Author: Picking My Battles

Standing Down

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About a month ago, our twelve-year-old  (lovingly nicknamed ‘Thing1’ on this blog) brought home an abysmal grade on his report card and promptly lost access to his computer.   After some bargaining and tears, he accepted his fate, at least, for the night.  Over the last month, however, what we thought of as a decisive tactical strike has devolved into a cold war, and I’ve had to reconsider how I define victory.

Thing1’s computer expertise long ago progressed to the point where he could evade parental controls.  Between school work and an earned half-hour of time, he has defiantly managed to squeeze in some leisure activity.  We were fast reaching a stalemate.  Much of his schoolwork requires a computer, but his prowess (combined with preteen rebelliousness) can make policing his activity a full-time occupation.  Our only defense against this has been that most medieval parental control – taking the thing away.

A couple of days ago, the battle lines began to shift.

A friend from work posted a video and link to an online programming tutorial on her Facebook page.  I followed it, played with the tutorial for a few minutes, and instantly thought of Thing1.  This I could allow.  It was fun, and it wasn’t another mindless video game.  Best of all, it was educational.

The only hitch would be piquing his interest in a website his mother was recommending (Mom-recommended activities are automatically hamstrung with an uncool factor of -12 points).  I hoped, however, he would jump at the chance for any extra time, no matter how educational it was.  Wednesday was a half-day at school, and knowing both kids would need to be occupied while I worked, I made my move.  Thing1 gave me my opening almost as soon as we got in the door.

“Mom, can I please earn more time on the computer if I do my chores and another job or two?” he moaned.

“Is all your homework done?” I asked casually.

“Yes.”  Knowing I would need to get back to work quickly, he decided to press harder, apparently hoping I would accidentally give permission in the rush of things. “I’ll walk the dog. I’ll fill the woodbin.”

“You’re supposed to do that anyway,” I reminded him.

“Isn’t there anything else I can do?”  He put on his best desperate face for this last question.

“Let me think about it,” I said as I checked to make sure six-year-old Thing2 was occupied before heading back to my office for the rest of my work day.  I sat down at my desk before calling to him through the open door.  “You know,” I said, “I might be willing to extend your time for a few minutes if you wanted to take a look at this page.  It’s all about programming.”  Thing1 came in to look at the link.  For a few minutes skepticism reigned, but his computer addiction ultimately triumphed.

“I guess I’ll try it,” he muttered almost reluctantly.

“Hey, it’s 20 extra minutes.”

“I’ll try it.”  And he went to his desk.

Following the mantra ‘Trust but Verify’, I gave him 10 minutes before quietly peeking around the corner to monitor his activity.  He was hunched over the screen, index finger over a line of code he had typed into the site’s tutorial.  I recognized that pose.  It’s the one I assume when I’m looking at a page of code, hunting for a missing semi-colon or forward slash.  I had to suppress a crow of victory, as I watched my firstborn getting sucked into this world.   I went in and put my hand on his shoulder.

“How’s it going?” I asked.  “Are you liking the site?”

“I guess,”  Thing1 responded with the perfunctory preteen indifference.  He silently stared at the code.  “I can’t figure out why this won’t run,” he said.  The indifference disappeared.  I leaned over to look at the code with him.

“I think you’re missing a bracket there,” I said, pointing to a line.  He let out an exasperated snort, corrected his mistake and ran the program.  When he leaned back in his chair he was grinning, flushed with success.  “Do you want to do another ten minutes,” I asked, or would you rather find something else to do?”

The nonchalance returned, and he said, “I guess I could do this for another ten minutes.”

“I’ll set my timer,” I said, almost waltzing as I headed back to my office.  At the ten minute mark, I hit the pause button on the timer and took another peek.  Thing1 was thoroughly engrossed in the next assignment, and I decided to let the timer stay paused.  I knew our battle lines had been redrawn, and I wasn’t sure who had gained the most ground.  I was pretty sure, though, that it didn’t really matter.

