Alaska Bookworm

Book Review: "Drood" by Dan Simmons

2009-03-11T13:45:00.003-08:00

“Drood” chronicles the last five years of Charles Dickens’ life as told from the first person perspective of Dickens’ friend and some-time collaborator, fellow author Wilkie Collins. It is a story of the creative process, of the limits of friendship and sympathy, of addictive behavior, and destructive tendencies of envy. Simmons has taken on a momentous undertaking – reconciling the abundance of history from Dickens’ time, and describing it through the lens of psychological horror.

The book is long, at times it plods. I frequently wished it were a couple hundred pages shorter. In fairness to Simmons, this book shouldn’t be read strictly as a fast-paced novel of suspense. Taking advantage of the popularity of Simmons’ previous book, “The Terror”, I found the marketing of this newer work to be misleading. This book is less about Dickens than Collins. It is less about the mysterious and horrible figure of Drood, than of the inner workings of Collins’ own demented mind.

It is a curious thing that Simmons chose to tell the story the way in which he does. As narrator, the laudanum-addicted Collins is inherently an untrustworthy voice. Consequently, his narrative has inexplicable elements that can unnerve the reader. But clearly this is a deliberate effort on Simmons’ part and it is effective if, at times, frustrating.

Admittedly, I did not like “Drood” as much as I’d hoped I would; “The Terror” was one of my favorite books of 2007. I had hoped for a similar if not superior reading experience. Nevertheless, Simmons has done an extraordinary thing maintaining Collins’ unlikeable voice throughout the entirety of the book, and from the little cross-referencing I did of both Dickens’ and Collins’ biographies, Simmons’ adherence to the historical sequence of events and facts from the authors’ pasts, is surprisingly tight. It is also most clever how Simmons borrows elements from both Collins’ and Dickens’ work during those final five years, 1865 to 1870, especially “The Moonstone” and the unfinished “The Mystery of Edwin Drood.”

“Drood” should be read, but not in a vacuum. Read also short histories of Collins and Dickens. Read “The Moonstone”(by Collins) and “The Mystery of Edwin Drood” (by Dickens). Make a game of it.

“Drood” is a good book if for no other reason than it inspired in me a much greater and interest and appreciation for the life and work of Charles Dickens.

A Year in Reading

2009-01-13T19:20:00.002-09:00

January
1. "The Year of Living Biblically" by A.J. Jacobs
2. "Born Standing Up" by Steve Martin
3. "A Prayer for Owen Meany" by John Irving
4. "Two for the Dough" by Janet Evanovich
5. "Talking Hands" by Margalit Fox
6. "Empress of Asia" by Adam Lewis Schroeder
7. "The Invention of Hugo Cabret" by Brian Selznik
8. "Disappearance: A Map" by Sheila Nickerson
9. "Heart-Shaped Box" by Joe Hill
10. "On Chesil Beach" by Ian McEwan

February
11. "The Chess Machine" by Robert Lohr
12. "The Dead Fathers Club" by Matt Haig
13. "Danny Gospel" by David Athey
14. "Take This Bread" by Sara Miles
15. "The Translator" by Daoud Hari
16. "Patrick" by Stephen Lawhead

March
17. "People of the Book" by Geraldine Brooks
18. "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" by Jeff Kinney
19. "Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Rodrick Rules" by Jeff Kinney
20. "Nine Parts of Desire" by Geraldine Brooks
21. "Wrack and Ruin" by Don Lee
22. "The Other Boleyn Girl" by Philippa Gregory
23. "I, Elizabeth" by Rosalind Miles

April
24. “Lying Awake” by Mark Salzman
25. “The Enchantress of Florence” by Salman Rushdie
26. “The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse” by Robert Rankin
27. “Imagine Me and You” by Billy Mernit
28. “Time and Again” by Jack Finney
29. “Lunch Money” by Andrew Clements
30. “Dervishes” by Beth Helms
31. “The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian” by Sherman Alexie
32. “Belong to Me” by Marisa de los Santos

May
33. “Bridge of Birds” by Barry Hughart
34. “Duma Key” by Stephen King
35. “America America” by Ethan Canin
36. “Avalon High” by Meg Cabot
37. “Twilight” by Stephenie Meyer
38. “Jim the Boy” by Tony Earley

June
39. “Bonk” by Mary Roach
40. “Enchantment” by Orson Scott Card
41. “A Great and Terrible Beauty” by Libba Bray
42. “The Outcast” by Sadie Jones
43. “Are You There God? It’s Me, Kevin” by Kevin Keck
44. “New Moon” by Stephenie Meyer
45. “Rebel Angels” by Libba Bray
46. “Biblioholism” by Tom Raabe
47. “Dreamers of the Day” by Mary Doria Russell
48. “Year of Wonders” by Geraldine Brooks
49. “Sabriel” by Garth Nix
50. “Eclipse” by Stephenie Meyer

July
51. “Mister Sandman” by Barbara Gowdy
52. “Jim and Casper Go to Church” by Jim Henderson
53. “P.S. I Love You” by Cecelia Ahern
54. “The Sweet Far Thing” by Libba Bray
55. “Gods Behaving Badly” by Marie Phillips
56. “Rules” by Cynthia Lord
57. “Whales on Stilts” by M. T. Anderson
58. “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society” by Mary Ann Shaffer
59. “The Lambs of London” by Peter Ackroyd
60. “The Toyminator” by Robert Rankin
61. “The Monster of Florence” by Douglas Preston

August
62. “The Third Angel” by Alice Hoffman
63. “The Blue Star” by Tony Earley
64. “Beautiful Boy” by David Sheff
65. “If You Lived Here, I’d Know Your Name” by Heather Lende
66. “Cool It” by Bjorn Lomborg
67. “Books: A Memoir” by Larry McMurtry
68. “Lavinia” by Ursula K. LeGuin
69. “The Gargoyle” by Andrew Davidson
70. “The Man Who Loved China” by Simon Winchester

September
71. “The Things They Carried” by Tim O’Brien
72. “The White Tiger” by Aravind Adiga
73. “Breaking Dawn” by Stephenie Meyer
74. “We Have Always Lived in the Castle” by Shirley Jackson
75. “Watchmen” by Alan Moore
76. “Any Given Doomsday” by Lori Handeland

October
77. “The Secret Scripture” by Sebastian Barry
78. “The Brief History of the Dead” by Kevin Brockmeier
79. “Motherless Brooklyn” by Jonathan Lethem
80. “The Antipope” by Robert Rankin
81. “Looking for Alaska” by John Green
82. “The Uncommon Reader” by Alan Bennett
83. “The Witches of Eastwick” by John Updike

November
84. “The Color of Magic” by Terry Pratchett
85. “March” by Geraldine Brooks
86. “Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist” by Rachel Cohn and David Levithan
87. “An Abundance of Katherines” by John Green
88. “The Giver” by Lois Lowry
89. “The Last Sin Eater” by Francine Rivers
90. “The Reader” by Bernhard Schlink
91. “Here’s the Story” by Maureen McCormick
92. “The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing” by M. T. Anderson
93. “A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian” by Marina Lewycka
94. “A Severe Mercy” by Sheldon Vanauken
95. “The Boy Who Fell Out of the Sky” by Ken Dornstein
96. “The Case of the Linoleum Lederhosen” by M. T. Anderson
97. “Feed” by M. T. Anderson
98. “Paper Towns” by John Green

