Field Trip

So, back to the field trip to Currier Farms....

I showed up at Tyoma's school my obligatory 15 minutes early and waited for other mom's to assemble. Fortunately, Roumanian Grandma was there to keep me company. I think that we an unspoken camaraderie since in a way we are outsiders. I am a total spazz, and she is a Roumanian National, far from home. i did mention to her that T has ASD, and she looked so sorry for me. I think she was surprised to hear how well he speaks and how fantastic his memeory was. We all loaded up on a big yellow school bus and sat at the back, the noisyest part.

I was surprised to find that we were going to another school to pick up other kids. As we drove to Mastricola, Tyoma shouted "All aboard!" just like on the Dinosaur Train. The school bus was like a huge lurching boat. it seemed to float rather than drive and it even had the slight sway of a ship on the ocean. Freaky.  If this troubled T, he did not say. He was thrilled about the bus ride and began singing his Dinosaur ABC's






Other folks were listening in on our patter, which was actually quite lighthearted. I noticed Miss Ann with her inscrutable smirk and wondered if Tyoma has been reciting his dinosaur ABCs all week. Nahh, most likely she was thinking "Like Mother, like child."

Our ride was smoggy, boyant and a bit frightening. Our driver would swing a turn on a dime and I felt certain that the whole bus would tip over or at least teeter on two wheels. i literally had to remind myself that she knows what she is doing, but when turned up the rutted and uneven road to the orchard, I felt the jostling shudder to an end as our balance seemed precarious.

We arrived safely and I seemed like the only one felt that the ride was as thrilling as tyoma who was jazzed beyond belief. next stop was a tractor drawn "hay ride." Rickety was not the word for the cart we rode on, over small for the children parents and teachers that crowded onto it acutely aware of the mothers and children hunched up next to me. tyoma felt the same discofort and i tried to block him off some personal space teacher from another school prompted me to move. i was about to speak up and say, no, we need space when i looked to miss jerry who was just as scrunched up with one of tyoma's autistic peers, who was enduring equally cramped conditions without complain. so, i moved. the side rail to my right came disconnceted an a techer held ity on as we took our ride

amazingly able to relax and enjoy the ride poking closeness was distracting. tyoma immediately and loudly complained about the heat, about his jacket and about wanting out. i was mortified. he was the only kid complaining and all i could say was we'll be there in a second honey. "I'm Hooo-ot. I want out! When will we get there? I want ooooo-ut!" I was clueless. I could not think of what to say, really, and the more i thought about not knowing what to say, the less focused i was and able to intereact with tyoma.

Finally we arrived and diembarked from the hayride. Tyoma ran off, which seemed like an excellent idea. I follwed him to a quiet spot while everyone else gathered around the farmer to hear his little spiel. we were the only ones off on our own. i steered t back to overhear the plans, find an apple, pick it and eat it. These trees are okay, these are not. So we found a mishapen fruit dangling from a stunted tree

Boston, Day 1

After bidding Tennisfiend goodbye at 4:00 am this morning, I managed to get a touch of rest before setting off to Boston.   We left around 2pm with Mom perched in the backseat to entertain Tyoma as I drove. An hour later, when traffic and off-ramps started to multiply, I realized that the sound from the back seat becomes amplified by a factor of four when I don’t know where I am going. The normally quiet clicking of his Monkey Speller sounded like a tiny ball peen hammer rapping on the windshield behind me. My grumpy complaints clued Tyoma into the excitement of whizzing cars and precipitous exits and he began repeating his interpretation of everything the GPS says. Mom, a bit anxious and trying to be helpful also piped up, adding to my distraction and frustration. Mom I can ask to be quiet, but Tyoma has to be stuffed with cheesy-poofs to ensure silence. We ran out of cheesy-poofs.

 

Our hotel, a Holiday Inn Express, looked surprisingly worn and shabby. I had forgotten the difference between big city and suburban accommodations. We could have been in an unlovely segment of France specifically built for budget-minded Americans. The narrow sooty streets, ancient misshapen pavement and clunky undersized elevators were much the same. Our third floor room was hot, close and dark. After partially unpacking, we discovered that the air conditioner was missing its dials and segments of paneling. It did not work. The only window was sealed closed and painted over at the bottom. To circulate the air, we turned on a dilapidated desk fan which creaked halfheartedly, tipped precariously to the left and ceased to function.

 

I fumed down the heaving elevator, ready for a fight if they did not give us a new room. The girl at the front desk cheerfully gave us a new room, as if we were expected to refuse our room, but had to be sent there anyway--for procedure’s sake.

 

What a difference the change made! For the same price we got double the room and six times the windows—a spacious corner room overlooking an athletic center and the adjacent building. It was difficult to believe that the two rooms existed in the same hotel. True, our light and airy room was a bit neglected but it was far lovelier than the tumbledown closet they sent us to first. After a hasty unpacking, we took off for a nearby pub which prided itself as the “Best Sports Bar in America.” Exhausted, I did not savor my delicious meal of ribs as I should have, but the red wine was incredibly tasty.  Tyoma was nodding off by the time we strolled back to our room. He conked out immediately while mom and I giggled and packed away leftover dinner.