The Thin Grey Line

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Using the word silver to describe the thin line extending from my crown is probably more symbolic of, as Monty Python would say, my struggle against reality than my descriptive powers.   It’s really more of a shiny grey.  And, while it has been mostly solitary for the last few years, it manages to drive me to distraction.

It won’t be plucked – I’ve tried.  It doesn’t break off with the mass of brown hair that ends up in the trap after every shower.  Every effort to rout this symbol of my impending maturity only seems to make it stronger.  

For most of my adult life I had to struggle to remember what my real hair color was.  In a span of a decade it was literally every color of the rainbow, so having thin grey line reflect a color in nature shouldn’t cause this much consternation.  The irony is, that for someone who’s never been shy with the dye, for some reason I can’t bring myself to color it now.  

Lately, it seems to be recruiting new members to its team, but I’m starting, not just to get used to the invaders but also to recognize that they are weaving a tale of my life.  There’s one for the firstborn’s first visit to the emergency room.  There’s another for the Big Guy’s week in intensive care. There were more than a few for the years we were choosing between bills and groceries, but they didn’t take a strong enough hold to stay.  

The thin grey lines that survive, however, are determined to grow with me.  They are not friends.  But they are reminders that the years and events that spawn them might actually be making me stronger, not older.

Two Makes Chrysalis

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Lately, the company I work for has had the lucky misfortune of having too much business.  For the Tech Support staff, this has meant confining ourselves to our computers almost from dawn till dusk.  Our computers are all at our homes, but the long days, coupled with winter weather and roads have helped spin a thick cocoon around our earth-sheltered house.  I am not naturally extroverted, so retreating behind a protective shell of snow and work has been quite comfortable.  It was only when I responded to an invitation from another confined friend that I realized that my insular shell was missing something.  

I am ashamed to say, that in the months since knee surgery has confined my friend, I have only been to visit at the beginning to bring flowers picked by our youngest son.  When the phone rang last week, I answered with a mix of happiness and guilt.  By the time I hung up, guilt was mostly gone and I was looking forward to a date on Friday afternoon after work.

Friday morning was another grey winter work day, and I was really excited to go have talk and tea at the end of it.  A light snow had just begun to form a blanket over the roads and mountains when I headed down the road to my friend’s house.  For a brief moment, I had to quell my natural instinct to return to my cocoon.  A flare of guilt kept my car moving forward, however, and I would be glad it did.

My friend and I were once in a writing group together, and grew quite close at the time.  We may not see each other for months except passing on the road or at the country store, but there is rarely any uncomfortable silence when we get back together.  Friday was no exception.  

I let myself in through the mudroom door and, after hugs, we remarked on the changes in each other’s hair and physiques before retreating back to my friend’s cozy bedroom behind the kitchen for a huddle.  I took a quick look at my clock – 4ish it was – knowing I had to leave by 5 to get to the grocery store before dark and settled into a comfy chair.

The kettle on the wood stove hummed every now, serenading us as we talked of doctors and cats and neighbors’s recent departures and returns.  Through the window, I could see the now-heavier snow that only seemed to insulate us more as we talked of writing and iPads and husbands.  

I had not written a word all day – a late Thursday night and early start at work had put the kibosh on creative expression for 48 hours.  I knew the weekend schedule would not allow for much writing or drawing, but by the time I stood up from my chair and made a plan to visit again next week, I felt my soul had been fed.  And the feeding of it guaranteed that when the time permitted, the work I want to do will happen and happily.

It was mostly dark and well after 6pm when I stepped out into the wet snow.  There was a snowy trip to the grocery store ahead before I returned to my cave.  Dark, snowy drives usually fill me with trepidation.  This one, however, was a few minutes more of quiet, and I used it to relish the enlightenment I had found in the fellowship my friend and I had reformed.  

Now, back in my cocoon, it’s warm and safe, as always.  But I will not wait months again before I return to the chrysalis where ideas and friendship grow.  

The Momcave

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About six months ago, inspired by Virginia Woolf’s missive that a room of one’s own was as important to a woman’s writing career as a pad and paper, I decided to clear out our laundry room and create a studio/office.  At the time, I was drawing and even painting as well as writing, and, after a weekend of intense re-arranging, managed to carve out a bit of space among the drying racks and guest beds that get used 3 times a year.  I think I used the room for the purpose of writing and drawing exactly 3 times.