December
99. “The Jewel of Median” by Sherry Jones
100. “The Suburban Christian” by Albert Y. Hsu
101. “Thirsty” by M. T. Anderson
102. “The Small Woman” by Alan Burgess
103. “Uglies” by Scott Westerfeld
104. “I Once Was Lost” by Don Everts
105. “The Brentford Triangle” by Robert Rankin
106. “The Weirdstone of Brisingamen” by Alan Garner
107. “Doubting” by Alister McGrath
108. “Garden Spells” by Sarah Addison Allen
109. “The Sugar Queen” by Sarah Addison Allen
110. “The Buried Book” by David Damrosch

It was a good year for reading. Inspired by the discussion thread I joined early in the year on LibraryThing.com (The 2008 75-Book Challenge), I pushed myself to meet goal. “Cheating” a bit, I read a great many more books for youth (shorter than most adult novels) than I ever had before (since I was last a youth myself, that is). Happily, I discovered some great youth lit authors. In particular I am impressed with M. T. Anderson and John Green, and also greatly enjoyed Libba Bray’s trilogy.

Ten of the books I read were advanced readers’ copies, sent free from publishers in exchange for internet-posted reviews. One of those books ended up being my favorite book of the year: “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society” which actually became a best-seller and was even well-enough received to be sold at Costco (a literary accolade that not even Pulitzer and Man Booker winners can necessarily boast).

I started two humorous series by British authors: the well-known Disc World series by Terry Pratchett, and the lesser known (in the US, anyway) Brentford series by Robert Rankin.

There was only one re-read for the year: John Irving’s “A Prayer for Owen Meany” which I enjoyed even more the second time around, and remains my favorite book of all time.

I read my first ever graphic novel this year: the acclaimed “Watchmen” by Alan Moore, which also rates in the year’s top five.

My least-favorite book of the year was (surprising even to myself for the irony of the thing): “Books: A Memoir” by Larry McMurtry.

There were very brief email exchanges between myself and five of the authors I read this year, all of whom were very generous with their time and comments, especially when responding to critiques from me. Sherry Jones, Marisa de los Santos, and David Athey wrote books that were sent to me as part of LibraryThing’s Early Reviewers program. They were kind enough to respond to my reviews. Al Hsu was kind enough to respond to an inquiry from me regarding his nonfiction book, and sent some much-appreciated supplementary material. Kevin Keck read my disappointed review of his book on this blog, and graciously responded. After our brief exchange, I found myself liking his book a whole lot more.

According my calculations, I added 1,860 books to my personal library in 2008. This doesn’t include children’s picture books, but does include everything else from Junie B. Jones to “Mein Kampf”. This is the equivalent to purchasing 156 books per month, or 36 per week, or 5 per day. I purchased 17 times the number of books read. I've no idea how much money I spent accomplishing this, but its fair to say the vast majority were purchased second-hand.

My faves of the year in order of preference (not including my one re-read)(they almost couldn’t be more different):

1. “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society” by Mary Ann Shaffer
2. “The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian” by Sherman Alexie
3. “Looking for Alaska” by John Green
4. “Watchmen” by Alan Moore
5. (A three-way tie) “The Year of Living Biblically” by A. J. Jacobs, “Nine Parts of Desire” by Geraldine Brooks, and “Time and Again” by Jack Finney

Happy reading in 2009!

Book Review: The Jewel of Medina by Sherry Jones

2008-12-09T19:23:00.002-09:00

Earlier this year, in an attempt to learn more about Islam, I spent some time trying to find a fictionalized account of Muhammad’s life. At the time, I felt this would be a starting point for learning more about the foundations of Islam. Though my search was certainly not exhaustive, it was purposeful, but in the end I didn’t find any historical fiction about early Islam. I remembered thinking this seemed odd; a completely unmet literary niche. But since I had no plans to write such a book myself, I settled instead for a couple of nonfiction books by Karen Armstrong, which were highly recommended as primers about Muhammad and Islam.

By the time Sherry Jones’ book “The Jewel of Medina” became an LT ER option, I’d forgotten about my earlier quest to find historical Islamic fiction. Consequently, I neglected to realize that “The Jewel of Medina” is actually something of an extraordinary undertaking. It wasn’t until I was well over half way through the book that I learned about its controversial publication.

“The Jewel of Medina” tells the story of A’isha, who was married to Muhammad at a very young age (nine?). Her story explores the unique perspective of not only being a child bride, but also of being one of many wives. A’isha’s life occurs during a significant historical crossroads; she was witness to the birth of one of the world’s great religions, and all the bumps that attended that birth. It is also a story about love and friendship, communication and trust. It illustrates A’isha’s journey towards finding peace with oneself and one’s lot in life. While Muhammad is certainly a central character, this is a book about women, and its plotline is driven by their actions and feelings.

From a strictly literary standpoint, the book is mediocre. It is a moderately engaging story; neither difficult book to put down or difficult to pick up. Jones spends most of her time drawing the female characters and fleshing them out (specifically from A’isha’s perspective; the book is written in the first person). There is little room given to the sights, smells, and atmosphere of being in 7th Century Middle East. Consequently, that place to which the reader longs to step into is disappointingly blank. Little of the imagery lingers; there is little sensory stimulation. This was disappointment for me, because the aspect of historical fiction I most enjoy is to be transported to another place and time.

Authors are supposed to write what they know, and though Jones is certainly a woman and writes about women’s issues, she isn’t Muslim. Jones’ characters seem to be drawn heavily from a 20th Century perspective. There is a chasm of character-intuition that is self-defeating. This is a book more about feminism, 7th Century-style, and less about Islam itself.

Furthermore, I kept encountering the fatal flaw of a lot of historical fiction: how much of the story can be trusted as factual? For me, and a lot of my reading friends, this is a significant question. When this question comes between me and my ability to absorb the story, there is a problem. Especially when the story in unfamiliar territory. Jones’ novel is relationally-driven, rather than driven by historical fact.

For a story about the origins of one of history’s most influential and significant religions, the book is notably void of spirituality. This may be part of the inherent problem with writing about another person’s faith. The lack of Muhammad’s poetic revelations is notable. Everyone in the story seems to be paying lip service to “al-Lah”, but there seems to be no real “showing it” examples of the characters being molded and shaped by God. There is no sense of any character – Muhammad included – having a genuine encounter with God.

On the plus side, what Jones does right is to make her characters fully human. Despite their historical importance, they make mistakes; they are driven by lust, greed, and selfishness. In this sense, they are real and accessible. Even if it is from a 20th Century Western feminist perspective, there were times when I had to pause reading the book and imagine myself in a similar culture and time.

Is it possible for a non-Muslim, Western woman to tell this story? This question nagged at me from the get-go. And clearly, this seems to underlay many of my comments. Certainly, it is a story that should be written, as should many other stories about Islam. And if Muslim men and women won’t do it, who then is left?

