Meeting the Future

Me:

doing a victory song and dance after installing a "self-healing" shield on my 

new camera (aka smart phone) 

"I've got military grade technology on my phone."

Daughter Evie: 

"You realize you had military grade technology the first time you bought duck tape, right?"

A favorite image from my new camera... I can communicate with people on it, as well.

I am now carrying a computer in my pocket that far supersedes the very first bulky desktop I purchased a quarter of a century ago. In computing power, it likely supersedes anything I have ever owned. And honestly speaking, you'll rarely find it in my pocket. I carry a bag pretty much full time now in order to create a little buffer zone between the device and my body. I'm still weird about stuff like that. I'm the woman, after all, who refuses to have a microwave oven in my kitchen.

I'm not a Luddite by any stretch of the word... I was cutting edge, once... the only person I knew for years who had a computer at home, online before the web was world-wide. But with the pace of things changing so rapidly, keeping up became less important than so many other options for spending my money. I grew comfortable, I guess. Having kids drew my eye away from the sparkle of technology for a while. 

I find myself thinking about my grandmother's kitchen, she is a constant presence in my memories of growing up... soft in her hugs, quiet in her speaking. She liked grits for breakfast, which I found horribly bland, but she never complained when I sprinkled them with sugar. She served Tang drink mix in those metallic cups. She had stacks of Ellery Queen Mystery magazines around her bed. I read the stories in them when I slept over, feeling very adult and sophisticated. Grandma loved to travel and she collected rocks everywhere she went. They sat in rows on a shelf in her hallway, each one perched atop a card that detailed date and location collected.  

I have a memory of sitting at Grandma's table, peppering her with questions.

Did cars exist when you were a kid?

The Model T, in fact, was first available to the public in 1908, the year of her birth.

How about airplanes? Did people fly?

The Wright brothers first flew five years earlier, in fact, and were distant cousins on her mother's side.

Grandma Skaggs was from the south, and in my child's mind, that meant there was a good chance she knew something, first person, about slavery.

Oh my, she laughed. That was a long time before me. But she went on to tell me they had a housekeeper when she was a little girl who had been born a slave.

At age 7, I could not imagine that in my lifetime I would ever see the kinds of changes my grandmother had witnessed. How awesome the world must have been for her after so many years of seeing things shiny and new. I had few models of reference for futuristic technology. I had not yet been introduced to science fiction at that point. 

Grandma had a portable electronic typewriter. It was tucked into a neat little blue and white case with a handle. It was the most modern thing in our family that had any value, as far as I could tell. (My mother got her first microwave oven when I was 7, as well. I created lightening--that was pretty cool--when I baked a tray of biscuits.) 

Grandma's typewriter looked like luggage, and it took my mind to places I did not know I could travel. With the sun to my back at Grandma's kitchen table, I would roll a piece of paper onto the carriage and dance in my chair as that little machine hummed. It jumped each time I punched a key, filling my mind and my fingertips with stories to be written.

At age 45, I'm on a road trip with my daughter, age 19. She's driving. I'm busy being fascinated by the fact that I can pull up a map on my camera (aka smart phone) and our vehicle becomes a moving blue dot on the map. "Google," I say, "Take us to..." and I proceed to read the address, our destination, off a slip of paper she has tucked into her purse.

My arm rests on the paper atlas that is always, ALWAYS tucked between the front seats in our car. I am telling my daughter that it's only a matter of time before I will be able to zoom in and view our vehicle in real time. "I'll be able to wave at myself," I say, resisting the urge to roll down the window and grin up at the sky at that moment, cheesing for some satellite camera that must exist.

"I can't believe that you, of all people, are actually talking to your phone," my daughter says.

It's true. I resisted communications upgrade for a long time. I was never much fond of the telephone, except perhaps during that brief period of late grade school through junior high, when I discovered that it connected me, a country kid, to my friends in the city. We shared a party line with my grandma, uncle, and cousins down the road for many years. What a luxury when the line became our own. I remember stretching the phone cord as far as it would go, curling up in the stack of clean laundry, and talking with my friends Kristy, Missy, Yvette, or Condi, for hours on end.

I've carried flip phones until they were obsolete.

"I'm having trouble making calls," I explain to the service provider.

"That's because we no longer support that technology," he kindly explains. "How long have you had that phone?"

Grandpa Sam, grandparent on the other side of my family, had the same black rotary phone my entire life. Even as a child, I would have told you the thing was antiquated and bulky. I sometimes had to make calls on it while waiting at Grandpa's house after piano lessons. The receiver was so heavy, I had to use both hands.

Now I think that even Captain Picard, who I fell in love with in my twenties, would be impressed by my new communication device. It takes lovely pictures, which is fortunate, as my 9-year-old digital camera (a gift, already used) began the march toward slow death sometime last year.

Grandma and I once had a conversation (I was nearing 30, by then) about the fads she'd seen come and go. "Those computers," she declared with heavy skepticism. She assured me they would pass, as well. 

Grandma was slowing down by then, her frailty often leading us to believe that she paid attention less to what was going on. I remembered, though, that she had always been a quiet one, and that when seated at the kitchen table, peppering her with questions, you could get even Grandma to tell a story.

I tell my daughter about plugging my computer into a phone line for the first time. I was nineteen, just her age. "Can you imagine," I say, "Having lived this long without the internet? Without text messaging? Without the whole world at your fingertips?"

She tells me to stop staring at my phone, lift my eyes, and look at the world around me as we drive by. I don't have to see it from a satellite picture, just because one is available to me. It's here in real time. See -- there's a grocery store, a restaurant, a round-about -- all identifiable even without Google's tidy labels on the image on my phone. 

I slip the computer back in my pocket, and the future meets us, still.

If it's all bad, maybe you should take a look in the mirror...