 

Agreeing that an early bedtime was best, we crawled into our respective beds at a reasonable 8:30. A half an hour later we discovered that dance studio directly across from us had rehearsals. They practiced a jazzy West Side Story musical that made the windows vibrate. With the lights out we watched the sharks and jets fight it out. Mom commented that at last, it felt like an east coast city. I fell asleep marveling, amazed to be in Boston and excited about our upcoming trip to the aquarium tomorrow.

The Ice Storm Narrative, Part One

My narrative starts on Thursday night, the night our power went out.

 

After being sick (again) during the long Thanksgiving weekend, Tennisfiend and I were looking forward to a three day weekend and some rest. He was exhausted by the deadlines he’d had to make plus being sick. I still recovering from the flu (the real thing!) I got last week. Rest and relaxation was all we talked about Thursday evening.  Heh. Thursday night was less than restful.

 

Staggering home from work regular time, Tennisfiend was dazzled by the storm. He related how his car had become encased in ice prior to leaving work and how the wind and ice pellets bombarded him on the way home. I don’t even recall our dinner or bedtime, but the air felt electric. It was a dreadful night for sleeping, with thundering wind and rolling power outages. This in itself was not so bad, but the battery back up on the computer would screech every time power dropped off, jolting us awake. After the third power drop off, I drug myself into the computer room to switch off the power outage alarm. Twenty minutes later I was back again, since I managed to press a wrong button first time.

 

Sometime around 2am, the power went off for real. We were alerted to the situation by Tyoma’s squalls. He woke without his nightlight, panicked and wailed. I took stock of our power outage supplies: we had two flashlights, and no candles. One flashlight had no batteries and we had no replacements. Talk about being unprepared.

 

However, we did have a bit of luck. I wanted candeliers for the windows to make our house festive for the holidays, but I was too cheap to drop $65 for nine “electric candles”. Instead, I bought a bunch of battery powered candeliers for $16. Let me tell you, being cheap was propitious. We used the heck out of those candles! They were perfect nightlights for Tyoma and a quite suitable tiny flashlight for walking around. 

 

Anyway, back to our drama. At 3:00 a.m., a quantity of our six smoke alarms started chirping. Although they are directly wired into the house’s electricity, these things blast a piercing tone every three to five minutes when their back up battery is low. The only way to quiet them is to replace or remove the battery. I was puzzled. Why were they chirping now? And which ones were chirping? With a candelier in one hand and a battery in another , I stood on a kitchen chair under an alarm waiting for it to chirp only to hear one chirp somewhere else. I spent fifteen minutes chasing detector beeps before I could locate a chirping detector, since they chirped at different times and the acoustics of the house obscured locations. Confounding the situation, I also had a limited number (3!) of fresh batteries. This was fine, except the damn detectors chirped even without a battery--something that didn’t happen when the power was on! So, between educated guesses and trial and error, I managed to quiet all of the offending smoke detectors and went back to sleep.

 

If you could call it sleep. It was a strange half-awake sensation, hypnogogic. Did I dream the barrage of crackles, hisses and pops or were the walls beneath us splintering and collapsing? I lapsed into one of those eternal falling dreams, where the terror of the fall thrusts you in and out of sleep; you wake to the safety of your bedroom and slip back into the falling house nightmare only to wake again. It seemed like no sleep at all.

 

We stumbled out of bed at six thirty. I turned up the hot water heater and lamented not replenishing our supplies of propane for our camp stove or lantern. A morning without tea! Horrors! Tennisfiend noticed that a small tree fell in the back went outside to investigate. I called the power company. In retrospect, it was amazing that the phones were still working. After a brief hold, a recorded voice informed me that “damage was widespread” and that we could be without power “for several days.” I was in too much shock to be alarmed. E returned from outside, a few small trees fell and a multitude of sizable branches were strewn about. I quickly dressed and headed out to the store. I was uncertain if anything was open, but if the power was out for a few days, a single flashlight and a handful of candeliers was not going to make it.

 

The roads were icy, but passable. However, the fallen trees made driving tricky. I counted three trees down on the way to our closest store, which, miraculously, was open. I was soooo happy to see the brave folks at our local Shaw’s fueling generators and running their store. My heart soared! If they were open, Home Depot would be open too.  I just might be able to buy some propane canisters! I swiftly scooped up a horde of D and AA batteries. I didn’t even look at the prices! Dura logs, overpriced firewood, butane lighters, and a smattering of canned goods rounded out my purchases.

 

In line I kidded a red haired fellow in line in front of me about the quantity of bagged ice he was buying.  Dressed in heavy plaid flannel, he was slight, fortyish, and furtive looking; his red beard was just starting to go gnarly. I regretted my teasing immediately.  He was one of those unusually earnest folks who don’t get jokes easily. With intense seriousness, he said that he would need it to keep his refrigerated goods cold. I made some stupid comment about ice being everywhere. He frowned, reiterated his comment and looked at me with such sobriety that it wiped the smile off my face. He could have been a dick and been rude to me, ignored me or gotten offended, instead he was dead serious—and even concerned for me. I was struck dumb. His composure and solemnity was infectious. While he focused all his grim energy onto loading ice onto the checkout carousel, I pulled out of line and started loading my cart with ice. The assemblage of other shoppers present eyed me vigilantly. I looked like an aging soccer mom, not a survivalist, so they followed suit. As I left, I heard a Shaw’s employee stating, “Sorry, this is the last of the ice.”