It should have been a hum dinger of a studio/office – the sliding glass doors look out on to our yard which is surrounded by mountains and forests – but for some reason I still felt the pull of our inherited round kitchen table.  I spend most of my workday there – it’s sunny and, when warmed by the wood cookstove, cozy.  However, while the kitchen table makes for a fantastic office, letting me stir dinner while I type, it was not so great for writing or drawing.  The activity around our kitchen table inspires most of what I write, but working at it requires finding an hour when it is not in use as an office or family community center.

Then, on my quest for more time (a key creativity ingredient Virginia, being single and childless, failed to mention), I stumbled into a room I had dismissed and forgotten.  Windowless and situated at the back of our house just behind the wood stove, sits a tiny room that was originally designed to be a photography studio.  Still used occasionally by the Big Guy when he’s at the computer, it’s been mostly a receptacle for crap being moved from the living room when we have guests.  It gets cleaned exactly when we have overnight guests who might actually see it with the door open.  Fortunately, one of those cleanings coincided with my pre-New Year’s resolution to try a morning writing regimen, and I was able to find my way from the door to my old-fashioned pull-down desk.  I’ve been using it almost every morning since.

Over the weekend I decided to pull the trigger and finish making it my own.  Knowing that the Big Guy will be moving his desk to his workshop soon, I planted my flag by doing the unthinkable – I cleaned on a weekend with no company (just this room, mind you.  I haven’t gone completely nuts).   Papers were filed, cords were coiled and organized.  Pictures of the boys were tacked up, along with a poster I did for a production of ‘You Can’t Take it With You’ at Hubbard Hall, a local community theatre in Cambridge, NY.  Then, with the help of the big guy, I brought down a tacky blue arm chair for Katy, my canine companion and took a picture (it won’t be this clean again for quite some time).

I think most parents will understand the sentiment that, in a family, there are very few things that belong solely to oneself.  Your time is definitely not your own.  For your kids, your possessions are curiosities.  If you’re a mom, even your body is often not your own.  Even long after they’ve been weaned, kids seem to have an innate sense that Mom and Dad belong to them – and I wouldn’t have it any other way.  

It’s almost dawn now, and I’m tapping away in the new and improved Momcave with Katy sitting behind me in her new chair.  I am keenly aware of irony that someone who’s carried a mental cave around for years has carved out a physical one.  But, while the silence and solitude and even the dark are luxurious, I am equally aware that, against the backdrop privacy and time, the people who inspire most of my life – on and off the page – are truly illuminated.

Of Mountains and Mud

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There is little snow on Minister Hill this winter, and part of me has been mourning the absence of sledding and snowshoeing.  The road down our hill is mostly mud now.  

Navigating the deep oozing ruts adds another five minutes to every little venture.  Today, though, even the sight of the nearly naked mountains rising up over the muck as I drove down the hill was enough to slow our trip to the ice rink even further.  If the road had been better, I would have worked harder to pilot and gawk at the same time, but the mud nearly forced me to a stop several times.  I snapped off a couple photos, figuring I would do a sketch while I watched the kids during school skate.  

We returned a few hours later to a road even more scarred from a wintry mix and other vehicles.  I was a few sketches richer.  Thing1, my twelve-year-old, increasingly pensive as he approaches adolescence, was cheerful after racing around a rink for two hours.  Thing2, my six-year-old whose normal state is chatter and dance, was nearly asleep from his exertions.  

The mud up our mountain, earlier the guardian of my mindfulness of the mountains, was now just another obstacle between us and home.  Thing1 began pointing out the least treacherous parts, and the car’s rumble seat imitation began to rouse my younger passenger in the back seat.  As we passed the horse farm that lies just below our driveway, the ruts in the muck became deep slick channels, and my only option was to keep accelerating and let the edges of the chasms help me find the least resistance.  