I just went to the website of a local store that I really like. I like them because the employees are all so attentive! They are friendly and helpful. They have gone out of the way for me several times and helped me problem-solve when I've been working on projects that are a little out of my zone of expertise.

So I was shocked to find the reviews of the store were filled with comments about rude staff and slow service. I had to stop and ask myself... are we even talking about the same place?

My theory is that there are a couple of things going on here.

1. People don't tend to give credit when they are satisfied. I know I have been guilty of this myself. If a business makes me happy, I pay them back with repeat visits and I like to think that I recommend my friends go there, but I can't say I ever take the time to go write a positive review on their website. If something happens to me at a store that makes me angry, however, I hang on to it for years. I not only avoid return visits, I tell the story of how lousy the service was. And though it happened 7 or 8 years ago, I probably tell the story like it happened yesterday.

1. I truly believe that you get what you put out there. If you are impatient and angry, it bounces right off whomever you are dealing with and comes right back at you. I think people are generally kind and helpful, and I believe that it probably has a lot to do with the fact that I generally try to be a kind and helpful person. It doesn't always work. There are people whose attitudes continue to baffle me, but for the most part, I encounter people every day who are pleasant to deal with.

I really think it's just that simple. Smile, and the whole world smiles with you. Cry and  you cry alone.

Now I'm off to write a couple of positive reviews... and I'm going to try to keep this in mind. Return visits AND acknowledgement for a job well done. It only takes a minute.

With a Year's Worth of Stuff Bottled Up Inside My Head

So it is just over a year since I have attempted to blog here. Just over a year since I have given myself the power and freedom to just dump whatever it is, inside my head, out on the page. I thought I would blog about writing here, or about unschooling my three children here... and perhaps I have, occasionally, with various degrees of success. I have never had much success in dividing my life into spheres. The writing me, the mom me, the farmers market manager me, the me that is attempting to help publish books for others... it's all just me, really.

I am who I am.

And I've long stopped apologizing for my varied interests and focuses. You hear that, ME? I'm not going to say I am sorry any more. It's not a lack of focus, an inability to commit, or a fear of failure (or success!) I love writing. I wouldn't give up the last 19 years of holding motherhood as my primary "job" for anything. I absolutely love the way that my work as farmers market manager has given me roots in this community and has helped me to feel more at home. I get a kick out of formatting books for publication (and I'm pretty darned good at it). I'm not a half-bad editor either... except for my own work. (I suck at editing my own work.)

I am a creative being, who adores the orderly nature and power of a spreadsheet.

Is that weird? Well so be it. That's who I am.

This evening, I went to a reading of Notable Kansas Authors at the William Allen White Library on ESU's campus. Notable Authors include my good friend, Cheryl Unruh, and my friend and co-author (Green Bike), Kevin Rabas. I almost didn't go, because I've been in a stay-at-home frame of mind, of late, but I talked myself into going at the last minute because I have never been let down by the experience of listening to story tellers. Notable authors also include the prolific, Max McCoy and Jim Hoy, both of whom I have very much enjoyed listening to in the past.

Sure enough, The event was barely getting started as my mind started collecting ideas and inspirations. Why am I not writing? I asked (inside my head). Okay, I mean, I am writing (novel-in-progress, 3rd draft) but why am I not writing this... and this... and this... and this?

Oh, if only there were more hours in the day.

I've got enough projects to keep me busy through the sundown of my life.

There's plenty to share... inside my head, there's no need to hide it.

If I know it makes my heart smile, I shall say YES!

Missing

Sometimes I really miss the person who had time to devote to blogging all that was inside her head. Sometimes when I feel I have the time these days, I just sit and stare at the screen. Then I turn the computer off and go to bed.

At the same time, I'm happy to be busy and outside of my head more than I used to be. I think I needed the space away from myself. I think I needed the break from my own inner thoughts and obsessions.

Somewhere there is a balance between the two.

Someday I will find it.

Anticipating Change and Enjoying the Creative Fuel it Brings

I've always maintained the belief that creativity begets creativity. Writing, painting, composing... it doesn't matter the form. One creative act leads to ideas for at least two more. Most of the time I would claim to be engaged in creative work on pretty much a daily basis. Most often it is writing, but I've been known to draw a picture, pick out a tune on the piano, experiment with recipes or take photographs all with that same satisfied-at-having-created-something feeling.

I also enjoy spending time doing more rote, logistical type things that I've come to think of as creativity fueling. I enjoy being busy, productive, and there are certain tasks that I know I can turn to when my mind needs time to process its more unruly thoughts. I am delighted by spreadsheets, for instance, and I take pride in the management systems I have created with them to aid my work with the farmers market or in managing the billing and bookkeeping for my husband's law office practice. I suppose the act of generating a good spreadsheet is creative, but the act of using a good spreadsheet is incredibly satisfying (especially if you are confident of all of the mathematical functions because you placed them there yourself for reasons you fully understand). I place a number here, and it calculates this, that, and another.

Sometimes my creative mode turns more habitual, however, and I come to the realization that I've not so much been creating as going through the motions simply because I think of myself as a creating kind of person. Perhaps I am writing the same words in a different tense, or putting them to paper in cursive rather than print. Maybe I have turned to doodling for the sake of filling blank space. Or I am serving the same dish meal after meal and forgetting what everything tastes like. Sometimes I am so practiced at what I do that I can fall into the habit of work without really feeling the satisfaction of actually having created something.

It is interesting to look back at my life and see these patterns of actively and passively engaging with the creative process, and the pattern of falling into ruts (usually caused by finding a pattern that works so well I never want it to end). When I was younger, I was more prone to get caught up in the fear of changing things, but now I've almost come to the point of looking forward to those moments. I might recognize that I am getting stuck in a groove, but am more content than I used to be to wait for the right moment. I'm less likely to feel the need to hang on to actions or routines because they once worked. Situations change. I change. My creative process changes. Sometimes I have to do something different in order to move forward and move my creative life to a place of greater satisfaction.