 

I felt quite proud of my cache, imagining that Home Depot would be a frenzy of activity. Certainly, I was the sole purchaser of the last available D batteries in New Hampshire. I even threw a blanket over my cache to hide it from jealous eyes. Dodging downed trees and inauspiciously strewn branches, I chugged the three miles to the Depot. The mostly empty parking lot surprised me. Only a few scattered shoppers were picking up supplies—power cords and the last of the electric generators. I grabbed a handful of flashlights and all but two remaining propane tanks and hustled to the check out.  While I stood in line, the power came back on. I was flooded with disappointment. A power outage, how romantic!!! I left one propane tank behind as a courtesy to the fellow at the end of line and called Tennisfiend. No, the power was not back on, yes, I would I pick up coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts.

 

The day passed swiftly from then. Frantic phone calls to my mom in Las Cruces revealed that a cold snap was coming our way and that the power outage was quite serious, might take up to a week to resolve. The house became quite cold, quite fast. Half the Dura logs were consumed during the day. A dozen tea candles would have warmed us more. With temperatures dropping to near 9 degrees at night, we moved Tyoma’s crib into our room. I taped blankets and quilts over the windows and repeatedly filled our tub with hot water to warm up our room. Despite these efforts, at seven p.m. our bedroom temperature was barely 50 degrees.

 

To make matters worse, Tennisfiend discovered that our basement was inexplicably beginning to flood. We were deluged by rains over the summer and our damn sump pump never clicked on. Now, wet fingers of concrete crept across the basement. Before turning in for the evening, I took a final paranoid trip down the basement, not really expecting anything. I was shocked to find that the oozing moisture was turning into small puddles. I charged up the stairs, alerting Tennisfiend. Warm and toasty in bed, he didn’t want to bother, but I reminded him that ten minutes of moving stuff around now was much better than doing the same in the middle of the night. ‘Cause you know one of us (me) would wake up and check.

To be continued...

 

 

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December Icestorm 2008

I imagine that this date will go down in record books for the power outages associated with it. I am legitimately writing this entry late, since our power went out for one entire week! I've got a good deal to write, and I'm trying not to get too busy or too sick to get it all online, so, I'll post in chunks. First, of course, the pictures I snapped Friday morning. I took them on a whim, not realizing the extent of the damage to New Hampshire.
 
One of the trees on our property that went down overnight. E chopped it up for firewood. It's difficult to see, but many grass blades are sheathed in ice.


Our larger trees in the backyard, ice covered and a little bit creaky. I later discovered that it only takes a half inch of ice accumulation on branches/foliage to bring down a tree. The one that wiped out our power lines was about the size of the pine tree in the middle.

  The beauty of an ice storm deceives. I always thought that storms that caused major outages required mountains of snow. Everything looked like a fairyland this morning. You'd never realize how damaging it was until you moved away from the house--branches strewn everywhere, trees bent over or snapped in half, bushes completely collapsed--many roads were impassible.

 I reget that I didn't take more pictures of the neighborhood debris. Lawns were littered with dozens of clumps of pine branches like this. We could have made a good sized Christmas tree from all the ones on our property.

 A shot of the thicket behind our house. If anyone had to crunch through this stuff to fix a line, they'd have some very hard work ahead of them.

My Totally Insane Day Before the Big Airplane Trip

 Just thinking about today makes my fingers jam up! Here’s a quick and easy chronology of my day:

I called Hertz at 7:00 a.m. to confirm car rental for the airport trip. Hertz goofed up my reservation, resulting in telephone crankiness. Nicole at Hertz sweetly squared everything away, nevertheless.

At 8:00 am, I dashed off to pick up rental car with Tyoma in tow. Hilton parking lot was JAMMED full of cars. I found the last space in the lot. Turns out, the Western Pecan Growers Association was having its annual meeting this morning. Jolly farmers in plaid shirts were everywhere.

The rental car, a monstrous Ford Expedition, partially blocked traffic in the lot since I parked illegally behind B.T. to install the car seat. Tyoma squalled as I fiddled with the seat, simultaneously freaked out by pecan growers in big deisel trucks inching around the Expedition and the strangeness of the super huge rental car’s interior.

We got home after 9:00 to find that the cleaning crew from Merry Maids consisted not of the three girls I was promised, but by one stressed out twenty-two year old named “Memorie.” I immediately quipped, “I bet everyone remembers your name.” Instantly I felt like an ass, so I quickly added, “Sorry, you must hear that a thousand times.” We had a little laugh (she probably hears that a lot, too). Having a new person in the house pushed Tyoma over the edge. He was inconsolable for the next twenty minutes.

The next few hours bounced between comforting Tyoma, packing up stuff and calling Mom, who had gotten ill. To compound matters, Dad had been selected for jury duty this morning, so he was not able to help Mom out as expected. Around one, Mom was still feeling sick so we cancelled her trip. It will work out better for her to come at another time anyway, without the insane rush.