Turning the question around, could a book about Jesus Christ written by an atheist be relevant? As a Christian, my answer to that question is: yes. If only to understand how someone outside of my belief system views its foundation and founder, yes, such a book would be very valuable. (And many such books – both respectful and scathing - have been written.) It is also likely there would be parts that would seem to “misunderstand” my faith, and perhaps even be offensive. But in a pluralistic society it is a hopeful sign when people of different worldviews and cultural contexts deeply try to respectfully understand and honor each other.

This is certainly what Sherry Jones has tried to do. No, she’s didn’t get everything right, but who of us ever does? It’s a place to start. If you enjoy Philippa Gregory’s books, and if you liked Anita Diamant’s “The Red Tent,” I suspect you might enjoy “The Jewel of Medina.”

Homage

2008-11-16T21:36:00.002-09:00

Note to self: Read every book ever written by author M. T. Anderson. Stop at nothing. Stoop to borrowing library books if necessary. Should the goal become fuzzy, remember: The man is a literary genius.

Moon Faeries: A Poem by Sabrina, Age 8

2008-09-19T13:04:00.003-08:00

Moon Faeries

(A Poem by Sabrina, Age 8)

Each moon has dark and light.
Each dewdrop twinkles like the stars
Making laughter turn into silence.
As the silence has a sound,
The sound echoes through someone’s ears;
Fragile….
Little….
The moon faeries.

One dewdrop like a tsunami.
‘Tis a nocturnal creature;
Thou lovable.
And through the night their singing is like a lullaby,
Gentle and sweet
Making time end through a lullaby.
Sweet and fair, partying with goblins and elves,
Finding themselves eating the crisp and juicy fruit.

Humans could not bear to only hear stories
Of parties every night,
Wanting to dance with the faeries
Eat with the elves
And chat the most lively chats looking at the humming rats.

Now would you run at this sight?
Most people find themselves in bed
Tangled in thread.
Was it a dream?
Still, the beam of laughter echoes through his ears.

Conversion

2008-09-19T13:04:00.000-08:00

Well, I never thought it could happen to me. It was always something that “happened to other people”. But here it is: I’ve gone low carb.

I can’t believe it. I’m not hungry anymore. I can only eat smallish portions. I don’t get low blood sugar. The extra weight is starting to drop off. I don’t crave “white food” anymore. I have energy and I’m feeling pretty good emotionally, and my typically hellacious PMS was ignorable. Is this how it feels to be NORMAL?

For example, lunch today was a lentil and spinach salad with some feta, cucumbers, onion and a tiny bit of low cal dressing. I made a huge portion because it’s mostly vegetables and lots of fiber, and I figured after nothing but a protein drink for breakfast, and then my workout, I would have a hearty appetite. Alas, a few bites in, and I am stuffed.

This is so weird.

Yes, I’m still drinking some “carbs” after 4pm (can’t give THAT up), but it doesn’t seem to matter. This is truly amazing.

I’ll tell ya. Going to the gym (daily) is (starting) to change my life.

Book Review: "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society" by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrow

2008-07-30T20:24:00.003-08:00

Several years ago, I worked at an art gallery here in Anchorage. Though I loved the art, I wasn’t much good at selling it. More often than not, I just chatted up the customers, who were from all over the world.

One night, four elderly people wandered in. They told me they were from a tiny island off the coast of southern England called “Guernsey”. I’d never heard of it, so they proudly explained it was the only part of British soil that had been occupied by the Nazis during World War II. The island was occupied for a long five years; an experience to which they had all been witnesses. At that moment, Guernsey was marked in my mind.

Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrow’s new book, “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society” is an opportunity to travel back in time to 1946 Guernsey.

Beginning early 1946 in London, Juliet Ashton, a British writer, and former war journalist, is emerging from the ashes of the war to rebuild her life and her identity. She has lost her home and all her possessions, most regrettably her book collection. Out of the blue, she responds to correspondence started by a resident of Guernsey, who has managed to obtain a second-hand book once owned by Juliet, in which she had long ago written her name and address. Through this initial contact, Juliet meets an entire community, and the course of her life is redirected.

Easily reminiscent of Helene Hanff’s epistolary classic, “84 Charing Cross Road”, the novel is written in the epistolary style. Shaffer and Barrow skillfully use this medium to successfully establish their characters and a solid storyline.

Charming, funny, sweet, and thoughtful, “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society” is a story that women might find more appealing than men. Yet, it is unflinching in its wartime recollections. The deprivations and devastation of the time are imaginatively and convincingly conveyed.

At its core, this is a book about the love of reading, and the magic of books.

I highly, highly recommend “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society”. Buy this book new and send a royalty in the direction of these lovely writers.

June 2008 Reading List

2008-07-19T10:51:00.002-08:00

June was a great month for reading. I read twelve books, five of which were from the library. These days, since it costs more to keep my gas tank full, I'm trying to check out more library books. This means I have to read more and faster to get through them and still be able to read some of what I own.

The asterisks following each entry indicates on a 5-point scale how I liked it.

1. "Bonk" by Mary Roach (***)
2. "Enchantment" by Orson Scott Card (**)
3. "A Great and Terrible Beauty" by Libba Bray (****)
4. "The Outcast" by Sadie Jones (****)
5. "Are You There God, It's Me. Kevin." by Kevin Keck (*)
6. "New Moon" by Stephenie Meyer (**)
7. "Rebel Angels" by Libba Bray (****)
8. "Biblioholism" by Tom Raabe (*****)
9. "Dreamers of the Day" by Mary Doria Russell (****)
10. "Year of Wonders" by Geraldine Brooks (***)
11. "Sabriel" by Garth Nix (***)
12. "Eclipse" by Stephenie Meyer (***)

I'm six books into July so far. I've been reading a couple short youth books to get my numbers up. I didn't much reading done on vacation.

The weather in Anchorage is unusually cool for this time in July - by about 10 degrees. It's also wetter than usual. More like August weather. I'm triply glad I got a dose of heat and sun while in Seattle.

Book Review: "Mister Sandman" by Barbara Gowdy

2008-07-19T10:50:00.001-08:00

“’The truth is only aversion.’” – Sonja Canary

In this beautifully written novel, the reader is introduced to each member of the Canary family. Early on it becomes clear that a great deal of how this unconventional family functions is through deceit. At first, it seems like this is a family doomed to destruction and angst. Afterall, the truth can only be buried so long. And, don’t most contemporary novels featuring highly dysfunctional families end sadly?

Happily, in “Mister Sandman”, what ultimately shines through each character’s obvious flaws is a genuine love, protection and devotion to each other that is endearing and comical. Joan, the family’s ethereal and mute youngest member, becomes the sounding board to whom the rest of the family divulges their secrets. She is a silent observer, a gravitational force that pulls the family inward and keeps it together. Later, she is also the catalyst for moving everyone together towards greater honesty with themselves and each other.

In Nancy Pearl’s “BookLust”, “Mister Sandman” is recommended as a “Coming Out” novel. Gowdy’s story is indeed frankly sexual. But whatever a reader’s comfort level with honest sexuality, I have seldom read a book with stronger characterizations, whose every sentence – nee, every word – is purposeful, thoughtful, and necessary to the story.

Though this is a family inherently averse to truth, it is their duplicity that gives them authentic dimensionality. While their dishonesty is never overtly approved of, neither is it the means to the Canary’s destruction.

