It’s been a good year so far. So far, I’ve stuck to my new daily writing plan pretty well, and it’s been it’s own reward. The weight loss resolution – it’s still in the back burner, but I’m hoping today’s addendum to Housekeeping resolution 106.b will help turn up the heat on it and my writing and illustration.

Virginia Woolf once wrote that a woman needed money and a room of her own to write (she obviously didn’t have kids when she wrote that or she’d be advocating for five minutes in the bathroom on her own just to think about writing the shopping list). This weekend as we begin to carve out space for the Big Guy’s workshop, I decided to pursue the room and carve a studio out of our laundry/storage/guest area (no, that photo isn’t my entry for ‘Hoarders’ – just my motivating before shot).

I’m great at rationalizing this plan – it’ll clear my crap out of other rooms, more light, same heating bill. But my private rationalization – one that the Big Guy (he’s cool) seems to understand without my saying it – is that, while I’ve spent the summer getting my feet wet, I finally decided to jump In and call myself an writer and illustrator, not because I think I’ll be the next Maurice Senkak or Shel Silverstein, but because I need to write and draw to feel complete. I know I’m not alone in this need, and, even if the laundry is still hanging in my studio by next weekend, the decision to take the plunge matters as much as the way it happens.

We got the date wrong for the start of county fair and decided to head back to the farmer’s market in Cambridge behind Hubbard Hall.  The town center was humming with activity – there was the weekly market in back, craft demonstrations in front, and, inside, the last performance of Mozart’s Magic Flute was almost about to begin.

Every member of our family who could sit still for two hours had seen the production, and each of us eyed the stage door with longing.  In then end, my husband was the one to finagle a place to stand at the sold-out show, and I decided to drag Thing1 and Thing2 to the hardware store.  So I kissed the Big Guy goodbye and bid a temporary adieu to the little piece of paradise behind  the theatre.

We pulled out of the parking lot onto a quiet, residential village street lined with 18th century greek revival homes and community gardens.  It was a perfect August day  – not too hot and just enough puffy clouds to make you think you were in a Technicolor musical – minus the music.

I slowed down and pulled to the side to find something appropriately embarrassing to Thing1 on the iPod when I  heard singing.  At first I thought it was coming from behind us, but I knew there was an hour before the curtain went up.  I looked up from my search and noticed a tall, robust man striding down the sidewalk toward us.  The notes seemed to be coming from him.  He got closer, and we realized that he was indeed the seemingly unlikely source of the jubilant tones.

We smiled at him and he, continuing his scales, smiled back at us, and suddenly I recognized him as one of the opera’s cast members.  My own smile grew wider as I remembered the amazing performance Thing1 and I had seen the day before.  Both of us chuckled as we enjoyed our private performance and we waved and even yelled out the window to congratulate him on his success.

I’ve seen this man in other local performances, and he is not a professional actor, but he gives his audiences – and his art – world class effort dedication and results.  He was fearless waltzing down the sidewalk and singing.  As he channeled the beautiful day through his voice, he seemed to vanquish doubt of any kind.  Nowhere to be seen was any worry that he would not ‘make it’ in show biz or that he might not be perfect that afternoon.  All that mattered at that moment was the day and the song.

He offered this joyful noise to the world, and  we drove away savoring the gift of that moment.  But  three days later, I realized the song’s real gift was the talisman it became.  It is the reminder that there are somethings a peasant can enjoy just as much (if not more than) a king.  Most of all, however, this keepsake moment reminds me how many things we miss when we let fear decide that not being good enough is a reason not to try something new.

It was an uncommon day that started with a search for a collared shirt and ended with an even rarer affirmation of our philosophy that kids need art – even if they don’t always think they want it.

As expected all of his presentable shirts were dirty and in the hamper – an uncommon event in itself. We were too close to being late for me to be able to appreciate the enormity of the moment. And, knowing it would be dark in the theatre, I found him a clean T-shirt in what I hoped was a conservative gray with conservative blue emblazoned on it.

It was Saturday. Our weekly art quest was recovering from summer vacations and camps, but Hubbard Hall was there to rescue it for one of our kids with a full production of Mozart’s Magic Flute. Even at Hubbard Hall’s very reasonable prices, we decided risking a meltdown before intermission with Thing2 would be an expensive experiment in art appreciation. I, however, was determined to see the show and decided that Thing1 would be the perfect date (Dad and I solve the eternal babysitter conundrum by taking turns going to these shows).

As you can imagine, he was as excited as any twelve-year-old might be at the prospect of spending 2.5 hours of a sunny Saturday sitting in a darkened theatre listening to a 200-year-old show with his increasingly embarassing mother. Only the promise of lunch, a comfortable shirt, and a few hours away from what his younger brother’s version of hero worship helped him keep the anxiety in check. He’s always compliant, however, and he climbed the steps to the theatre, quietly tolerating the familiar chorus of “Someday you’ll thank us.”