At 1:30 the carpet cleaners came and Tyoma officially declared his nap skipped with lusty, heart-wrenching wails. Memorie was still cleaning house. To spare everyone the agonized shrieks of my son, I hauled Tyoma off to the post office where I mailed three final boxes of book to NH.

I was the mother with “that uncontrollable child” in line. I ran another errand or two and arrived home in time to write the carpet guy a check and to wave farewell to Memorie—she had been at our place for almost six hours (with ample tip in hand).

Ten minutes later, I realized that Memorie had not finished cleaning all of the household’s cabinets. I felt so sorry for her, but darn it, Merry Maids charged me an arm and a leg for the cleaning and they needed to complete the job or give me money. Another cranky phone call instantly made me $100 richer. All I had to do was drop off a check for the price adjustment before 5:00 (30 minutes from phone call). On the bright side, Tyoma is now less freaked by the Expedition.

At 6:15 I realized that I seriously underestimated luggage capacity, especially with Mom not coming. My carry on items were so overloaded that I had to leave one of his new travel toys behind and pack another in the checked luggage. Curses! Fortunately his cool magnetic gear thingy fit fine! Other toys and clothing items from the checked luggage were left behind, too—everything was way too heavy!!!

Near 7:00, I remembered that I was going to freeze my butt off sleeping on an air mattress in the sunroom. I had to relocate my bed since the carpets were still wet and smelly from the earlier cleaning. I frantically called Ewbliette and asked her to rescue me. She brought a blanket and a fluffy animal print comforter. Heh. Too bad my suitcases were so full, I’ve always liked that comforter….

It was so good to see her and say goodbye (sob!). It was even better that she helped me pack the last two suitcases and weigh everything (twice!). After she left, I seemed to find innumerable tiny things to occupy myself with until 10, when I passed out.

Trip to California

Don't watch an Air Emergency marathon right before a plane trip, is all I can say.  I have the jitters anyway, just because this trip is so important to us.  I know we have only been looking for a job for a few months, but we have been out of money since February. Getting seated on the plane, E gives me the window seat.  Bless him. As the flight attendant performs her obligatory take-off seat buckle demonstration, I try to push missing Tyoma out of my mind. 

We take off  and the physical thrill engulfs me.  I love the roller coaster pressure of flight.  The idea of soaring throughout the clouds to an unnatural elevation thrills me. Unfortunately the blabbing of the pilot brings me back to missing Tyoma.

I do miss him. I know Mom will do a good job, but still.  It sounds ridiculous, but imagine.  If you are used to wearing a watch when you are out and about, you become habituated to checking it for the time.  This is how I miss Tyoma.  My eyes want to find him, check him and process that tiny bit of information before I can carry on with a clear, untroubled mind.

The best way to relax is to look out the window and write what I see. The light blends into late afternoon and clumpy curdled cheese clouds catch my eye.  The clouds are luminous, but offer no respite for the parched desert  below.  Arroyos on drab sands look like branching veins, gin blossoms that roll into cauliflower-eared ridges and hills.  As we increase our altitude, the land below reforms into a fossil bed.  Armies of trilobites meander on the ocean floor, bumped and whirled by unseen eddies of turbulence, that I can feel perched in the sky.

Well, that squeezed all the poetry out of me.  I turn my focus to fellow passengers.  A deeply concerned black man, who spent all of his time making phone calls at the gate folds his hands together pensively.  I could not quite overhear his conversations, but he had the air of one dealing with family tragedy.   He was not calling to inform anyone of news, but rather to reassure others that he is on his way.  I stare at him and want to say something to him, or even just to lay my hand on his arm.  He shifts posititon and I glance away. I don't want to disturb him with my open sympathy.

An Asian family with a 14ish son sit placidly.  The boy brought a skateboard for a carry on which caused a commotion as the family tried to check it at the front of the plane. He is pudgy and has an earring in the cartilage of his ear as well as newish looking skater togs. Something about his beaten down demeanor tells me he is picked on by other kids.  His parents and grandparents bow in unison to the flight attendants offering drinks.

Two twenty-ish girls, long haired and busty,  sport spaghetti strap tank-tops and new high-heeled sandals. Oddly, their make up is subtle and flattering. They fuss over their two carry-on dresses that they hoist out of the overhead compartment.  I try to avoid eye contact as I take in the spectacle, so they don't see my amusement, but the duo do not seem self-conscious.  They are too immersed in the adventure they are about to embark on to notice anyone else.  I get a closer look at the dresses, they are flimsy, inexpensive and fashioned with the sort of glittery tackiness I thought died in the 80s.   Generic plastic hangers complete the scene.  I half way expect them to change their clothes in the aisle, but they are simply twittering over their new dresses. I suspect that the girls will have a riot in Las Vegas.

The rest of the passengers have bowed heads, silently focusing on their private tasks.  There seems to be a pattern: laptop, laptop, book, book, book.  I am the only one writing in a paper journal. Am I so antiquated, so soon? At least I don't have a typewriter.

I close my eyes, enjoying the smooth buoyancy of the flight.  Vibrations from the plane are rhythmic and soothing, the shushing of the engine, hypnotic.  A train ride in the sky.