“Mister Sandman” reminds me of John Irving’s early books minus the angst. I definitely want to read more of Gowdy’s books. I recently purchased “The White Bone”, a story told from the perspective of an elephant. With such far-reaching literary abilities, Gowdy deserves to become better-known in the United States.

“Mister Sandman” was an absolute pleasure to read. Despite such a vastly odd cast of characters and strange family mix, this is an uplifting story of a family whose devotion to each other rises above everything else.

“They could be a family spending a day at the beach together. If they were on a beach. If it was day.”

No News Probably Means "No"

2008-07-07T11:35:00.002-08:00

A great "to do" was made when Jack recently won a chance to audition in Los Angeles for the tv show "Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?".

That was over a week ago now. We are enjoying hot, sunny days in western Washington visiting friends and family. We have been swimming, walking on the beach, and otherwise contentedly "hanging out."

However, we haven't heard a word from FOX Television. At this point, both Bruce and I are assuming this means Jack wasn't selected. Like many kinds of job interviews, sometimes you just don't hear anything. Ever.

So, unless we hear otherwise, we are assuming life will go on in its sweetly normal fashion.

It was a very fun, wonderful experience. Thanks for the encouragement and support shown to us!

Yeah! Some Pictures!

2008-06-28T15:09:00.004-08:00

The producers took kids to this room in groups of six and sat them in front of the wall hanging you see behind Jack. They asked the kids general questions about themselves and their interests.

Here is Jack sitting next to four lovely girls who may be on their way to tv stardom and starlettehood. Lucky guy.

Here's the group of six that Jack was a part of. The kid to Jack's immediate right apparently came across memorably. Bruce says he thinks Yellow Shirt Kid will make it.

Here is Jack in what I suppose is the "holding room" (*Moo*). The tv is showing reruns of the "Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grade?". Host Jeff Foxworthy is in the background.

My gut instinct at this point is that Jack probably won't be picked. When I see him, tall, skinny, and with an "Alaskan tan", looking more 15 than 5th grade, next to those round-cheeked tan cherubs that look like second graders, reality sets in. So far, all the kids I've ever seen on the show have looked like the latter.

But that's okay. It certainly is a grand adventure!

Knots

2008-06-28T11:13:00.002-08:00

My stomach is in knots.

So, Jack's interview is over. It went well, but we may not know anything for a couple more days.

In the end, there were 25 kids at the auditions this morning. Ten of the kids were boys. Most of those kids were like Jack, sent by local FOX affiliates from various parts of the country. The remaining kids were sent by casting agents.

Though I'm not sure this was explicitly stated, Bruce had a strong impression that the five kids for next season's "Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?" were going to be pulled from this particular group.

The first thing the producers did after everyone had arrived, was to do short video snippets of each kid to be sent to respective local FOX affiliates for this own marketing/promotion. This was done in the "holding room" (*Moo*).

Then, the kids were broken into groups of six, and each group was taken to a separate room with their parents to a separate room for more personalized interviews.

Jack was in the first group which consisted of three girls and three boys. Bruce was impressed with one of the boys, named Zach, in Jack's group. The kids were seated together in front of a backdrop that was probably of the show's logo. The kids were asked a little bit about themselves. The kids took turns telling jokes; Zach sang a song (I'm told he has a great voice).

Bruce said Jack did great, did exactly what we have been coaching him to do: be himself and have fun.

So, now they're done. We just wait for a fateful phone call while life goes on. Bruce and Jack are headed to the LA zoo for the rest of the afternoon.

CBS Television City

2008-06-28T08:32:00.003-08:00

Here is where Jack and Bruce are at this moment.

8:27am (9:27am L.A. Time)

2008-06-28T08:27:00.002-08:00

The current update:

They are in a smallish room; about 40 chairs set up. Eight kids so far; three of which are boys.

There is a big screen tv in the room, and one of the moms (a professional stage mom, perchance?) is "organizing" the kids. *Moo*

Bruce claims to be feeling "less nonplussed" than he felt while sitting in the parking lot.

Lights.... Camera..... Product Endorsement

2008-06-26T14:07:00.008-08:00

(Forgive the weird periods between paragraphs, but when I posted, the computer refused to recognize carriage returns.)

Here is a close-in shot of Jack being filmed for the FOX local news. Note the expression on his face. It is considering, serious, and altogether freaked out.

The staging for this event was very deliberate. Jack is miked, he is sitting facing the light. Ellie, Evan, Sabrina and I are sitting with him. In front of him is a DQ ice cream cake. Our friendly neighborhood FOX representative, Kathy, arranged it for him. That is Kathy's blond head in the foreground. She was the impromtu interviewer.

We all received a complimentary DQ lunch. (I'm not allowed to call it "Dairy Queen"; I was told "there are no Dairy Queens in Alaska"; it is most decidedly a "DQ".) After a brief "interview", we were instructed to eat our lunches and "pretend the camera isn't there".

We discovered that casual mealtime conversation can be profoundly stilted when a tv news camera is trained in. I'm afraid we will come across as rather uncommunicative and repressed. At least filming finished before Evan spilled his Coke all down his shirt, pants and the seat.

I have waited all my life for fame and fortune. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine my 15 seconds of fame would be while masticating. *Moo*

For those of you who previously asked, or are only now beginning to wonder, if there is a way of getting a "recording" of the actual news story: yes. I have to order it from a local company that will secure a DVD.

My day is at a momentary lull. Bruce just left for the movies (Indiana Jones #4) with eight kids to celebrate Jack's birthday. Poor Bruce.

I'm here alone with Ellie and Evan. I have already done all the tasks that had to get done today. The house sure seems quiet.

But, on the dining room table are a pile of presents and a homemade cake (to which we can add the DQ ice cream cake if we're pinched).

In honor of their California adventure, Bruce upgraded our cell phone service so that we have unlimited text messaging. We got new phones as part of the new service agreement. Bruce immediately uploaded his own special ringtone.

Though his phone - all our phones, actually - has been ringing a lot this week, every time someone calls him, the phone chirps a happy reminder:

Don't worry

(do do do doo do)

About a thing

(do do do doo do)

'Cause

Every littl' ting

Is gonna be alright

Absolutely.

* Tick * Tick * Tick *

2008-06-25T13:43:00.002-08:00

Even though my friend and neighbor, Lucy, accused me last night of being a "stage mom", I think I'm handling the stress pretty well.

However, today I almost lost my cool when the checkbook came up MIA. My husband, who in the last 24 hours a) left Jack's birthday present sitting out of the bedroom floor and b) last night forgot to let the dogs out "one last time" (resulting in 6:30am "quality-carpet-time" with my Bissell), redeemed himself by remembering the checkbook was in the pocket of Evan's Mickey Mouse backpack.

Of course, additional deep cleansing breaths were necessary when, upon paying bills using the recovered checkbook, I realized there wasn't enough money to pay all the bills. Darn.

Ah well. Money is the least of our worries.

Jack is being interviewed by the local FOX news station tomorrow morning at around 11:30am. They're filming back at the Dairy Queen, the proud sponsor of Jack's trip to California, and for his cooperation tomorrow he will receive additional payola in the form of a complimentary chicken strip basket. Ah, ya gotta love capitalism.