It may be that I've come to anticipate those changes so much that the knowledge that they are coming is enough to fuel a resurgence of creativity. The hubby and I had an idea last week. It was a big idea, for us. An idea that would involve a new house and a new business. I don't know where that idea is going to go, or if it is going to go at all, but I have felt that opening of my mind. I'm ready for change. I'm ready to switch up my routine in a bigger than usual way.

Just the idea of making this move has resulted in an flurry of creative energy. It's infused my market work, my law office work, and my writing. I've got more ideas on the plate than I have room for, but I'm happy that way. I'm coming to the end of each day exhausted and satisfied. I'm excited about that open state of mind, the feeling that anything is possible, and whatever it ends up being, it will be good.

Misery and Happiness

It takes a certain amount of effort to be miserable. It simply takes a different kind of effort to be happy. 

These are not Ann Patchett's exact words, but I've been reading Ann Patchett and this thought is one of my take-aways from Truth & Beauty: A Friendship. 

I picked up Ann at the library a couple of weeks ago - This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage. The book was billed as a collection of essays about commitment. I absolutely loved it. I devoured every essay, and a few of them I read twice. There were portions I wanted to print in big letters and wallpaper my room with them. She writes such lovely words. I wonder how it is I had not discovered her before now.

And so my love-affair with yet another writer begins. When I returned the book of essays, I checked out one of her fiction and non-fiction books. I made it through Truth & Beauty in about three days, which is very speedy for me, as I always have at least two or three books going at a time and, except for weekends, my reading time is often limited to the few minutes I can keep my eyes open before going to bed. I will admit that I took Sunday as a sick day. I came home from "camp" (a Friday and Saturday event with my daughter) with a head cold and so threw myself upon the couch on Sunday with a box of tissues, a few pillows, a blanket, and the book.

Unlike This is a Story..., Truth & Beauty was heartbreaking in content; yet still lovely in its way with words. 

It left me dwelling on the above.... on the effort of being miserable vs. being happy... I see this so often in life. (Or perhaps, more accurately, so often of Facebook, where people tend to put both their misery and happiness in words.) 

Far too often I think people get into the habit of demanding that their misery be noticed.

I'm sad. I'm lonely. Nobody loves me. Why doesn't anyone appreciate me?

I wonder why it is so hard to see the problem of focusing on what brings us down. Only occasionally am I drawn to respond. I might comment or send a private note to someone who truly seems to be suffering, but more often I turn away. 

Does that make me cold hearted? Does that make me a bad friend?

It's not the occasional, "Hey, I'm having a tough day," that I'm talking about. We are only human, after all. I don't mind the now-and-then harrumph, or enough already, or man life sucks! But I have friends who have truly gone through some serious pain and loss and, yet, they still manage to smile and show their sunny side as much or more often than they frown out loud.

My issue is the people who dwell there. The people who seem intent on expending all their energy on feelings misery when it seems that those feelings are primarily being generated by the person to create more misery. It's as if it were a contest and they want everyone to know that they are winning. As if collecting the "oh you poor thing" comments actually makes life any better.

Manipulating others into feeling sorry for you only confirms that you are a sad and sorry person. Trust me. It doesn't make you feel any better except maybe for that brief moment of connection when someone looks your way (or comments on your wall). In the long wrong you have done nothing to improve your state of mind or state of being.

Truth & Beauty was about a friendship... a lovely friendship that spanned twenty years. But honestly? As much as I admired Ann, and even admired her friend, to some extent, I found myself midway through the book thinking that I would never be a person, like Ann, who has that depth of kind and generous. I have many friends that I consider life-long, but I don't know that I could/would put up with the things Ann dealt with in her relationship with Lucy Grealy.

Is my bar too high? Do I have unrealistic expectations that all of my friends should be stronger? Wiser? More capable?

Perhaps the truth is that I find the line between happiness and misery too easy to cross myself. I fear tying myself to people who are so freely miserable. I've found myself in the position of purposely getting out of these relationships in the past. I let them drag me down until I finally see it, they are trying to take me with them and beginning to succeed. Maybe I am the one who is not strong enough. Maybe if I were stronger, I could spread enough sunshine for both of us.

What I wish these people could see is that dwelling on what is wrong in life makes the wrong things grow big until it is hard to see beyond the shadows they cast. 

When instead, I've tackled my own grey clouds with a quest to bring a smile to someone else's face, I find that I can smile easier, as well. It works. I find happiness by focusing on good. To dwell on them, especially publicly, where I get feedback, only makes them last longer and grow darker. 

I don't want to be a person who runs from people who are in pain. I know that there are times in life when we simply have to embrace what is, even when it's hard and/or sad beyond reason. But I also don't want to be a person who exerts all my effort on chosing misery.

I hope that I am wise enough to see the difference.

Thinking Out Loud About Blog Direction: Unschooling, and Life

So the hubby asked if he should take this blog off his to-read list and I said, "No. Not yet. There's still a lot of stuff bubbling around inside my head and who knows when I will decide I need a spot to put it. Yet, I recognize that my track record has been so poor, of late, that I've pretty much lost what readership I may have once had.

I've been thinking that perhaps it's time to turn the talk here back to unschooling... or raising kids and family life and personal reflections, like back in the olden days.

I started this blog in 2005, primarily as a writing blog, but quickly realized I had more I wanted to talk about so I broadened my scope. Even during my quiet periods, I've been reluctant to give up blogging all together. I think partly because so often I have regretted that I took down my original blog (called an online journal back then) from the late 1990s. Then partly, as well, because I grow frustrated with the lack of control regarding format and storage of information on Facebook. Now that I've most definitely moved my writing thoughts elsewhere, I am left mulling over where "Inside My Head" belongs in the grand scheme of things.

Rather than mull silently, I might as well share.

Here, I let my mind wander...