The drink cart approaches.  I am excited by the possibility of wine.  We obtain our drinks and peanuts (which you must request). I listen, above the sound of the plane no one is speaking.  It is hushed except for the sound of peanut wrappers and Egor chewing ice.  My wine feels warm and smooth.  Out the windows, the trilobites have shifted into relief--etched into the landscape, looking more geological and less surreal.

As we come close to Nevada, I wonder about all the others who have looked down on the same scene.  The eternal expanse of seabed is unbroken by roads.  I wonder how civilization crept over this expanse of dry furrowed land to find Las Vegas.  Five, ten minutes pass.  The earth slyly transforms into a mottled desert, and then into greener terrain transected by vivid ocher roads.  Tiny patches of metallic crystals glimmer.  The randomness of the landscape becomes grid like and rectangular.  It looks like we are flying over an immense stretch of green and brown circuit board with soldered roads.  This gives way to turquoise quarries and a milky blue lake populated by tiny watercraft whose wakes I can see. Viva Las Vegas.

Birthday Party

All Dressed up and Ready to Party!




Yep. We went all out and got him a little suit for his special day. If you notice, the little tie is floating around his neck and the top button of his shirt is undone. Also notice the tears drying on his face. I bet I don't even need to tell you that story! The rest of his pics are behind the cut. Warning! Image intensive. We are posting for a host of photo-hungry relatives in Moscow.





Naturally, Tyoma has the same love of ties as his Papa.



"What! All these presents for me!"



"Oh, my! I couldn't! It's simply too much!"



Our twin cakes. The little one is for Tyoma to demolish.



Waiting for the cake, he takes off his party hat for the twentieth time.



Intrigued by the candle.



The candle is extinguished.



I'm showing him that he can eat the cake.



"Wow! This is delicious!!!



Heavens! He ate the whole thing!



And now he's eating the decorative balloons.



Awww.

We had no idea how gluey icing could be until we tried to clean up Tyoma. I contemplated using Orange Blast, but Ivory, warm water and patience worked fine. Opening presents on and off took up most of the afternoon (there were three). Tyoma had a tiny sip of grape juice while we toasted with champagne, since he clearly didn't have enough sugar with his cake.
We do have more photos, but I'm a bit to exhausted to post the rest.

First Haircut

I took Tyoma for his first haircut today. I intended to have an incredible photo shoot for the whole thing, but I wound up leaving the camera in the stroller while holding Tyoma in my lap. The haircut went incredibly well, Rodeyo is a genius with kids! It's always a treat to see him.
 
Later that afternoon, as I fed a hot and slighly cranky baby his dinner, Tennisfiend grabbed the camera and took these shots. I objected to the whole process since I wanted his "first haircut" pictures to be a monument to his babyhood. Afterall, he looks sorta goofy shirtless and with a tiny bib.
 

How dare you take my picture! 
Well, okay. Sometimes I'm too anal for my own good. Enjoy Tyoma's totally-realistic-and-reflects-our-real-life "first haircut" photos!

The Neighborhood Visit

My Sunday visit with my folks wound up being a neighborhood spectacle. Jimmie, my kick-ass cyclist girlfriend (married to my childhood friend and neighbor), whisked Tyoma up, starling him into a loud crying jag. All the neighborhood women fussed and cooed over him.
 
I had a National Geographic moment, realizing that our little gathering of women was at one with tribes in Africa and Asia. What cheerful women! Joanne was flushed and happy, almost as if Tyoma was her grandkid. This was understandable, since I grew up with her two youngest sons and we split our time between her house and my mom's.
 
Irene, our neighbor with Alzheimer's, stopped by, said "I came to see the baby," and launched into a inexplicable story about a bird she saw the day before. Every move baby made was praised and commented upon. I didn't know if I should have felt embarrassed or proud! Anyway, I dragged myself away from the adulation to enjoy a guitar playing session with the folks.
 

  I took some more pics, but I'm a goof and they were mostly over exposed. BUT, here's my mom:   

And here's Misty!

Misty was so jazzed over the commotion and guitar playing that she ran all around the back yard shaking her little lamby toy.  Tyoma was a bit freaked, but he seems a bit freaked out in general. He loved Grandpa's guitar and experimented with string plucking. Dad serenaded us all, singing folk songs and some flamenco as well.

Happy Father's Day!

Dad in the fifties:

And me as a baby:

Note that I inherited a goofier version of Dad’s ears!

I was hoping to post some of Dad’s adventure pics, but unfortunately they are hidden somewhere at my folks place. I’ll be sure to add them in the future.

Anyway, Tyoma and I dropped by to wish Dad a happy Father’s Day. We relaxed under the shady Mulberry, discussing the latest discoveries in paleontology, specifically the feathered juvenile T-Rexes unearthed in China. After an exchange of opinions on dinosaurs and birds, Dad took off his naturalist cap and brought out the guitar. Tyoma enjoyed his serenade and promptly conked out.