Ten feet later, as the swells in the silt became more navigable, I was glad I hadn’t had much for lunch.  I glanced at Thing1 who was now grinning and looking very twelve.  In the rear view mirror, I could see Thing2 continuing to bounce, even though the car had stopped.

“Can we go again?” he asked, knowing full well that we will be ‘going again’ tomorrow.  But tomorrow morning, when we head out on our slimy roller coaster ride, I’ll remember that, while the coasting has it’s appeal, the climb can be pretty fun too.

A Good Egg

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It was a little after 6 when my shift ended and I turned off the computer and emerged from my office into the family room. Thing2 was hanging out with the Big Guy on the couch while Thing1 listened to music on his iPod. Without thinking, I launched into my litany of reminders.

“Is your homework done?” I asked both boys.

“Yes.”

“Yes”

“Firewood in?” I asked Thing1, getting ready to remind him that if he wanted to earn money for this necessary chore he had to be completely responsible for the bin staying full.

“Yes, Mom.”

“Dishwasher emptied?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Did you take Katy out?”

“Yes, Mom,” He didn’t bother to look up from his iPod at the last query, knowing he had stopped me in my tracks. He had but not for the reason he thought.

As I stirred the leftover stew on the wood stove, it hit me that my once slightly serious but still impish boy is evolving into a responsible young man. And, while I want to keep the real world from denting that bliss that exists in all of us when we’re ignorant of the world, I am also realizing that I may need to find a new nick name for my first born.

It’s been sightly less than a year since I introduced my kids to this blog with their nicknames – Thing1 and Thing2. At the time, I was searching for stories close to home, and my 12 and 6 year old’s antics provided much of my fodder as well as their blog names (I didn’t want to use their real names on a blog). Thing2 is still very much an imp, but he has acquired a second nickname over the year – SuperDude – as the joyful theatrics that characterize his age became more colorful and creative. Little impishness is obvious in Thing1 anymore, however, as he gets closer to the edge of his childhood.

He’ll be thirteen in August, and he’s been towering over me since before his last birthday, but the changes in him over the last year are more than just physical. Thing1 went through his joyful, leaping stage when he was six, and, when he’s hanging out with his brother, he is reminded that the joy and leaping still lurk beneath the surface. But Thing1 has always been a more deliberative child, and he seems to be continuing on that path, accepting new responsibilities with little complaint. In short, he’s a good egg.

We’re seeing some of the expected displays of independence and boundary testing, but, remembering how I put my own parents through the ringer as a teenager, I was – and still am – ready for much worse. For now, though, we seem to be enjoying calm. It will probably storm at some point, but rather than fear what I can’t foretell, I’m realizing I need to begin marking this next phase in my oldest son’s life. I know that, like the last twelve years, it will fly by, and how and what I write about the person he is now will play a huge part in keeping that time in my memory. It makes his new nickname all the more important.

Shiny Things

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Forgetting for five minutes that my daylight hours are pretty well filled from dawn till dusk with blogging, parenting and work (cleaning is more of an annual event), I clicked on the bright pretty button and signed up for the workshop.  It’s an iPhonography workshop, and for five bucks, I figured even if I wash out, it was a good deal.

Once upon a time I was a fair photographer. I even shot a few weddings and children’s portraits.  But when Thing2 (now six) started toddling, I found that focusing a big, heavy SLR while keeping an adventurous two-year-old in check were not compatible activities.   My big, heavy SLR spent a lot of time in its bag, until, finally  I decided to trade it in for a point-and-shoot, which now sits mostly in a bag.  I do take my iPhone everywhere, however, and its primary advantage – aside from being always with me – is that neither kid has a clue when Mom is about to snap off a picture.

I don’t really have time for another class or hobby or any other activity, but I was feeling a little down when the shiny thing caught my eye and my imagination.  It may lead nowhere, but hopefully I’ll get better pictures of the kids out of the deal.  That’s definitely worth five bucks and a little more hectic schedule

Focus and Fog

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A few weeks ago I came out of the cave. Struggling to stay productive as my elaborate and expansive fantasy world beckoned, desperate for inspiration, I began to write about my writer’s ‘block’. It’s more of a cave sealed by a great iron door than a block. When I’m teetering on the edge of a serious depression as I do almost annually, I retreat behind the door. The world behind it is richer and provides a sustaining refuge when anxiety and despair grow, inflaming one another and consuming me. But, the escape is never without a cost, as my sister recently reminded me.