My children are now ages 17 (I just had to ask her to confirm that), 14, and 12. These sound like awfully big numbers to me. This means that it was 12 years ago that I did not put my first child on the big yellow school bus. I remember thinking, at that time, that I was fairly certain I was doing the right thing. Three or four years earlier I had reluctantly agreed to give homeschooling a try when it was time to send her off to kindergarten. She was about 3 when I discovered the term unschooling. I was following my gut, but also reading voraciously and engaging with total strangers in some of the most powerful, thought provoking and eye opening conversations I have been a part of my entire life.

I wrote a lot about my life with children when the kids were little. In many ways, I was documenting the details I've always been fearful would escape me. It was really no more than a continuation of habit I've pretty much had for as long as I've been able to hold a pencil, the narration of my own life. But as well, I was making a record for myself, proof that unschooling worked, perhaps, or evidence I could turn to when I came up against doubts.

Then at some point I stopped writing... or stopped sharing it, for better or worse. Overcome with shyness, perhaps, as I was introducing myself to my new community. A struggle with a bit of depression, more accurately, as I succumbed to physical roadblocks and faced the reality of my mortality. But the learning never stopped and the belief in my children and in what they were capable of never stopped growing.

In the years since I became a mother I have spent tremendous energy exploring and connecting the dots in my world, and along the way these three children of mine have become my greatest allies, my co-conspirators on this journey we call life. No longer was I testing a method of educating them, we were simply living and learning and making mistakes and celebrating successes. We were learning from each other and learning apart, and at some point I must have realized I was no longer worried about screwing things up and wishing I had done it differently. I did it exactly right, even in all the times I ended up doing it wrong. I freed myself from the bonds of traditional thinking and action, initially with regard to educating children, and it grew to be so much more than that.

Sometimes I feel as if I am still in the act of falling into something special, enabling and powerful. Most often, I feel how this way of living has become habit. It's simply the way I look at things. It's the assumptions I make about the nature of people, young and old, and how open I have come to the belief that anything is possible. When I forget this, my children are pretty good at reminding me, often through a simple act or comment that they wouldn't even note as important.

A friend recently asked me what my daughter was going to do once she graduates. I simply shrugged and said I honestly have no idea, and I know enough by now to know that it's okay. How to explain that "graduation" is a concept that really doesn't even fit our plans? Yet she is designing her graduation announcement with her own blend of wit and sarcasm thrown in, and we've spent some time brainstorming her "I'm headed out into the world" party... or not... for lack of a better term for it. She is defining her future right now and has been, and I expect she will be for many years to come. I've never been in a hurry for her to grow up and leave the nest, and I don't really expect her to slip into traditional roles that children play when she's been free of them all her life. We talk a lot about what is happening to her age-mates in public schools. We've adopted terminology over the years to help answer questions that are inevitably sometimes asked. Sometimes we use it, and sometimes we are content to shrug and simply say it doesn't apply.

I don't know that I understand any more about raising (or certainly educating) children today than I did 17 years ago when I was only just beginning. I do know that trust in yourself and trust in them is the biggest part of the puzzle. I also know that whatever you figure out with kid #1, is likely to befuddle you again when the second kid comes along. I know I am going to continue to make mistakes and so are they. I know we will learn from most of them, and some we will simply try to put behind us. I know the success and joy we experience are going to far outweigh any stumbles.

Sometimes I am still baffled that not every family chooses to live this way. Sometimes I meet someone who seems to tackle it all -- the job, the parenting, the schoolhouse, the world -- in such an impressive way that I wonder, for a moment, if I and my family might have been one of them. My children don't share these doubts. I have asked, and they have answered. Yet I ask again, and they assure me if they change their minds and want to try something more traditional, they will certainly speak up and let me know. Of that, I have no doubts. My children have learned nothing if not to speak their minds.

I am thinking I am going to spend a little time writing here about my children again. If you have any questions about unschooling, I am happy to try to answer. I can share our experiences, at the very least.

It only takes one headline

to turn a perfectly productive and peaceful day on end. 

I'd gotten online for what... I don't remember. But soon found myself watching online footage of a horror story unfolding. I'd shed a few tears only a few hours earlier over a circulating story of a 4-year-old who had written a letter to God to let him know what her dog looked like so that he would recognize it and take care of it in heaven. I could have allowed myself to dwell on the ways this story was inconsistent with my worldview, but what I chose to focus on was an act of kindness. An act that brought tears to my eyes, no less.

But the news from Connecticut, when I checked back online for some simple something, was an inconsistency I could not see over, around, or past. Children murdered. Ripped from life violently, and too soon. Unsuspecting parents and families and friends forever changed.

And already the shouting was starting. Who or what shall we blame this time?

I forced myself to look away, though already suffering effects of the wound. Any peace of mind or fuzzy warmth I had been feeling about humanity only moments before were already beginning to leak away.

The rhythm of my nature is to exchange periods of active, social participation and interaction with periods of solitude and contemplation. It has taken me years to understand that this is normal (for me) and not a flaw I should try to fix. I don't have to follow up weeks of successful extroversion with continued time forcing myself to be what no longer feels natural. And when I'm tired of spending time with myself, when I realize I'm no longer good company, I stretch my arms and embrace others in a more active way. It's a refilling of my glass, I might explain. It's the way I keep my internal scale balanced.

Today, however, I looked away from the news reports and warned myself, don't let this change what you know.

Despair said to me, "Why bother," and "Just wall yourself off and hide." "All the good you attempt in an entire lifetime will never erase these events, will never make things right in a world that has gone so wrong."

And in a matter of hours, I found myself slogging through a Friday routine I typically find invigorating. Contemplating quitting. Thinking life would be easier if I didn't care or involve myself in anything outside myself at all.

It only takes one headline to turn a perfectly productive and peaceful day on end.