Then, as tomorrow also happens to be Jack's 10th birthday (a nice angle for FOX news to explore), he is having his birthday party: a bunch of friends to a movie, pizza, and them home to hang out.

A couple hours after that, Bruce and Jack head to the airport for their trip to L.A.

I found out the tryouts are from 10am to 1pm on Saturday the 28th. Only three hours. Wow. My speculation at this point is that this group of kids is but one small pond from a much bigger pool of possible candidates for the show. That probably should have been more obvious to me from the beginning, but this whole process is incredibly foreign. We're learning as we go.

What I loved was reading the following part of the directions to the studio:

When you arrive [at CBS Television City], please enter through the main gate at Gennessee Avenue. Your name will be on a list at the guard gate and they will direct you to the Artist’s Entrance at the East Studios. There will be plenty of parking available.

A Casting Associate will be waiting for you at the Artist’s Entrance and they will check you in. They will then take you to our holding area where you’ll be waiting to get your audition to be on Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader?

I love that: "Artist's Entrance". "Holding area". Sounds ominous. ("Moo.")

Anyway, that's all I know for now. I understand to the very depths of my soul that Jack being picked to be on the show is very, very slim. I'm not thinking about that. Nary a "what if?" But it is a grand adventure for a boy turning ten, that pivotal age encompassed in so much great coming-of-age literature.

Photos By Evan

2008-06-24T08:58:00.001-08:00

Evan enjoys taking pictures. This is a collage of his "work" that we sent to Jack when he was at Boy Scout camp last week.

Finals

2008-06-21T15:24:00.004-08:00

I am starting to come down from my adreneline rush.

Today was the final audition for "Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?". Fortunately, Bruce had already returned from his dipnetting trip, so I didn't have to take all the kids.

Another 50 or so kids were going through a second round of auditions. By the time finals began at noon, the number of competitors had been whittled down to about 20.

Jack was first in line again for finals. As he succeeded through each of the next few rounds, my stomach got more and more jittery. Jack got more and more excited.

Kids were missing their questions and the number of finalists was shrinking. It was cool and cloudy outside, but most everyone stuck around watching things progress.

When it got down to about seven kids, we were gathered together and told that there would be one more round of questions. Then, assuming there would only be four or five kids left, the judges would then handpick one kid, the one that would go to Los Angeles to screen test-audition for the television show.

So, that last round of questions commenced. Again, Jack went first and got his question right. (Don't ask me what any of the questions were this time. I was so nervous I could barely think.) Three other kids (all girls) answered correctly as well.

It was down to four kids, and Jack was one of them. We could not rely on his intelligence anymore. Now it was a matter of screen presence and personality.

The judges deliberated for awhile, then gathered us all together for a pep-talk. The kids were congratulated for their bravery and intelligence. Then, they said, "And our winner is.... Jack."

I felt pretty faint. I'm sure my jaw dropped. Kinda went all numb. I had Jack call Bruce after the other contestants had left (they and their parents were all impressively gracious and congratulatory). I think Bruce didn't believe it at first, but then the judges started shouting "Go Jack! Go Jack!" and that probably convinced him.

So, Bruce (Jack's chaperone of choice; no, I'm not disappointed) and Jack will head south to LA on Friday. I think they'll just be there for the weekend (I imagine the days will be long and boring, and possibly hot). Then, on their way back north, they'll just disembark and Seattle, and I and the other three kids will rendezvous with him there.

That's all I know at the moment. I have a splitting headache.

Smarter Than Who?

2008-06-14T16:03:00.003-08:00

I can’t resist blogging this.

An email we received earlier in the week informed us that auditions for the TV game show, “Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?” would take place this weekend. They are looking for, well, fifth graders. The selection process began this morning in the Dairy Queen parking lot.

Well, as he is now a 5th grader, Jack qualifies. He is both smart and easy on the eyes, so I encouraged him to give it a go. After consulting with his cul-de-sac buddy, Hayden, Jack agreed. None of us has ever watched the show, though our neighbors have the board game, which we played once. It was a bomb. Bruce and I won the $1 million in one turn. Apparently, that means we are smarter than Jack.

Anyway, in order to participate, we had to sign-up inside the Dairy Queen. Sign-ups consisted of a list on a clipboard. We had to wait in the food-ordering line to get to the clipboard. So, for us, sign-ups consisted of putting Jack’s name down and then ordering five meals. It cost us $22. Jack was the tenth person to sign up.

There were maybe thirty or so kids auditioning this morning. I’m guessing that a number of kids who signed the list didn’t come to the actual auditions. We lined up according to the order in which we had originally signed up, so Jack went towards the beginning.

There was a panel of four “judges” sitting together under a tent, and in a separate tent, far enough away to not be intimidating, was a television camera.

There were three rounds of questions. Between rounds, we ate French fries and read our books. No one else was reading books. Honestly, not a single parent, 5th grader, or sibling. Jack was working on Charlie Bone number three, I was reading “Dreamers of the Day”, the new one by Mary Doria Russell (fantastic so far), and Sabrina was working on “Fantastic Mr. Fox” by Roald Dahl. Honestly, I couldn’t understand why we were the only three people there with reading material. Doesn’t everyone know that the word “audition” is synonymous with “waiting”? Hey, and don’t smart people read?

Anyway, Jack made it through the first three rounds. The questions got progressively “harder”.

The first one was: “How many kids would there be at a party attended by three sets of twins?”

The second questions: “Which field of play is the longest: a) soccer, b) football, or c) lacrosse?”

The third question was: “Which of the following shapes is not geometric: a) rectangle, b) cylinder, or c) sphere?”

(If you don’t know the answers to these three questions, then you are not smarter than a fifth grader. Apparently.)

Jack was the first kid to get through the third round, and though we probably should have stuck around to see who else made it, we split right after to go to Costco.

Jack, Sabrina and I were very excited. While we were getting ourselves buckled up in the car, we observed some of the other kids who didn’t make it. They were crying and upset, their hopes of fame and fortune dashed in the soggy Alaskan DQ parking lot. Meanwhile, Jack’s nose was already back in his book.

Finals are next Saturday from noon to 2pm. I have no idea how many kids Jack will be competing against. The “producers” were hoping for 20 or so for the final round. Whoever wins that will be flown down to Los Angeles on June 28th for the real finals. Like, in a television studio. I’m aquiver just thinking about it. Those aren’t impossible odds, are they?

Ignorance is bliss, I guess. When I got home, I finally Googled the TV show, which is on FOX and hosted by comedian Jeff Foxworthy. (An aside: did Sabrina positively jinx us when she was reading “The Fantastic Mr. Fox?”) When I pulled up their homepage, I saw there were photos of five kids on the webpage. For the first time the question popped into my head: “What, exactly, does one do on this TV show?” I was told that the kids are like this panel of “experts” that the competing adults can consult. I also heard that the team of kids competes against the adults. Any clarification would be appreciated. But the biggest question was this: “Do the kids who get through the selection process only go on one show, or is it for a whole season?” That changes things. Interesting.

Clearly, this isn’t a logistic problem for the moment. My head knows that the odds of even making the cut next week is slim. Bruce is, as always, reliably philosophical. Even making it through three rounds is a fun thing. And it’s a fun process, too. Fun to watch Jack do something very different and outside the norm, and fun to watch all the other kids and parents. But my heart, my poor dreamy little heart, it’s in my throat.