We found a pair of seats just as the director walked out on the small stage for the opening announcements. Then the lights dimmed. The overture began. I knew Thing1 would quickly recognize Bugs Bunny music, but would it be enough to turn the tolerance to enthusaism? Again he blessed me with a tolerant smile when I mentioned it.

Then the overture ended. A prince fleeing a dragon ran on stage only to be saved by three ladies whose amorous attentions would make Pepe La Pew blush. I heard a chuckle next to me. The prince awake to discover a new friend dressed in a bird costume. The show progressed, and the chuckle turned to laughter.

Score one for the parents with a huge assist from community theater, I thought, and my smile had nothing to do with the play. For the next two hours we absorbed a near-ancient music, rife with humor and beauty. When it was over, we leapt to our feet with the rest of the audience. Without thinking, Thing1 turned to me and said, “That was really good. I’m glad I saw it.”

I know I’m lucky.  My kids enjoy a lot of the same art and music we like – groups like the Beatles and Rolling Stones, live theatre – which is a lot more fun (and easier) than leaving them home with a sitter.  But we’re still fighting the TV and video game conundrums every parent  faces.   Thing1, especially, has recently acquired the crazy idea that he should think for himself.  Getting him to embrace the concept of better living through listening to his parents’ more moth-eaten ideas about music and art is increasingly challenging.  Once in a while, though, we get something more than a tolerant smile.  I get a laugh or I see a spring in his step that says he appreciates our occasional cultural dictatorship – even if he won’t admit it to our faces.  And every once in a while it’s nice not to have to wait for someday for the gratitude.

Cartoons have been on a bit of a hiatus since our vacation, but this weekend promises to be all art, all weekend.  I’ve also begun working on illustrations for a children’s story based on our geese and hope to add peeks at that as it goes forward.

Getting back into drawing has been one of the great blessings of this writing workshop. The knowledge that Vermont and neighboring Washington County in New York State have been nurtured other homespun artists (Tasha Tudor and Grandma Moses to name two) would once have been daunting.  But the beauty of joining a community of truly talented writers, photographers, and poets is the discovery that being in their midst – and tracing the footsteps of others – is not intimidating; it’s inspiration that springs like hope escaping from Pandora’s box every time I open my pencil case.

UPDATE – Any local fans of the Hubbard Hall magic will be seeing the Genie on this year’s playbill.  Word on the street is this year’s roster is going to be a good one.  Check out the fall schedule and find season tickets here:  2012-2013 Season

Signed prints, matted to fit an 11 x 14 are available on archival paper for $20 + $3 shipping, with 10% of each purchase going to Hubbard Hall.  I can take checks or send a paypal invoice.  Email me at rachel@www.pickingmybattles.com for  more information. 

The original post is here:  The Hubbard Hall Effect

She comes up to the sofa every hour or so, looking for a neck rub and a walk.  When she get’s outside, she’s off like a shot.  She’s never gone long.  She’ll visit the neighbor at the end of our 900 ft dirt driveway and then go a little further up the hill to say hello to another neighbor.  Then she comes back to sit in the shade of the flowers or the picnic table.

She doesn’t guard the house.  She watches for other animals, but she’s on the lookout for playmates.  She rarely worries about predators or chipmunk or deer, as  my garden can attest.  Her fur barely covers her skin, and yet she is a study in shedding.   When she wants attention or out, her whimpering would inspire the most whiny five-year-old to new depths.

But for all the mess, spectacular vet bills, and neediness, this little hound dog gives me much more in return – even things I hadn’t expected.  I knew she would be affectionate – whether or not dogs love is up to the experts to decide, but she is pretty convincing in her performance.  I knew, even lying quietly next to me while I work, she would give me companionship when the kids were in school – not a small thing when you’re in the middle of nowhere.  And she teaches me.

As I watch her endure my first-grader’s intense affection, she teaches me patience.  When he strokes her face and accidentally rubs her eye, she gives no sound of protest or reproach, and she teaches me tolerance.

And most of all, her jubilant quest to engage with the world – from the tiniest tree frog to our neighborhood bear (usually in play) – reminds me everyday that at least a little pluck is a prerequisite for true happiness.

“Are we going somewhere special, Mommy?”  My five year old didn’t wait for an answer before sashaying to the jewelry tray on my dresser.  He had already seen me pulling out one of the two silver necklaces I wear for every occasion – special or not.  I have others, but these quirky, simple pieces came from my husband.  One was opened on a birthday; the other one anniversary.  They go with everything.

“Just doing errands, buddy,”  I answered.