Today, I have wept for children I will never know. The free-flow of my tears are another thing it has taken me years to understand. As well, the way I know I will eventually read every detail, absorb every word of information I can about this unfathomable pain that has been inflicted on so many lives.

And though it will throw my natural rhythm off, I have years of experience that have taught me how to re-find my center and my belief that people have the power to make the world a better place. I am one of them, and you are one of them. Whatever your gift; give it.

"When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.' To this day, especially in times of 'disaster,' I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers--so many caring people in this world." -- Mister Rogers

Late Night, Too Much Inspiration... and Probably Too Much Caffeine

Have you ever had the thought that you are right at the edge of something wonderful? Something you haven't quite glimpsed just yet, but you know it is that something you've been looking for... maybe not looking for, but in the process of creating... it's that big, giant, wonder-thing that is finally going to give shape--or maybe name-- to your whole reason for being here to begin with.

Yeah, it sounds kind of crazy from where I sit, too.

Yet I keep thinking it. I'm here, right at the edge of it -- MY it -- whatever it may be. I've been collecting these concepts and ideals (ideas too, but always highlighting the ones I want to light my path) and ways of living my life for so long now. And finally, through a series of grasping at all the small pieces that make sense to me, and I am beginning to comprehend my big picture.

Maybe.

Secret Message to My BS on her BD

Okay, so maybe not so secret. I didn't get the phone picked up today, but have thought happy things about you all day long. Hope you see this when you next check in online. Or maybe you are still partying on your travels. I expect a full report by phone soon.

If I were a Gardener

I come from people who find solace when shaping the earth. My father farmed for many years. When he gave up farming, his garden grew greener and larger. My mother grew flowers and carved fish ponds. She created outdoor living areas complete with seating, scenery and often an abundance of butterflies. Both of my brothers show this trait (or combined with their spouses, they do) of merging living space with nature so that the living space of their homes spill effortlessly out into their yards. My sister, as well, brings her yard indoors to an attached greenhouse on her home. It is one of the most peaceful, beautiful places I know.

This gene... this skill... seems to have missed me completely. I've lived six years in a house that I selected for it's roomy/empty three lots and have managed one small strawberry bed (I can't even take credit for that, it is my daughter's) and the addition of some hen and chicks and chocolate mint to the sadly managed flower garden that already existed just in front of the porch when we moved in. We had a fish pond for one summer that I filled in after discovering that the abundance of garter snakes were happily feeding on my fish.

With all this outdoor space, my preferred spot remains at the kitchen table, my back to the window or sometimes perched at a folding table in the living room. When I want to read, I will more often curl up in my bed with a book, even when the weather is perfect for being outdoors. Bringing the outdoors in, for me, entails opening up the windows and letting a box fan draw in a bit of fresh air for half a day once or twice in the springtime and maybe another couple of times in the fall.

My successful growing efforts currently include two very sad geraniums, a plant my son brought home that I do not know the name of, an amaryllis that my son once got for a present and a handful of plants at the office for which my husband probably deserves more credit for keeping alive than do I. I don't even want to admit to the number of fresh herb plants I have tried to grow and successfully neglected to the point of no return in the past couple of years. 

Since my son's attention has wandered through and past growing things for the time being, I find myself trying to come to terms with the fact that mine is a lawn that will probably always just be mowed. Permaculture and the various methods of low-maintenance gardening I've looked into over the years, for all the potential benefits, still require that at least a modicum of sustained, hands-on interest follow the reading about, planning for, and daydreaming that I tend to excel at where shaping my own soil is concerned. 

Late last week I had the opportunity to tour Arnold's Greenhouse, a gorgeous farm near here that has become a popular destination for hardcore gardeners. I was immediately inspired, and then almost as immediately began to feel a bit down and depressed. As much as I would love to have my mother's outdoor sitting areas, my father's food-producing gardens, and my the stamina, like my siblings, for ongoing efforts that result in places homey and green, I'm thinking it might be time for me to put away the to-do list that has to do with yard improvement.

My creative efforts are more successfully spent elsewhere. As much as I'd love to have a lovely yard, I guess I don't want it badly enough to make it happen... at least, for the time being.

This rose is a sort of antique, faded shade of pink. I'm not usually a fan of pink, but I liked this a lot. If I were to grow roses, this is a color I might choose. (photo from Arnold's Greenhouse, near LeRoy, KS)

Thinking About Weighty Books

The week has passed in a blur even though I remember, early on, looking at the calendar and thinking the week might turn out somewhat relaxing. Busy, but the overall balance felt pretty good. Keeping current with the farmers market, the hubby's office, and managing to spend some good quality time with the kids. We started reading Treasure Island this week. It was Middle Munchkin's turn to pick. We've had a collection of books on our shelf for most of her lifetime, the Great Books for Children series. It pre-dates even me. My mother's handwriting, inside the covers, say the books are a gift to her children, my three siblings. No mention of Tracy, as I was apparently not even thought of yet. I think we ended up with most of the collection when my dad was working on cleaning out his house.

Anyway, these books have been the kid picks several times over the years. It's funny, because I was a reader as a kid, and though I remember these books on the bookshelf, I don't remember having a specific interest in reading them. Reading them with the kids, however, bits and pieces of the stories come back to me and in some cases it's the illustrations in the books that confirm for me that I actually spent time at least looking at the books when I was young. Most of the stories I was exposed to in one way or another over time, but as much as I read, I don't have a memory of actually sitting down with these books and reading them cover to cover.

We had this built-in book shelf in our living room when I was growing up. It wasn't very wide, but it was tall, and it contained the entire set of World Book Encyclopedias, as well as the Great Books Series for Children, and perhaps my favorite, the Childcraft Series which contained books such as What People Do, Places to Know, Stories and Fables, and Poems and Ryhmes.

That bookshelf was my internet as I was growing up. It's the place I went when I was looking for something to do or to entertain myself. I loved selecting a letter of the alphabet, pulling that encyclopedia from the shelf, and just browsing for hours, reading here and there, anything that interested me.

