself and to others.  And, like anything else, I can achieve this if I take it slowly, with reflection, one step at a time.  See?  I’m already being kinder to myself….

Surviving Winter's Worst

I grew up in a subdivision outside a small town in east central Illinois.  It was far enough outside of civilization to feel fairly isolated when winter’s nasty weather reared its ugly head.  It seemed to snow a lot more in the 70s and 80s than it does now, and I remember my mom taking photographs of 10 and 15-foot drifts lining the country road leading to the smaller road I lived on.  The wind from the west was unstoppable, and it seemed strange that snow fences lined the north-south road to break the drifting force and create mountains of the white stuff right on the road.  (It would not have been my strategy for preserving the precious topsoil, but I had little say in the matter.)  Schools closed often in winter during these years, and if the plow didn’t come through, or only came through on the main road, there was no way for us at our little dead-end to get out.  Often we were stranded there for two or three days at a time.

My parents were children of the Great Depression, and had always kept a garden; even when they both had full-time jobs, they canned and froze vast quantities of food during the growing season.  My mother planned a sizable pantry when we built our house, and it was always full of home-canned and store-bought dry goods.  We also had a large refrigerator with freezer, and a separate chest freezer sitting next to it.  We had a gas stove that could still be lit if the power went out, and a fireplace with a large supply of cut wood ready at all times.  We always had thermoses of fresh water filled and at the ready.  My mother could have prepared a feast for 20 with her four-burner stove and her garden preserves.  We were survivalists.

According to State of Illinois records: “The Midwest, including Illinois, experienced in 1977-1978 its most severe winter since weather records began in the early Nineteenth Century. Illinois had a record-breaking number of 18 severe winter storms; 4 such storms is normal. The record winter began with 3 snowstorms in late November and ended with an extremely damaging ice storm in late March. Unusual snow patterns occurred with several storms and they lasted much longer than usual.”  Yep. Easter Sunday 1978, there was an ice storm to beat all.  During the night we listened to the orchestra of the crash and bang of tree branches freezing, breaking and toppling with the weight of the ice.  Sunday morning we awoke to a world encased in ice—incredibly beautiful, but crippling.  Our driveway, the road, everything was covered in a two-inch-thick layer of perfectly clear ice, at times brilliantly reflecting and magnifying the timid spring sun.  The power had gone out in the middle of the night, and would not come back on for a week.  We had a well, so when the power was out, the pump didn’t work.  That meant hauling water up from the river at the edge of our property to flush the toilets.  

But we had food!  My mother and father rolled the chest freezer out onto the porch to keep the food cold, and we did our best to cook and consume the fresh food in the refrigerator before delving into the canned goods.  Fortunately, my mother had prepared a good deal of Easter dinner beforehand, so she heated things on the stove, and we ate like kings.  We closed off the living room by hanging tarps, and hauled in pillows, blankets, and all our favorite books, some board games, and a couple of decks of cards.  We played music on the piano.  We sang, we listened to the transistor radio.  To my 11-year-old self it was magical—camping in your own house!  Having a gas stove meant that we could still pop popcorn, make toast with a piece of bread stuck onto a fork, make chili, make spaghetti; even better, we could drink orange soda at every meal, since we were reserving water, and we ran out of milk!  After seven days of no electricity, my dad decided it was time to hook up his old and questionable gas-powered generator.  It took him several tries to get the thing started, and some time to figure out the weird configurations for which circuits could be powered, but finally the refrigerator roared to life and the clock in the kitchen started ticking again.  As luck would have it, thirty minutes later all the lights in the hallway went on too; electricity had been restored to our neighborhood.

Although it was incredibly fun, something from that experience must have stuck in the back of my mind and unsettled me to this day.  Every time there’s a winter storm in the forecast, the first thing I think about is having enough food in the pantry.  Year-round, I have become a bit of a food hoarder.  In our current house, we live about a 15-minute walk to a grocery store.  I can count the number of times on one hand our power has been cut off in the nine years we’ve lived here, and never for more than a couple of hours. And yet, I can’t help but picture what we would do if we were stranded here without power for a week.  I’m happy that we heat our house with a wood stove, with at least a year’s worth of reserve of cut wood ready; it makes me more comfortable to know that we’ll be warm. 

Our source of heat

My chest freezers are full of bread, vegetables, fruits, and meat.  Our basement is cool enough to become an emergency refrigerator, as long as the outside temperature stays cold.  We have city water, so we can still flush our toilets.

I’m ready for that huge snowfall, sky.  Bring it.