April & May 2008 Reads

2008-06-01T15:58:00.003-08:00

Is it really already June? That means only four weeks until our Seattle vacation. This evokes an excited/anxious response in me. I have a hard time being away from home.

Our summer break from school began on May 23rd. The kids have been running and playing ever since. I spent the course of five or so days raking the yard. Now I'm working on clearing out the wooded area behind the house. I cut down eight or so trees of varying sizes.

Yesterday I purchased a mattock to get some of the deader, older tree stumps out of the ground. While its been wonderful to be outside and doing physical labor of varying degrees, the birch pollen that saturates the air is making it difficult to any beyond blow my nose.

I'm still reading as much as I can, between doing dishes, laundry, and heaving my mattock. What I read in April and May are as follows.

April 2008
"Lying Awake" by Mark Salzman (a book club pick)
"The Enchantress of Florence" by Salman Rushdie (an ARC for LibraryThing)
"The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse" by Robert Rankin
"Imagine Me and You" by Billy Mernit (another ARC for LibraryThing)
"Time and Again" by Jack Finney (a book club pick)
"Lunch Money" by Andrew Clements (YA, recommended by Jack)
"Dervishes" by Beth Helms (another ARC for LibraryThing)
"The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian" by Sherman Alexie (so far, hands down, the best book of all May and June)
"Belong To Me" by Marisa de los Santos (very uplifting; recommended)

May 2008
"Bridge of Birds" by Barry Hughart
"Duma Key" by Stephen King (a great intro to King for people who don't think they would ever like him)
"America America" by Ethan Canin (ARC for LT; lucky me!)
"Avalon High" by Meg Cabot (YA; a contemporary retelling of the King Arthur legend in a high school setting; very fun)
"Twilight" by Stephenie Meyer (YA; teenage vampire/human romance; read the whole six hundred pages in a day)
"Jim the Boy" by Tony Earley (a lovely coming-of-age, Depression-Era story)

That's it! April was great, May a little on the slacker-side. If I wasn't currently reading two books at once, I might have been able to squeeze out one more.

Currently reading:

"Bonk" by Mary Roach (a book about sex research; very "revealing")
"Enchantment" by Orson Scott Card (a book club pick)

So that's the reading skinny. I have quite a few recently purchased books that I'm dying to get to. Which, in fact, I think I'll do right now.

Book Review: "Dervishes" by Beth Helms

2008-05-13T21:17:00.001-08:00

A forgettable, disappointing book with overwrought descriptions and unlikeable characters.

A military-intelligence family (CIA?) is relocated to Ankara, Turkey during the Cold War Era (the early 70’s). Their story is told alternately from the first person perspective of the young adolescent daughter, and then in the third person by this girl’s mother. Both mother and daughter experience the tension of living in very different culture during a tense time in history. Both do their respective best to assimilate and occupy themselves. They make relationships with people, both locals and ex-pats, who eventually embroil them is subtly subversive activities. Events unfold to reveal circumstances bigger than mother and daughter have any power over, and they separately find themselves embroiled in life-shifting consequences. Mother and daughter, not close to begin with, are driven even further apart emotionally.

While an appealing premise with lots of promise, ultimately this story doesn’t work. The author valiantly attempts to “show” rather than “tell” the reader what is going on (as she should), but the reader isn’t shown enough. The characters fall flat to the point of barely existing at all. They never flesh out; there is no resonating human experiential “truth” emerging from the story. I was left with a great many questions at the book’s conclusion, including the following: what happens to the characters, both major and minor, after their departure from Ankara? How are they changed? What, in the end, is the point of this story at all?

LibraryThing Meme: Top 106 Unread Books

2008-04-30T13:08:00.005-08:00

LibraryThing users unscientifically calculated the top 106 books that users own, but haven't yet read. The data was based on the user-defined tag "unread". How many have you read?

So, here's the game: Bold what you have read (because this is hard to see, I'm going to underline as well); italicize those books you’ve started but couldn’t finish; asterisk those you own, but haven’t read. Below are my results.

Jonathan Strange & M. Norrell
Anna Karenina
Crime and Punishment
Catch-22
*One hundred years of solitude
Wuthering Heights
*The Silmarillion
Life of Pi: a novel
*The Name of the Rose
Don Quixote
Moby Dick
*Ulysses
*Madame Bovary
*The Odyssey
Pride and Prejudice
Jane Eyre
A Tale of Two Cities
The Brothers Karamazov
Guns, Germs, and Steel: the fates of human societies
*War and Peace
*Vanity Fair
The Time Traveler’s Wife
*The Iliad
Emma
The Blind Assassin
The Kite Runner
Mrs. Dalloway
*Great Expectations
Middlesex
American Gods
A heartbreaking work of staggering genius
Atlas shrugged
Reading Lolita in Tehran
Memoirs of a Geisha
Quicksilver
*Wicked : the life and times of the wicked witch of the West
*The Canterbury tales
The Historian
*A portrait of the artist as a young man
*Love in the time of cholera
Brave new world
*The Fountainhead
Foucault’s Pendulum
*Middlemarch
Frankenstein
*The Count of Monte Cristo
Dracula
*A clockwork orange
*Anansi Boys
The Once and Future King
The Grapes of Wrath
The Poisonwood Bible
1984
Angels & Demons
*The Inferno
*The Satanic Verses
Sense and sensibility
The Picture of Dorian Gray
Mansfield Park
One flew over the cuckoo’s nest
To the Lighthouse
*Tess of the D’Urbervilles
*Oliver Twist
Gulliver’s Travels
*Les misérables
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay
The curious incident of the dog in the night-time
*Dune
*The Prince
*The Sound and the Fury
Angela’s Ashes
The God of Small Things
A people’s history of the United States : 1492-present
*Cryptonomicon
*Neverwhere
A confederacy of dunces
A Short History of Nearly Everything
*Dubliners
The unbearable lightness of being
Beloved
Slaughterhouse-five
The Scarlet Letter
Eats, Shoots & Leaves
*The mists of Avalon
Oryx and Crake : a novel
*Collapse : how societies choose to fail or succeed
*Cloud Atlas
*The Confusion
Lolita
Persuasion
Northanger Abbey
The Catcher in the Rye
*On the Road
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Freakonomics
*Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
*The Aeneid
Watership Down
*Gravity’s Rainbow
The Hobbit
In Cold Blood
White teeth
*Treasure Island
David Copperfield
*The Three Musketeers

My final stats:
61 Read
40 Owned but unread
5 Neither owned nor read

One observation: this is a great reading list. A lot of classics, and a lot of great contemporary stuff too. I didn't love, love, love everyone of these books that I'd read, but I couldn't find any that I hated. (Though Joyce, had I ever given him a shot, might have qualified.) So, dig in.

Book Review: "The Enchantress of Florence" by Salman Rushdie

2008-04-19T16:58:00.002-08:00

This was my first Salman Rushdie book, and BOY, has it been difficult to neatly summarize for a review! I’ve sat down countless times over the past couple weeks and just frozen up. So, please forgive the eclectic nature of my review.