Those big books and that bookshelf were also good for building castle walls or a cave to hide in. All it took was a few properly pinned sheets, perhaps the cushions off the couch, and columns of heavy books to form a barrier. Sometimes you had to be careful that the book you wished to read inside the fortress did not get used as building material. 

When my dad "cleaned house" after my mom died, those books became part of my collection for a while. I don't think all of them have survived our moves, but may of them remain. I know at least the encyclopedia set was donated to a library sale. I've still got selections of the others tucked away in boxes and in storage. As much as I'd love to have all of them out on shelves, there simply isn't room for hundreds of pounds of books, and let's face it, that encyclopedia set was dated even in my day. (I want to say that our set was copyright 1957, though it may have been later.)

My dream house has always contained bookshelves, built into the wall just like the one in the house I grew up in. We've done a lot with freestanding bookshelves in our house, but they always seem overweighted and flimsy compared to that one in the hole in the wall I knew growing up. I could use the shelves of that bookshelf as a ladder to get to the top when I was still short! I've never had a bookshelf quite that sturdy in my own home.

Inside My Head, I Must be Longing for a Trip to Western Kansas

And yet another week gone by... this one has not felt as leisurely, however. It's been rather full... and it's not over yet. I'm taking my sharpshooting kid to a match in Holton today. I plan to make a stop in Topeka. We'll call it a bit of mother/daughter time. I'm looking forward to the road trip with one. Anytime there is an opportunity to spend time with one as apposed to three, I learn all sorts of new stuff I hadn't managed to pick up on hanging out with them as a group.

As well as busy, it's been a dream-filled week. I think every night has sent me traveling west. Nothing specific about the dreams except the location -- grandma's old house which we lived in when we returned to Kansas some fourteen years ago. Sometimes it's remodeled the way it was when we lived there. Sometimes it's the same as it was when I was a child, and Grandma is there, and my mother is there, and my three kids are there and sometimes other kids that I don't know. Sometimes it's Grandma's house on the outside, but the inside is a maze of rooms and places I do not know.  The lilacs are still tall and line the drive between Grandma's house and the place my folks live. In my dreams, I've stood at the front door to Grandma's house and looked toward the house I grew up in, but I've not ventured there, because inside Grandma's house it's just bustling and busy and there are so many things to attend to it seems I can barely keep up.

At the track at the gym on Friday, I found myself drawn west again. I've often fought the general monotony of walking round and round on the indoor walking track, but I've had success, of late, with clearing my mind and making it something of a meditative, as well as physical practice. Somewhere among the endless loops I found my feet covered in dust as I pictured myself, mile-wise, in western Kansas. The road that runs east/west from the house I grew up in (right next door to Grandma's house) is so familiar to me after 25 some years of walking, that I know mile-by-mile where I would be if I were walking there instead of at the track.

Between the birth of Middle Munchkin and Munchkin Boy I traveled that road on foot near-daily, logging 5 miles most mornings through the spring and summer. Many mornings I started in the dark, taking advantage of hubby's getting-ready for work routine to make the trek alone. On others, I pushed the girls in a big shade covered buggy meant to attach to a bicycle. Either way, I was never lonely on that road.

It was the road my cousins and I would travel in grade school as we "ran away" from civilization. On horseback, I shared that road with my mom, my friend Mandy, and the various friends who would come out for a day to stay for a day in the country. It was the road that led to the old Amish cemetery that we would sometimes travel to by bike. When I learned to drive, it was the road, away from home, I first drove solo on.

At the gym, there is a stationary bike program where, if you sign in, you can ride alongside ghosts of yourself from previous rides. I wonder if the person who had the idea of placing ghosts in the rides had a lonely country road in their past that was owned by no one and traveled by few. Those ghosts don't hold the same allure as my western Kansas road. Sometimes they are good for a challenge to race against, but they don't talk and tell me stories like those ghosts on that road out west.

Empty Bookstore

A couple of weeks ago when the hubs and I were celebrating our anniversary, we walked into the Barnes & Noble store in Wichita. Big bookstores have always been something of a treat for us. All book stores are a treat, actually, but we have long had a tradition of browsing for hours on end at the biggest stores we can find whenever we are on vacation or just needing a date night. The B&N in Wichita has been a standard stop for our family for years. When the kids were little and we lived in western Kansas, we would always make a stop whether just passing through town or visiting for a few days. In fact, if we were in town multiple days, we’d spend time at the B&N the first day and then go down the street to Borders Bookstore (which closed a couple of years ago) on the second day.

Upon entering the store, something felt off. There were quite a few shoppers, but the balance was wrong. They were too close to the front of the store. There was too much conversation going on. I felt uncomfortable immediately, and it took me a moment to figure out what the problem was.

It was Rand who saw the sign first. The store was closing in just a few days. It also invited visitors to shop at the store’s other location on Rock Road. I was already familiar with the new store. I’d visited it early in the year when we were in town for a friend’s wedding. It’s big and it’s beautiful, but it hadn’t really occurred to me that it was intended to replace the original store.

My first thought was that maybe we’d find some sales that would be impossible to pass up. I’m always happy for an excuse to buy a new book, after all. So we decided to browse a bit and see what we could find. It was mostly empty bookshelves, however, and the deeper I got in the bookstore, the sadder I grew.

Entire portions of the store had already been dismantled. The children’s section was entirely bare. I was thankful to have another bookstore nearby to visit, but I couldn’t help but think I was getting a glimpse of the future. A future where there are no more books printed on lovely paper filling rows and rows of shelves; a future where people don’t read deeper than what will fit on the screen of their little handheld electronic devices.