Fantasy is my mentally-induced coma. When I’m diving into it, I still function, holding up my end of the household. For most of my fantasy visit, the only lifeline out of that very deep and seductive pit is the knowledge that several someone else’s completely depend on my not letting go. But, even though I’ve never completely lost my grip on that line, I know that living at the back of my mind means I’m not fully living with the people I love.

There are pharmaceutical ‘cures’ and therapies for depression, but they, too, come with costs. Some – physical side effects, sluggishness, even increased risk of suicide – are printed on the label. But others are not so apparent.

The back of my cave is dark, but sometimes I think it also provides me with tremendous depth of field when I do look back out at the ‘real world’. It doesn’t allow for any filter all the events of the day and their implications intrude on my consciousness as soon as I venture outside my fantasy realm, and they are in sharp focus at every distance. Where my mania lets the popular media burn out disturbing details through overexposure, my depression cancels out the glare.

With tack-sharp clarity and all at once I can see a life that is finally unfolding as I always wanted – people to love, work to sustain us, and a physical refuge from the rest of the world – and the things that can undo it. I pass a rusting upturned oil drum on the banks of the Battenkill and wonder how much ooze still covers the rocks at the bottom of that river. How many parts per million now float in that water where my children cavort in the summer? How much of it seeps into our ground water? Our well must be safe. How much of our cleaning products get into our well? Are they really going to start fracking across the state line? Can we protect our own water? Do we have any say in it? How do people find the courage to take these on? I should be trying to write the next Silent Spring, and all I can come up with is posts about laundry. And that’s before I even turn on the news.

There have been times when my worries have taken me to a dangerous precipice, and after many years of walking to the edge and staring into the delicious dark, I learned from an observant aunt that there were alternatives to this routine. I began to explore Prozac, which was popular at the time, and for a short time, it worked. And then it didn’t. I tried others. And, while sometimes they could contain the chain reactions of my worries, they created a new nagging fear.

The new worry had nothing to do with the chest palpitations they produced but with the foggy filter they fit over my lens on the world. I began to sense the problems of the world less, but in the back of my mind, I knew they were still there. The fog didn’t help to resolve them anymore than the fear did, and I often wondered if its true function was to obscure my own cowardice when considering how to help solve those problems.

I’m working to barricade the door to my fantasy realm now. It stands in the way of my present and future. But it is only just behind me, and now as I wait for my mania to shine its white hot, distorting light on the world, its problems are still in sharp focus.  I know I don’t have the wherewithal or courage to be an agent of change, but as much as that clarity can be a curse, I’m still not sure the filter is a blessing either.

Sanity Sunday… or Not

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Organization is not a hallmark of our family life, but over the years we have managed to stumble on a few rituals.  Lately, it’s been Taco Friday –  neither kid objects to it because they make it themselves.   When Mom is dieting it’s Meatless Monday (the diet almost always begins and ends on Monday).  Six-year-old Thing2’s addiction to Shake ‘n’ Bake means at least one night of the week is dedicated to pork chops.  Saturdays are dedicated to morning sports and breakfast at Bob’s Diner in Manchester, Vermont in the winter and dragging the kids to the latest free art exhibit in the summer.  Sundays have been a bit nebulous, however.

We’re not religious, so our Sunday mornings tend to be wide open.  Some weeks we head to back to the diner, other days the kids will ‘inspire’ the Big Guy to make corn cakes.  Yesterday, however, we thought we might have found on a new candidate for our Sunday routine.