Later in the evening, Tennisfiend asked me if I had any special childhood memories about Dad. I rambled on for at least twenty minutes, until I came across the memory. I was six and felt very sad about the loss of our two weimarainers. We lost them over two years ago. I was younger when Mom told me their spirits were happy, chasing lizards in the desert. Now, I was unconvinced and full of questions, “Why couldn’t I see their spirits when we were in the desert?” Bless her for not saying “Spirits are invisible.” She sent me in for a talk with Dad.

He explained his beliefs: All living things are a part of the universe. People really don’t know for sure what happens when we die, but many think that we return somehow. Some think we return as spirits, angels or even as energy that the natural world re-uses. The only thing we know for sure is that we remember the people and animals we love. By remembering, a person can keep their loved ones close by, with us always.

This might have seemed rather heavy for a six year old, but it was honest, simply stated and it made me feel better. Ultimately, that conversation shaped the outlook of my life. Thank you, Dad.

Pool Project Complete!

Well, its been almost eight months and we finally finished repainting our pool.
 
You can't image how long this project took us! Draining the pool was a bucket of fun, and we almost gave up on the entire project, but the temptation of a fresh, new swimming pool was too much to resist. The hard work began in late March. We had to hire someone to sandblast the old paint off and only two people sandblast locally.
 
Naturally, we picked the scary sixty year old alcoholic with rickety equipment and a bad leg simply because we didn’t want to wait two months for the other company to get around to us. For $200 he pulled his wheezing machine up to the side of the fence and tottered over to Egor, who had to help him inside the pool. E said he smelled about 40 proof.
 
Pool guy was too infirm to clean up the buckets of sand and old paint liberated by the procedure, so we were stuck with the chore. E spent the balance of the weekend sweeping and vacuuming the fine, chalky dust, which seemed to have spread everywhere. I was grateful that we had the foresight to cover the koi pond. What a mess.
 
 While we tried to figure out how what to do next, the pool project remained in limbo. Thirty years ago, when our pool was poured by overly ambitious homeowners, it came out not quite right; they messed up the concrete forms. The pool’s distinctly lopsided appearance has been marred even more by deteriorating concrete painted over repeatedly in lieu of sensible repairs.

Quality restoration would involve an endless succession of patching, cleaning, solvents, washing, more patching, more solvents, multiple coats of primer and epoxy paint. We chose a simpler (and cheaper) route, consisting of lots of patching and minimal solvent use. Weekend after weekend Tennisfiend mixed and mashed epoxy patch and hydraulic cement into the numerous craters, fissures, cracks, chinks and crevices populating the pool.

In the 100 degree plus weather, epoxy oozed down the sides of the pool requiring plastic sheeting and duct tape forms to keep it in place. Hydraulic cement needed to be applied at the crack of dawn to prevent it from setting up in the mixing container. Well, you get the idea, it was lots of work.

When Tennisfiend wasn’t smearing noxious pastes on the pool, he was sanding and shaping the previous patch job. The whole process took about six weeks. After he finished patching and we ordered the paint, New Mexico’s monsoon season began. It rained and rained.

We spent three weeks either pumping rank water out of the pool or hosing off the accumulating dirt and plant particles. Finally, three days of clear weather were forecast and Tennisfiend began to paint. Unsurprisingly, the weather changed and it rained midway through the project. Sheesh. Anyway, it was poolpaint, so he finished. Here is our new pool:




Of course our desire for insane home improvement projects remains unquenched, so take a peek at our pool area:

 
To polish off our project, Tennisfiend will install a ladder (my pregnant self can't get in the pool without one!). We will replace uneven concrete pieces (by the table and chairs)next spring, and paint the entire deck tan. We also plan to remove the unsightly chain link fence and erect an attractive wood fence. It would be great to build a porch over the sitting area, but that might be way too expensive and/or time consuming. Most likely, we will buy one of those shaded enclosures you see at Lowes and Sam’s Club-- has a nifty set up in his back yard that I’d love to imitate!

Rockfiends

Tennis Fiend taking a break from rock hunting.

One of my favorite pursuits is rock hunting. Whenever I can recruit a companion, I journey to Rockhound State Park where anyone can cart away rocks for a nominal fee.

I also love to visit a stretch of desert owned by family friends that boasts colorful rocks and boulders. Saturday I enlisted Tennis Fiend for a boulder hunt. As I gathered supplies for our expedition, our dog Misty became extraordinarily excited. As soon as she hears the jingling of my army surplus backpack, she knows an outing is forthcoming. Usually included in our hikes and outings, she howled dismally when we left her behind.

Driving took over an hour—twenty minutes of freeway followed by forty minutes of increasingly rugged road plus the eternity it took me to locate the landmarks of our destination. Our hunting ground was adjacent to a stretch of power lines connecting our city to the El Paso, TX power grid. The whistling of wind through the power lines made the sizzling pops and hisses of the transformers even more ominous. Reaching to open the back door of our SUV, I recoiled from a sharp static shock. Suddenly, the palpable sensation of electricity in the air amplified.