I don’t really believe that last part is the direction we are headed. Not entirely. There are too many people, like me, who find joy in the written word. The form of the book is changing, however, and I do imagine there will be a day when we say, “Remember when books were printed on paper and you had to turn the pages…”

I used to be a Cowgirl

Lousy picture, but this is me -- several lifetimes ago -- on my horse, Peggy (short for Pegasus). I don't know why I've been thinking about horses lately. It's been ages since I've been on a horse. The last time I had the opportunity to ride a horse, I didn't even take it. I stayed on the ground with my camera and watched the kids ride, instead.

It's weird how perspective changes. There was a time in my life when I would have told you that I would always have a horse. I grew up on a farm (well, in the country anyway) and a pony in the pasture was pretty much a permanent fixture. I grew up attempting to ride a Shetland/Welsh cross named Roberta who was as ornery as a horse can get. She was also gentle, however. I mean, she didn't mind dumping a kid, but she always did so gently. 

I can remember being about 4 or 5 and my mother was leading Roberta. I wanted to go faster so mom broke into a jog. The saddle must not have been tight (that pony knew about puffing up and holding her breath while you put the saddle on so that it was so tight for the ride). Anyway, my memory is of going bounce, bounce, bounce, all the way around the side of the horse until suddenly I was underneath her and couldn't hold on any longer. That horse ran right over me, but she didn't hurt me at all. It was as if she knew that actually stepping on me with all her weight would be a bad thing, so she kind of skipped over me and then, along with my mother, turned to look at me as if questioning my wisdom for lying on the ground.

Of course, all my friends loved riding that pony. She was pretty good about being led around the yard with an inexperienced kid on her back. It was always a challenge trying to ride her without a lead, though. One of the favorite games for me and my cousins was to get on Roberta at the house and then ride down the driveway and see if we could get her past the end of the row of lilacs. She'd start off like she was happy to go somewhere, but as soon as she reached the end of the lilac hedge, she'd dart to the left and take off at a run. She'd head straight for the lowest hanging branch of the nearest elm tree. As soon as she was sure she'd scraped the rider from her back, she'd stop and graze, waiting to be led back to the house so that we could play the game again.

All those years riding and being knocked from that horses back and I never worried about wearing a helmet or breaking a bone.

When I was about twelve, I started riding regularly with my friend Mandy. Her family had several horses and most were all better behaved than my Roberta pony. I rode a horse named Freckles, and Mandy rode a horse named Sunny. Somewhere along the line, I convinced my father that I needed a big horse of my own. That's how we ended up with Peggy. I don't suppose she was a fantastic horse, but in my eyes she was beautiful and she was all mine. I could ride her for miles and miles and miles whenever I wanted, and I did.

Mandy and I would sometimes meet early in the morning and spend the entire day on horseback. We rode through ponds and irrigation tailwater pits. We rode to town and through the drive-throughs at fast-food restaurants. One time we rode all the way to the north side of Dodge City (we lived about five miles to the south) and stopped and visited friends along the way.

Lately I've been dreaming of being on horseback again. I'm not even sure how I'd manage it. While I can remember the feel and the smell of a horse, and the memory of those leisurely days with nothing to do but ride is a wonderful one, the thought of being on a horse again makes me a bit anxious. I certainly wouldn't be so cavalier about falling off these days. 

Status Update

“Happy Monday, folks! It’s going to be another good week,” I wrote on my Facebook wall yesterday. Already that morning I’d gone from a less-than-stellar gym visit to fighting with incomprehensible new accounting software and tax return mis-figuring. 

I needed the break to visit my friends online.

I caught up on other’s musings, posted my new status, and returned to my mission of having a great day.

I ask myself, was my status sincere, or was it just wishful thinking?

My mother always encouraged me to speak my reality into being. As a kid, I was skeptical of her approach, but the older I get, the more I believe she was absolutely correct in her approach. There is no way to get happier by dwelling on the negative. You don’t get better by focusing solely on what ails you. Sometimes you've got to search for the silver lining. Sometimes you’ve got to work a little harder for your pot of gold.

I hope you’ve had a terrific Tuesday and are looking forward to a wonderful Wednesday, as well.

The Anti Anti-Holiday-Letter Rant

Dear Friend, 

As someone who has been sending them for nearly 20 years, I’ve earned the right to speak up in support of those who take the time to share their family happenings and yearly highlights each holiday season – via email or snail mail – matters not to me.

I want you to know that when your letter comes to my mailbox, I am always delighted with the contents. Please don’t apologize for the mass mailing or the form letter. You’ve taken the time to tell me something about your life and I can’t begin to tell you how much more meaningful that is to me than a card with just your signature on the inside.

It is true that in an ideal world, we would see each other more often and have the opportunity to catch up in person, but the fact of the matter is that you live there and I live here and we both have busy and full lives. It would have been easy for us to have forgotten all about one another by now, but because we make it a priority to, at the very least, exchange these once-a-year greetings, it will be even more likely that we will reconnect one day in person. Maybe I’ll be traveling through your town and will think of you (because I’ve gotten your letter each year) and I will look you up. Maybe you’ll be traveling through mine.

I don’t look upon it as bragging when you tell me about the accomplishments of your children or of the things that have happened to your family in the past year. To those who do, I think they should take a moment to rethink their stance. We live in a world that is far too quick to dwell on the negative and focus on the sorrow. Perhaps the condition of our world would improve if we all took the time to focus on what we are grateful for. We should ride the wave of a friend’s good fortune and be happy alongside them rather than look for ways to tear them down.

I appreciate your sorrows, as well. The death of a pet or the death of a parent, these are all part of our shared experience as humans and I like to think we do good for one another just sending kind thoughts or healing energy each other’s way.

You can be guaranteed that I will read your letter at least three times before the day is over. The first time, I will likely still be standing there in front of my mailbox, unless it’s truly cold and the snow is blowing, then I might take the time to scurry inside before I indulge myself in your words. I will memorize the faces of your children, even if I’ve never met them, and I will look for what I remember about you in their eyes, their smiles, their noses and their interests.