Our boys, twelve and six and affectionately nicknamed Thing1 and Thing2 after the imps in Cat in the Hat, still share a room whose hamper not long ago acquired magical properties that prevent dirty clothes from entering.  A recent ruling by the Big Guy made indoor Dodge Ball with the smaller, ‘softer’ red ball in their toy box permissible, and now a carpet of clothes and dodgeball casualties litter the room.  Still, until Friday night, I had put the mess at a mere Defcon 4.  Level 4 usually causes a double-take when I walk by the room but doesn’t inspire me to intervene.  Friday, however getting from the door to the bunk bed for a goodnight kiss had become an act of death defiance, and I raised the alert to Defcon 2.   After a snuggle with Thing2 and an almost-deflected kiss for Thing1, I let them know it was time to engage in cleaning maneuvers before I had to go nuclear and clean everything OUT.

Hoping to encourage them to manage their own time a little and recognize that mother and maid are not interchangeable terms, I gave them the weekend to get the room presentable.  It didn’t have to be Grandma-and-Grandpa-are-coming clean, but the mess couldn’t just move under the bed either.  And I set a deadline – high noon on Sunday or there would be consequences.  There would also be no access to electronic media Sunday morning until the work was done.

Saturday morning we had basketball practice and went to breakfast.  The boys decided that was an iron-clad excuse not to clean in the morning.  They had a few hours in the afternoon, but decided to use it dawdling until we went out for a brief visit to friends.  By the time dinner rolled around, they had rationalized the entire day away.

By seven A.M. Sunday, the procrastination began to acquire heroic proportions.  Zero hour was approaching so they woke early and immediately began arguing about how to divvy up the work.  Between settling rounds, the Big Guy and I began quietly debating what the consequences should be.  Then, shortly after a breakfast of thoroughly-chewed cereal, the room at the end of the hall became eerily quiet.  I wondered if victory might be in our grasp as griping morphed into the sounds of things being picked up.

Then it stopped.  I got up to lay down some law but was stopped by the opening riff of ‘Ticket to Ride’.  The Big Guy is usually the source of homemade music, but his guitar was still in the utility room.  The radio was off, and as I got closer to the minefield, I realized that Thing1 must have rediscovered his guitar under a pile of clothes or toys.  I knew this was just another diversion on his part, but this was the first one that was remotely constructive.  Suddenly Thing2 bolted out of the room and into the utility room.  He emerged with his guitar and bounced over to the Big Guy.

“Daddy,” he breathed, “can you show me how to play that Beatles song?”  The Big Guy is always happy to pass on his love of all things Beatle to the boys, and obliged.  Thing2 disappeared into his room, and I sat down on the couch with my co-parent, marveling at how, deprived of all privileges and electronic entertainment these two had finally found something creative to do.

“I think we should make them do this every Sunday,” I said.  The Big Guy nodded, and we both listened to the chirping (Thing2) and picking (Thing1) in the other room.  For a few brief moments sanity reigned. We both agreed the noon deadline should still stand, and, for the moment, I thought we had found a new ritual.

Two minutes later the chirping stopped, and it wasn’t long before the picking ceased and cries of “You started it” resumed.  The Big Guy and I closed our eyes.  I think he was the first one to speak after an exasperated minute.

“So, how about the art museum next Sunday?” He said.

Jekylls and Hydes

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There are very few things in my life that I look at and feel my chest fill with pride as I mentally point to them and say, “I had a hand in that.” Two of those things – twelve-year-old Thing1 and six-year-old Thing2 – keep me pretty busy as chauffeur, cook, tutor, and maid, and I do love it when I get the chance to stop and admire the fruit of my and my husband’s labors. Today was one of those days.

We’re trying to design a fence to keep our dog in the yard and our too-friendly neighborhood porcupine out and decided to go over the state line to visit a farm owned by friends in Cambridge to check out their fence design. The couple is very kid tolerant, but Thing1 and Thing2 were still in the throes of a series of preteen-flavored jokes that had begun the night before on the way home from a party, and we spent the short trip letting them know the shenanigans would stop as soon as we shut off the car engine.

As luck would have it, threats of military school or lifetime groundings were unnecessary.

The farm owners showed us their fences and the livestock they protect – a small flock of sheep. They and their very friendly border collie treated us and the boys to a sheep herding demonstration.