On one level, “The Enchantress of Florence” is a historical novel with wonderful information about 16th Century Hindustan (India) and Florence, Italy. On another level, there is the story itself, chock full of characters and their back-stories, and those characters’ respective adventures. This layered story interweaves, back and forth across time and place. On still another level, this a platform for a fictionalized Akbar the Great to ponder the deep questions of humanity: a politically powerful man portrayed as being on the cusp of intellectual greatness as well.

There are a great many themes and juxtapositions in this book. Here are a few:
The confluence of differing histories, philosophies and belief systems (e.g. between East and West);
Power: political power versus the power of belief;
The power of belief as a political/historical force: if you believe in something strongly enough, it has the force of reality; it is self-determining; especially in the realm of politics;
Force and prudence: one of the characters of this book is a fictional Niccolo Machiavelli, who in real history wrote philosophical treatises on political power, particularly espousing the idea of a balance of force versus prudence to successfully rule. The upshot is the employment of this idea: “the ends justifying the means”;
Legend versus history: e.g. “magical realism”; also: what really happened way back when?; can we ever truly know?;
Women: what kind of power do women have in a patriarchal culture, or any culture, for that matter? Sexual? Intellectual? What do men really want from women? Loyal wife? Plaything? Intellectual equal?;
Who creates whom? Do we create ourselves, or are we created by others? What factors play into those things?

“The Enchantress of Florence” is very like a huge colorful tapestry: look in the upper right corner and there is a story of ancient Hindustan. Look: bottom left, a picture of 16th Century Florence. Look: there is Akbar the Great… And over there, Niccolo Machiavelli. That one female figure hiding behind a column, sometimes clearly seen, other times faded, seems to be saying something. The women in this tapestry, all of them at its center: so many of them are indescribably beautiful. All the male heads woven ito this picture, from the great of leaders, to the lowliest of servants, are all turned towards them. Looking at this tapestry, it’s hard at times to know what is real and what isn’t. There are strange workings just under the surface; unexplainable phenomena. In the end, is it just a story? My eyes wander all over this tapestry; there is a lot to see here.

Akbar’s complex characterization carries the story. He is characterized as a man who, in his kingdom, tries to reconcile all men, regardless of religion or status. He entertains the incredible idea that discord and difference might actually be a force for good, rather than ill; an idea that coming from a king is very unusual. In one scene he is slicing up a foe, in the next he is contemplating deep things. One moment he questions his identity as a god-like ruler; later in the book he wonders about women, imagining into being his “perfect” woman. This he does at the expense of interest in his “real” wives. Later he is awakened to an undeniable and disturbing allure of an unconventional, self-determinate woman. Akbar’s mind cannot be boxed; he is standing on an isthmus between ignorance and enlightenment. Ultimately, however, he realizes that his philosophy is as temporary as life itself: alive only as long as he is.

In its scale (though not in length) “The Enchantress of Florence” is reminiscent of “Don Quixote” or “The Brothers Karamazov”. It is unusual for me to read a modern novel that is irreverent with timeline and theme. But like those earlier masterworks, this is a welcome part of the journey. A book with so many layers is one that keeps its reader thinking about it long after the last word is processed.

"Imagine Me and You" by Billy Mernit

2008-04-16T14:40:00.002-08:00

Billy Mernit’s successfully leverages his career as a romantic comedy writer and teacher in his first novel, the engaging and funny “Imagine Me and You”.

The novel’s protagonist, Jordan Moore, is a struggling “rom-com” (romantic comedy) screen writer in Los Angeles whose script is being courted by a very “now” filmmaker. This should be a good thing, but Jordan’s marriage to his adored Italian wife, Isabella, is in grave danger. Because of his wife’s departure back to Italy, Jordan finds himself blocked in his ability to work on his script, thus endangering his movie deal as well. He is a man both cornered and desperate, about to lose everything that matters to him. What transpires is magical and unexpected: an imaginary mistress who becomes real, changing Jordan’s life in unimaginable ways.

Throughout “Imagine Me and You”, Mernit also leverages the typical rom-com storyline. In a satisfying hodge-podge of the expected plot rom-com twists and turns, Mernit makes sure that his romance-writing protagonist notices his own life plotting the course of a typical romantic comedy, making fun of both the genre and himself. The story reads as cleanly as if it were a movie. This book was fun to read, much like watching a movie in my head; I found myself utterly losing track of time.

Jordan’s journey of self-actualization was particularly engaging to me. The process of more deeply understanding one’s individuality is often painful and tedious. Middle age seems to be the common time to seek answers to “deeper” questions about identity and purpose. In journeying with Jordan, I found myself wondering if I am living a life true to myself. Mernit balances both levity with profundity, but not so much of either that the story loses its momentum.

All that said, the main characters were a little flat and not especially sympathetic (his minor characters flesh out more strongly), but the dialogue is good: witty and smart and real.

My only real criticism of this book is this: when the story begins, Jordan’s wife has only been gone two weeks. Most of the story’s tension is built around this agonizing two week separation. Truthfully, this just falls flat with me. Two weeks is way too short a period of time to convince me of the extent of desperation that Jordan feels. If the story had started with Isabella already having been gone two months, all the other resulting action and emotion would be more proportionate.

Given the breezy, warm, southern Californian setting of this novel, “Imagine Me and You” may just be the perfect summer read.

First Quarter Reads

2008-04-07T19:30:00.004-08:00

Currently reading:

The following are the books I read the first three months of 2008.

January

#1 "The Year of Living Biblically" by A.J. Jacobs*
#2 "Born Standing Up" by Steve Martin
#3 "A Prayer for Owen Meany" by John Irving*
#4 "Two for the Dough" by Janet Evanovich
#5 "Talking Hands" by Margalit Fox
#6 "Empress of Asia" by Adam Lewis Schroeder
#7 "The Invention of Hugo Cabret" by Brian Selznik
#8 "Disappearance: A Map" by Sheila Nickerson
#9 "Heart-Shaped Box" by Joe Hill
#10 "On Chesil Beach" by Ian McEwan*

February
#11 "The Chess Machine" by Robert Lohr
#12 "The Dead Fathers Club" by Matt Haig
#13 "Danny Gospel" by David Athey
#14 "Take This Bread" by Sara Miles*
#15 "The Translator" by Daoud Hari*
#16 "Patrick" by Stephen Lawhead

March
#17 "People of the Book" by Geraldine Brooks*
#18 "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" by Jeff Kinney
#19 "Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Rodrick Rules" by Jeff Kinney
#20 "Nine Parts of Desire" by Geraldine Brooks*
#21 "Wrack and Ruin" by Don Lee
#22 "The Other Boleyn Girl" by Philippa Gregory
#23 "I, Elizabeth" by Rosalind Miles*

The only book of the above that I truly didn't like was "Danny Gospel". It was an Advanced Readers edition for LibraryThing. The books I marked with an asterisk (*) are those that I would highly recommend, though for different reasons.

Right now I'm working on Robert Rankin's "The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse". It's very funny and entertaining and a good break between ARCs (Advanced Reader Copy; I just finished the new Salman Rushdie this morning (EXCELLENT!), and then got my next ARC this afternoon shortly after starting "Hollow Chocolate Bunnies").