Weighing the consequences of imminent electrocution against potential rock hauling exhaustion, I moved our vehicle forty feet away from the power lines. The next two hours we enjoyed rock hunting bliss. The first hour was punctuated by cheerfully shouted Russian phrases: “Vot On!” (Here’s one), “Dai mne Molotok!” (Bring me the hammer) and “Oy! Slishcom Agromnye!” (Oh, it’s too big). The second hour was punctuated by cries of “Euuugh,” “Oof,” “Ow, ow, ow” and “Pochimoo tak dalyeko?” (why did you park so far away?).

Afraid to burden my truck with too much weight, we collected six mini-boulders and twelve smaller stones. Returning home happily, we banged our way across the rough dirt road, grateful that we left Misty at home as the rocks shifted and rearranged themselves behind us. Cranking up our velocity to traverse a treacherous expanse of arroyo, I almost struck a man in green camouflage. The wide-eyed fellow gave us a jerky wave as we covered him in dust. At a slower speed we passed an ancient truck where a camouflaged woman guarded several buckets of gravel with a shovel held menacingly in her left hand. I smiled and waved hoping that she did not sport a Lugar in her hidden right hand.

Stomps and Goths

This is Friday’s entry. I’ve been having trouble posting on lj since then.

In November, some of my favorite people celebrate birthdays. Ewbliette birthday is next Friday and Clark-mas observes his birthday four days later. Today, I took my friend Jimmi(named after her father since her parents so wanted a boy) to lunch for her birthday. Our last get-together was this summer when she retold our story to a barnyard full of incredulous friends gathered to celebrate her Master’s Degree matriculation.

We first encountered each other when she began dating my unofficial brother, Louie, the boy next door. A nod and a handshake at his folk’s Saint Patrick’s Day Green Beer Party was the extent of our acquaintance. Back at high school we favored totally different cliques.
Jimmi was a “Stomp” (cowboy/cowgirl) whereas I was a “Goth.” We never socialized. In fact, our peers regarded each other with a mixture of distrust and disdain.

The only people our tiny Goth crowd scorned as much as the Jocks were the Stomps. Stomps were easier targets, so we mocked them whenever we could. A favorite activity included a synchronized and aptly timed humming of the Deliverance battling banjos theme. Our outrageous costumes and equally outrageous antics were a great source of hilarity for the Stomps, although we considered their humor to be lowbrow and uninspired.

Louie announced his engagement to Jimmi at a block party the summer after graduation. I attended sans make up and fishnets because it was HOT. I nodded and shook hands with her again.

Louie and Jimmi married that December, scandalizing everyone. Entire families prognosticated failure, despair and poverty since they married without attending college. I felt sorry for the couple, and hoped they would prove everyone wrong.

A year and a half later, I spotted Jimmi in my Chemistry Class. She sat in the very back row with a few Stomp buddies, and amiably joked with them about my paleness, wondering aloud if I was vitamin D deficient (I was flattered by her observation). I impassively stalked by her cowboy posse to the distant front row, where I sat with my two scruffy but exceptionally intelligent biker buddies, smirking since I blew the curve on our recent chemistry test.

That Saturday, Louie contacted me—Jimmi was failing Algebra for the third time in a row, and none of the tutors at the University Learning Center had been able to help her. Would I spend an hour tutoring her this Sunday? Sure. One hour turned into five as I realized that Timmy was dyslexic.

Since I am also dyslexic, I shared my problem solving strategies with her. It worked. Ecstatic, she called later that week to report that she received her first 80% on a math exam ever

For the next several Sundays I tutored her and her grades improved so dramatically that she was able to convince her instructor to let her retake her failed tests. Then one Thursday as I descended the stretch of steps to the front row in Chemistry class I heard a familiar voice wise-cracking, “She’s the last person who should be drinking a Diet Coke, get this woman a REAL Coke!” (I was then Kate Moss thin).

I turned around, and beamed a smile as white as my face, “Jimmi! Hey!” I waved and hesitated briefly before walking over. It took a moment for her to connect the voice of the Friendly Neighborhood Tutor to the features of the Spooky Goth Chick. As unbelievable as it seems, she had not realized that we were the same person. At our lessons I was fresh scrubbed with glasses and pigtails, at school I was painted black with stilettos and glam hair. I introduced myself to her stupefied buddies and shared a laugh with Jimmi, who was absolutely mortified over teasing me. Although amused by the situation, I didn’t gloat. Part of looking different means enduring taunts with dignity and a bit of pride.

Uncle Leopold

Everyone has a clinically insane family member. I've had five. Today is the birthday of my favorite schizophrenic relative, Uncle Leopold. Ever seen Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory? Add guns, flying saucers and forty pounds and you have Uncle Leo.

Since he lived in New Mexico, he would visit us occasionally. Arriving unannounced to see mother while father was at work, he would be dressed in army fatigues and armed to the teeth. Mom always insisted he unload his guns during a visit. One time he refused. She quietly hustled me out the back door and sent me to a neighbor. Daddy came home early that day and had a quiet, brief talk with Uncle Leo. When I was summoned home, a weeping Uncle Leo apologized to me for making our home "a scary place."

I felt very sorry for him--a quiet talk with my Dad was much scarier to me than Uncle Leo and a boatload of guns. From then on, Uncle Leo usually called before visiting and never brought guns into the house. Despite my parent’s concerns, I unabashedly adored Uncle Leo. He always brought me strange gifts, like pretty polished stones with supernatural properties or odd homemade stuffed toys with intricately embroidered faces.