Thing2 is always enchanted by animals, especially farm animals (I think he senses there’s a snowball’s chance we could be talked into getting sheep or horses at some point), and he was uncharacteristically quiet as he petted the sheep and donkeys. Score one for the parents, I thought, and I glanced at Thing1 for a behavior check.

Thing1, who is currently trying to earn money to build his own computer, was engrossed in a discussion with the husband. He’s already a few inches taller than I, and he looked strangely adult to me as he carried on an adult conversation without any antics.

The six of us chatted about fences and Hubbard Hall and farms until the first flakes and drops of an impending late winter storm pulled us in our different directions. As we walked back to our car, I could  hear Thing2 beginning to formulate a new song-and-dance routine, but it was more happy than hysteria. Thing1 was as dignified as a twelve-year-old could be, and I treated myself to a mental pat on the back as we got in the car.

Then I put the car in reverse, and, before I had backed out of our spot, dignity and mental pats were mere memories. Sensing a lapse in our vigilance, Thing1 and Thing2 launched into their favorite game – Sound Effects Theatre, Seventh Grade Edition. Trying to ignore the snorts and burps coming from the back seat, I pulled out into traffic wondering whose kids were back there.

Roots

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True confession: I am a huge Star Trek fan. I have been since high school when I stumbled on it on a Saturday afternoon trying to find something other than college football to watch. By the time I found Star Trek, the cardboard sets and blinking light computers had been made quaint by more extravagant sci-fi shows, but for a chronically depressed teenager (redundant, I know) there was something appealing about a vision of a future in which at least humanity had learned to cooperate enough to mount an interplanetary expedition.

The travel junkie in me loved the idea of going to other planets and seeing other creatures and people. But the thing I loved most about Star Trek (and its offspring) was the philosophy enshrined in the Prime Directive. As every respectable Trekker knows, the Prime Directive forbade Star Fleet explorers from interfering in the course of development in the places they visited. In other words, they were there to observe and learn, not to teach.

Thanks to my parents’ influence, my own wanderlust was already pretty healthy by the time I was a teenager. And, while our parents made sure that any trip included a visit to the obligatory museums and monuments, they had their own Prime Directive. It was actually pretty similar to Star Fleet’s: be a good guest when you travel by learning and respecting the local customs and culture. In other words, observe and learn.

I’ve tried to carry these directives with me through most of my life, and Star Trek and my parents have served me well in my travels. Each adventure is a chance to embrace something completely new. I love absorbing the languages and flavors and being absorbed – however briefly – into the local cultures.

And yet, as much as I love immersion, even when our travels have kept us in one place for months or years, there is always a part of me that feels like a visitor.

We’ve lived in Vermont for over ten years, and, even though it’s a longer stay than just about any other place in my life, I do sometimes fret over the grass that’s growing around my feet. A phrase in a recent post prompted a reader to ask me if I was a native Vermonter, and I realized that, despite having birthed a Vermonter and married a man with Vermont roots predating European settlers, I am still very much an explorer at heart. The realization got me thinking, not about my status as a Vermonter but about how I think of home in general.

I love the town we’ve settled in, and I have made some of the closest friends in my life here, but I have also always been willing to pull up stakes when adventure beckons. The Big Guy I married is equally adventurous, but his roots here and in New England in general are deep, and they are strong. Those roots, and the two smaller branches we’ve been nurturing for the last twelve and six years are often the only things keeping my feet on the ground when my heart is getting ready to leapfrog past my head into a new venture.

I don’t know if I’m capable of growing real roots of my own. If I were still single or half of a DINK (double-income no kids), I would be doing my job from a different locale every few months. But I do know that the graft I’ve formed with the Big Guy has helped me figure out where my home is, and it’s anywhere he and our two offshoots have planted their roots.

On the Street Where I Live

/ Picking My Battles / Leave a comment

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It’s been four or five days now since a fertilizer bomb was detonated somewhere on the mountain across from ours.  While the local paper (two towns away) hasn’t picked up the story yet, it was a hot topic for many people at our local country store on Sunday.  Curiosity and concern were still high on Monday, but by Tuesday it was clear that fear was already losing its grip on many of us .