My kids will see your letter and they’ll ask, “Who’s that?” and I’ll tell them about the year you lived across the hall in college, or how I met you at my very first “real” job, or we’ll review the family tree so they can visualize where you hang on it. If they’ve met you, and probably even if they have not, we will pull out the photo albums and play remember-when.

When the holidays are over, I will bundle your letters with others I have received and store them in a cabinet where I save my sentimental treasures. Cards will go to someone’s recycled art project, but the letters I will keep where I know I can read them again.

In every place and stage of my life, I’ve left behind people who meant a lot to me. There was a time when I worked very hard to keep in touch with every single one of them. At some point, I began winnowing that list down. Those who send me holiday letters, even if it is the exact same letter that has been mailed to 101 other people, never fall off my list. It says to me that I mean enough you want to keep in touch, as well. It’s worth it. We’ve got history together, and I enjoy seeing where the twists and turns of life have taken you.

So don’t apologize for your photocopied letters, or your mass emailed letters, or your links to letters online. They are read and they are well received. I look forward to them every year. And if they lead to the occasional, more personal email, or a phone call, or even a visit – now or 15 years from now – they will be worth every effort.

Thank you for taking the time to write.

Tracy

P.S. My annual holiday letter is not fully distributed yet. If 2012 gets here and you still haven’t received one from me, feel free to rattle my cage.

P.P.S. It occurs to me that, aside from family, I tend to add folks to my annual letter list when I’ve left a place behind. I guess I tend to assume that if you see me on a somewhat regular basis, you are already informed. No slight intended, and the link to my letter should be up soon if you want to send me an email, I’ll share.

A Vegetarian is Not an Alien Being

Forgive me for a little mini-rant. I've been sitting on this a couple of days and am having trouble shaking it. People who choose NOT to eat meat are not freaks. They are not any more difficult to have as guests in your home than any other person. I don't understand the panic and dramatics of otherwise perfectly pleasant people.

"Oh my god! A vegetarian at my table!! What am I going to do??"

You just serve a meal and there is no need to apologize when they pass on the meat dish. If you are polite, it would be nice not to add bacon to your potato salad. But you don't have to get hysterical and fret about it, and it's not necessary to bring it up again and again for weeks afterward.

Some people choose not to eat meat.

Enough said.

Feels Like Star Trek, Only Not So Much

Sometimes I save ideas for entries as drafts with the expectation that the title will spark my memory enough to come back later and fill in the blanks. I honestly can't remember what I was thinking when I typed the above, but I do know that I expected to find this photo when I opened the post this evening. The photo wasn't there, of course, so I had to go find it. I had to bump people off the computer in the other room -- the one where all the photos are saved -- and email the photo to myself on this computer, all the while thinking that maybe the photo would get me back to my original train of thought.

That could be it... something about trains of thought. But I don't think so.

The title still intrigues me, so I shall leave it even though it will likely have no connection to what I end up writing. I also like the photo even though I don't suppose there is anything especially unique about it. I like the long stretchy people shadows in front of the train. I like that I know the engineer was waving at me when I took this photo, even though you can't see that he was waving at me.

The train is the one that brought me back to Kansas last week.

Travelling by train sounds so romantic. A good idea, and the price is usually right, but I find it's not necessarily the way I like to travel. I don't sleep well on trains. When I close my eyes, the rocking motion of the train becomes exaggerated and motion sickness creeps up on me. I suppose in an ideal world I'd just stay awake the whole time. But the hours I've ridden aren't usually conducive to staying awake. So I try to nap and the rocking gets to me and then I try to stay awake and I am exhausted. I get impatient for the wheel. I guess I like having the steering wheel in my hands. I like that stops only last as long as it takes me to stretch my legs and that I can drive or stop or get side-tracked as I please.

None-the-less, I still have fantasies about a long train trip in a sleeper car. I'd like to try it all the way across the country. Sounds silly, I know. If I find myself fidgety on an 8-hour train ride, who knows what condition I would be in after 18... or more! I'd still like to try. Maybe if I rode the train beyond my own driving range I'd learn to relax and enjoy the ride a little more.

Today is a Writing Day

Today is a writing day... a me, me, me day, though I started early with work (writing) for the farmers market and kitchen cleaning and even managed meal planning and shopping/date with the hubby.

In the last several days I have found myself reading recollections of 9/11, but purposefully avoiding any television coverage and actual video replay of the day. It's somehow easier to take in words at my own pace that to be bombarded with images. My son is ten years old. It is him, as a baby, that I clung to that day as I watched the news and the images of the towers falling. Those pictures remain fresh in my mind as if they were yesterday. It is only this nearly grown boy who helps me remember it was ten years ago rather than yesterday.

Last night I dreamed of being in a house that was on fire. I dreamed I was trying to escape. I dreamed all the exits were blocked and it was dark and the air was thick with dust and I could not find a way out. I dreamed it, but it was not as disturbing as you might imagine because I dreamed that my grandmother was there with me and whenever Grandma shows up in dreams I enjoy talking to her and getting her perspective on things. I actually say things like, "There you are! I've missed you so much." Even when we are trying to get out of a house that is on fire. I asked Grandma why my mother was not there too. The two of them often provide answers to the questions I have trouble voicing. Grandma just smiled and said she came alone this time.

Today we drove by the fire station on our way to the grocery store and I watched the flags wave in the lovely Kansas breeze. I teared up wondering what my mother's take would have been on all of this. Then I thought about our lives today and how my mother would be involved if she were still here. Middle Munchkin is working on a sewing project and I imagined how my daughter would be taking those projects to western Kansas to work with Mom and how much joy my mother would have gotten from sewing with her granddaughter. I imagine my loss times thousands. It is too big, too much to comprehend.

I read other's recollections instead of watching television because I can take the words in at my own pace.