Nevertheless, the best part of an Uncle Leo visit was his stories. Amazing, bizarre and a little incomprehensible, his tales of adventure and persecution entranced me. My mother issued a disclaimer with every visit, stating that Uncle Leo’s stories were as fictional as Grandmam’s ghost stories. In my mind, his sincerity outweighed Grandmam's theatrics. My beloved Uncle Leo definitely laid the foundations for my own enduring love of eccentrics and peculiar characters.

When I was a teenager, Uncle Leo shot himself dead. He believed that the CIA had covertly broken into his home and infected him with cancer. By his bedside was a yellow legal pad, which logged his temperature and bodily functions. Other inscriptions related his final paranoid theories and resoluteness. His last despondent words were printed in black felt ink: "Cleansers not working. Will not suffer."

Sadly, the medical examiner said the vast quantities of "cleansers," (i.e. bone meal/vitamins) he took greatly contributed to the sickness he believed to be cancer. If only we knew. The first several weeks after Uncle Leo died, my parents spent their weekends sorting through the vast accumulation of junk in his home. They found an impressive variety of knives, firearms and ammunition.

It took three gun shows at bargain basement prices to sell off his stash. Uncle Leo's home had been intricately booby-trapped, resulting in a minimal clean-up effort after his suicide. My folks experienced many harrowing moments during their excavation of his property, including the disposal of a locked and chained refrigerator, which appeared to be wired for explosives.

Because the wires dead-ended in a closet, they used a mattress to protect themselves as they pried it open. Inside was a large steel firebox containing a single head of cabbage. The aftermath of Uncle Leo’s suicide reverberated through out house for almost a year.

My mother blamed herself for not recognizing his mental decline or foreseeing his suicide. My father, who had met my mother by being Uncle Leo’s roommate, sympathized with her greatly and carried his own burden of guilt.

I was numb for a month, and then I started demolishing things. My telephone was the first casualty, followed by old electronic stuff in the garage that my parents would never miss. I found peace the weekend my parents brought home the final truckload of his salvageable possessions. Tired and hassled, my mother instructed to me remove boxes of Uncle Leo’s vinyl collection from the U-Haul; I could either keep them or put them on the curb for the garbage-man.

Of course, I kept them. He had a comprehensive collection of baroque music and an assortment of authentic Tiki Lounge, including most of Yma Sumac’s albums. As I sorted through the records, I was amused and saddened by his printed commentary on the albums. He believed that Baroque music was curative and that Yma Sumac was a benevolent alien goddess (Oddly enough, I have reached similar conclusions). Playing a crackled version of Gluck’s Orpheo, some little mechanism turned inside me. I had reached the famous final stage of grief.

The Big Trip

Yours truly, on her first dive.

This weekend my folks are planning to update their website with photographs from their latest expedition. When I was a kid, they took three or four major photographic expeditions every year.  Usually one trip was The Big Trip-- an international journey to Mexico, South America, the West Indies, Australia or the South Pacific.

At twelve, it was my turn for a Big Trip. I joined my folks on the ship The Cayman Diver, chartered for diving around the Caribbean Islands. I had snorkeled since I was a tot, but I had to be twelve for scuba certification. My first ocean dive was beyond belief.

With Mom as my partner, my first dive destination was the shipwreck Balboa. Slipping into the cool, swaying water my breath dragged through the regulator like Darth Vader. Water enclosed me, isolated me. Sounds resonated strangely. Every breath I pulled seemed extraordinary. I was an astronaut, remote and alien from anything I ever imagined. A hundred years ago, could a twelve-year-old girl do this?

We swam to the wreck and explored. Strangely,  many specifics have been obliterated from my memory. Vivid pictures still remain, but unconnected to the chronology of our dive. I do recall returning to the Cayman Diver. I snatched up an odd looking fist-sized greenish glob. I displayed it to Mom. Curious, I gave it a few good squeezes. Mom replied with harsh hand signals. Instantly, I understood that the blob was a living sea creature and that I had thoughtlessly harmed it. I was deeply remorseful.

Other memories from my Big Trip  include being afraid of the well-meaning second mate who told me that nail polish was unbecoming on someone my age. Even at twelve, this seemed unsavory to me, since I wore it in such innocence.

The first mate caught me reading his dirty housewife book, which was endlessly fascinating to me. He wound up taking it from me three times.

I drank coffee for the first time. Dosing it liberally with cream and sugar, I had four generous cups before my alarmed mother rescued me. I recall protesting because it was so delicious and energizing.

When I went shopping for souvenirs, a portion of my money was spent on a small cosmetic kit, resulting in a lecture. I remember the lesson: don’t buy meaningless crap here that you can buy at home.

A small stubborn part of myself still defends my little purchase. I bought it because I felt I was becoming a young woman--it was symbolic. After all, a collection of Mother’s frosty eyeshadows captivated me as a child--I wanted to be just like her. Today, the make-up buyer in me is alive and well with a flourishing collection of plumping lip-glosses. Nevertheless, if I were in the Caribbean today, I’d spend my money on music, not makeup.