I’m still worried, of course.  Vermont isn’t at war as far as any of us know, so a bomb is not what we’re expecting to hear at eight o’ clock at night.  I am still waiting for some scrap of comforting information.  Even in the absence of information, however, I’m managing to find signs that this town (whose motto is ‘Whatever happens here stays here… But nothing ever happens here’) has managed to put a serious dent in my once Olympic-caliber capacity for agonizing over every potential problem.  There were two of those signs yesterday.

The first one had me trying to remember to breathe.  Mother Nature had been in her paintbox the night before.  After wiping her canvas clean with an inch of rain, she cooled things down.  Then, under cover of night, she brought out her fattest paint brush and daubed just enough white powdery paint over the mountains to cover but not completely obscure the trees and rocks.   I only noticed her work after I’d finished scraping the car and getting six-year-old Thing2 on the road to winter camp.  We scaled the long icy slope of our driveway, and then turned onto the road heading towards the horse farm at the bottom of our road.

The road makes a beautiful S-curve as we get closer.  A few isolated trees frame the rolling hills and the buildings of the farm perfectly, and a day doesn’t go by when I think what a perfect painting it would make.   Yesterday we hit the S-curve just as low purple and white clouds were skimming the powered mountains that rise up behind the farm.  It was breathtaking.  I forgot, for a moment, that we were late, that my foot was still on the gas, and even that a bomb had ever gone off on the mountain across from ours.

When I recovered my breath and remembered to slow down before we hit the more adventurous part of the mud pit we call a road, I drew Thing2’s attention to the scene ahead of us.  We slowly descended the hill, and the painting seemed to envelope us.  Thing2 spoke first after we had passed the farm.

“Can you believe we get to live here all the time?”  He asked.  I couldn’t, and all my recent mutterings that we should move somewhere safer to the middle of nowhere (redundant really) shattered like dust falling with the snow.

The second sign was more subtle, but when I finally saw it, was just as powerful.

The Big Guy went in the afternoon to Hubbard Hall, our local community theatre and art center in Cambridge, NY to pick up Thing2 at his winter break workshop.  Caught up in the excitement of viewing Thing2’s art projects, the nearly empty gas tank in the car slipped his mind, and they headed home. They were almost home when the gas ran out.  Fortunately, a neighbor spotted them quickly and brought them the rest of the way home.  The Big Guy borrowed my car to go get a can of gas for the vehicle still on the side of the road.

He was gone not five minutes when we heard a truck in the driveway.  Positive he couldn’t have filled up the car that quickly, we wondered who it could be.  Before I could get up from the kitchen table (my home office – very glamorous), Thing2 had gone into the mudroom to answer the door.  I had forgotten to lock the outside door again, however, and I suddenly heard a deep voice talking to my son.  It was another neighbor who had seen the car by the road and popped down to see if we needed help.  I told him we were all set and thanked him for checking on us.  Thing2 threatened to entrap him with endless cheerful banter, but the neighbor just smiled at him good-naturedly and waved goodbye to all of us.

I was not yet at the end of my work day and, forgetting to lock the door again, sat back down at the table to finish my shift.  Then the phone rang.  It was another neighbor from across the valley checking to see if we needed any help with the car.  I gave him the same answer, thanked him and hung up.   Before the phone touched the table, however, it rang again.  This time it was our neighbor at the top of our driveway who had seen the car.  I hung up a few minutes later, smiling and thinking that however loud one misguided kook might be, he doesn’t outnumber the ‘good guys’ in this tiny little town.

I realize it’s the same every city.  The ones making the bombs – regardless of their form – are the loudest, but they aren’t the majority.  They can cause havoc with your sense of peace if you let them, however.  I’m still hoping for news about our incident, but by the time the Big Guy returned with my keys, I had seen the second sign.  It wasn’t in the calls from caring neighbors.  It was the fact that, thanks to this town, I’m slowly learning to live my life without locked doors.