“Don’t forget your roses,” he reminded me, dipping his finger into the felt-covered plastic tray and pulling out a pink sculpted resin earring.  I smiled as he handed it to me.  “Don’t you love them, Mom?”  I nodded and smiled.  The rose earrings are pretty.  The color didn’t go with my outfit, but these too, came with a special memory.  This one takes me to a summer day at a farmer’s market and to an act of youthful, but heartfelt generosity.  The impulse buy was his sole purchase that day, and it emptied his pockets of every last penny.

I was still putting the backing on the first rose when a gold starfish appeared in front of my face.  Another special gift, the broach was a traded-for treasure from a community tag sale .  It also did not go with my outfit, but I cannot wear the earrings without it, and I pinned it on, remembering his smile of triumph when he first presented it to me.

We needed to get moving, and I did not wait for hi

m to pull out the next piece.  I pulled on a pink crazy band and a beaded bracelet procured at another tag sale.  I checked my shopping list and purse to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything important. Then I checked my jewelry tray for any missed pieces.

Regardless of the occasion, these items have become part of my outfit.  They are my victory medals.  They are memories of days made special.  And, even when my baubles are made of buttons or plastic, they gleam with promise.

“Are you sure we’re not going any place special, Mom?”

“Just groceries and  a few other things like that” I answered.

“You just look beautiful,”  he said, standing on the bed so that he could take a closer look at the starfish again.

“Well, that must be because I’ve got my bling,” I said.

When it was over, we packed up the car and started the two-day drive from sandy

southwestern Michigan back to Vermont’s Green Mountains.  The trip back would be punctuated by a fender-bender (the second of the vacation), a stop-over at a motel whose accommodations would remind me of another family vacation 35 years earlier (in Peru), and a brief flirtation with Murphy’s Law as we took a detour through Niagara Falls, NY.

The detour was ultimately more of an adventure in controlling the dog in a squirrel-infested park after a protracted search for a $10 parking spot, rather than seeing one of the wonders of the natural world.  But it was not all bad.  We did get to see the falls, and hour stood out for its lack of disasters.  But as we got in the car to fight our way back to the interstate, I wondered (again) if the best vacation would have consisted of staying home while hi

tting the pause buttons on the phone and the mail service.

Then I wondered if I was alone in my ambivalence toward the great American institution known as the Family Vacation.  After all, I can’t be the only one who looks at that week on the calendar with a combination of fear and anticipation.  Who doesn’t experience some trepidation at the thought of two days of playing bumper cars at 80mph while ignoring the bedlam in the backseat?

We took turns driving the rest of the day.  As we traveled, I wondered if we’d drive the vacation’s disasters into the dark corners of our memories.  The rest of the trip was uneventful.  I couldn’t write it down if I tried, but the calamities are clear in my mind. There were, to be sure, there were some significant bright spots on this one:  a boat ride, a day at a museum, a night out.  They do not always take center stage, but I wondered if the triumphs would be as vivid without the backdrop of the mishaps.

And, in the end, we didn’t learn a damn thing from the triumphs or the trials.  I know this because as we pulled into our driveway we were already planning the next one.  We were already laughing hysterically about the miserable hotel and the first car accident.  But, our little tribe was feeling tighter.  So, then again, maybe we did learn something.

A quick check of our car showed it to be in drivable condition even after being on the receiving end of a hit-and-run encounter with a tractor-trailer just inside Cleveland. We, however, were somewhat shaken and, after stopping to fill out a police report, decided to take a slower route through town. Neither of us was interested in hitting the highway again, and we thought a trek down one of Cleveland’s many main streets would help us hit the reset button on a vacation that was circling the bowl. At first, it turned out to be just what we needed. Then we got greedy.

The police station was on the west side of town, and we got on Ohio route 10 going east through the city. The west end of town is a mix of lower and middle-income homes and businesses. Poverty and blight have left their imprints everywhere here. However an influx of seemingly-recent ethnic and newer soul food restaurants hint at an impending revival. The recovery does not seem to be in overdrive, but the neighborhoods along this route bustle on a summer afternoon.

We soaked up the local color as the neighborhoods gave way to more touristy areas that had their own charms. We passed by the stream of sports fans flowing to the baseball stadium. Even after we passed the museums and traveled the city’s industrial side, we knew this self-imposed detour had been a good idea.

Then we got greedy. I saw the on ramp for the interstate but my curiosity pushed us further down the road from urbs into the suburbs. Suddenly the traffic became congestion. The quirky businesses were replaced by chains that made the area indistinguishable from so many other suburbs. The area was more prosperous and green, but the rows of shopping malls practically made this city street a parking lot.

We finally saw the signs again for the interstate and knew it was time to rejoin the highway. But there was one more sign before I started down the on ramp. As I waited through two light changes at the intersection next to the luxury apartment complex where it sat, I had plenty of time to read it: “Raising Property Expectations.” By the time the light had turned green for us, I wasn’t too sure about that.