Rankin isn't well-known in the U.S.; he reminds me of Christopher Moore, Jasper Fforde, and Terry Prachett. He's worth looking into. As if you couldn't gauge from the title, he's a bit of a humorist.

If you have any specific questions about why I liked what I did, don't hesitate to ask.

Okay, so that's enough of a post for now. Back to reading.

Fear Issues

2008-02-26T21:59:00.002-09:00

For the past several weeks, I have been helping my friend and pastor, Jeff, around the church office. The church is currently between administrators, and while the search continues, I am temping: authoring the bulletin, checking email, and occasionally answering the phone.

Tuesday is Tidy-the-Sanctuary Day. This morning I was alone in the building, when out of the periphery I saw a strange man walk past the front windows towards the front door.

Immediately, the following thoughts went through my brain: he is going to break in; rape and murder me with a blunt knife; my kids are going to be motherless; my husband is going to be wifeless; good thing the life insurance is up-to-date.

I dove behind a silk palm tree to hide.

I am somewhat familiar with hiding from strangers at the door. It’s what you might call my default response. Whenever one of those twenty-something guys from the Lower 48 inner city comes by to sell magazines, or when those nicely suited men from the Seventh Day Adventists come by with colorful leaflets, some visceral reaction instructs me to shush the children, hide ourselves, and let Seamus bark like hell. We’re not here. We’re not here. No one’s home. Go away. Safety first, afterall! You never know might be behind that door.

Now, when I’m alone at church, which is often, the doors are locked. So, though the stranger tried the door, it didn’t open. But where the morning sun was streaming through the front windows, I could see the man’s shadow as he paced back and forth in front of the building. Obviously, he was casing the joint. Or sociopathically high on meth. Since the church was locked, I worried he might settle for stealing my mud-streaked Kia minivan parked just outside the front doors.

Please God, make that man lose interest and go away. Like to the church across the parking lot, next door. Let them handle him.

There, trembling behind the potted palm, I deeply regretted that my cell phone was two floors away. I deeply regretted that my keys were just inside the front door, in plain view of the pacing stranger.

For awhile the pacing stopped. I peered around the corner to see if my car was still there. It was. But so was the man. Back behind the silk tree as the pacing began again.

After awhile, the shadow-pacing stopped again. Several more breathless minutes passed. Just about the time I thought I was in the clear,I suddenly heard someone try to get in the building from the rear door behind the sanctuary.

I considered my options. Run for the front door and my keys, dive into my car and drive to the nearest police station, leaving my purse upstairs in the third floor offices. Make a mad dash through the lobby to the downstairs phone and call 911. Find some way to get upstairs to my purse and the phones, and also be able to clearly spy the front of the building.

I opted for the latter, but felt I would be safest crawling on hands and knees around the periphery of the santuary, hidden by pew chairs, and head for the back stairway, avoiding the large front windows and prying eyes from outside. I am stealthy; I am low to the ground. In this jungle of blue-gray tweed chairs, I am invisible.

I crawled my way to the back stairs, then bounded up two flights to the third floor. I looked around: out windows, inside classrooms, under chairs. The stranger seemed to be gone.

This accomplished, and feeling I had outwitted some malevolent force of depraved humanity, I found my cell phone in case I was cornered again, and headed back downstairs to bravely continue doing my job of straightening chairs and gathering attendance registers.

About that time, my cell phone rang. It was Jeff. Jeff was supposed to be out for the day. Why was he calling my cell phone?

“Uh, Linda. I just wanted to let you know that the church handyman is outside the building trying to get in to fix a broken doorjamb. He’s a really nice guy. A pastor, actually. He does repairs on the side. Sorry I forgot to tell you.”

Ah.

Malevolent force of depraved humanity. Not.

At least I know I haven’t yet lost the ability to crawl on my stomach. You never know when it might come in handy.

Ice Axe

2008-02-26T21:03:00.002-09:00

I don't write much these days. Poor practice for someone who once fancied herself a writer.

I have, however, been reading a lot.

Yesterday, while reading Eugene Peterson's "Eat This Book," I came across this fabulous quote by Franz Kafka: "If the book we are reading does not wake us, as with a fist hammering on our skull, why then do we read it?... A book must be like an ice-axe to break the frozen sea within us."

If I cannot be an ice-axe, why bother writing? Why, indeed? I am surrounded by ice, made of it, but seem quite unable to find a sharp implement with which to break its surface.

The wisest man who ever lived, King Solomon, said: “There’s no end to the publishing of books, and constant study wears you out so you’re no good for anything else.”

Well, that isn’t very encouraging.

So, what then, is the wise King Solomon’s advice? What is his final conclusion about the meaning of life? It is simply this: Fear God. Do what he tells you.

And so, what does God tell me? There are a lot of things I think he is telling me. However, there is little I know. In this way, I am a fool.

And so, I walk, blind and foolish. Listening. I want to do what he tells me.

A Few New Pictures

2008-02-25T22:23:00.008-09:00

I haven't posted any photos for a long, long while. The following series were primarily taken during the past week with yet ANOTHER new camera, during a visit to friend Dave's cabin on Brocker Lake:

Ellie posing stylishly. She will be six in May. To her mother's delight, her reading abilities are improving steadily.

Ah, not at Brocker Lake, but posing in front of our new/old piano, is Evan the Maestro. His fourth birthday is March 5th. Haven't started party-planning yet. He is my baby, so I'm delaying the inevitable. However, I frequently happy-dance over his being fully, completely, irrevocably, potty-trained. Isn't he cute?

Our oldest, Jack, will be ten in late June. He is a remarkable human being. Not sure how my and Bruce's DNA could produce such as he.

The ethereally beautiful and unconventionally brilliant Sabrina, designer of fairies and writer of dreams. Everytime I look at her, I catch my breath. God himself calls her "my delight."

Bruce's sister, Liz (age undisclosed), and her boys Brendan (11) and Patrick (6) visited in mid-February during their mid-winter break. They were with us at Brocker Lake.

My first snowmachine ride. I clung feverishly to Bruce during our modest 20 mph ride. Any excuse to squeeze my beloved.....

Blessings to you and yours.

(Go to www.cabelasiditarod.com to follow the 2008 Iditarod - The Last Great Race - being run again this year by the AMAZING author Gary Paulsen, not mention many others, including one of Bruce's coworkers.)

Strange Times

2008-02-09T19:28:00.000-09:00

So, something weird is happening. I've gotten very little "proper" reading done this week because I've been so busy obsessing over my new "boyfriend", Barack Obama.

I am the most politically apathetic person I have ever met. I'm probably the most politcally apatethic person YOU'VE ever met, too. But for the last several days, I've been watching speeches, donating money, ordering lapel pins, cutting and pasting pro-Obama HTML code, checking numbers of "won" delegates between the leading Democratic nominees, poring over the newpaper.....

Whew. It's exhausting.

Everytime I think about how this man is causing people who were NEVER before interested in politics to become interested; everytime I hear about people crossing party lines to support Obama; everytime I watch some new music video online dedicated to Obama, I have to dab tears from my eyes.

For me to get interested and involved, this means something is different.

I live in a state where, until a couple days ago, Mitt Romney was king (until he pulled out). It's a weird place to live being a fundamental Christian and an Obama supporter.

TRULY GREAT men and women rarely make it to the public forum. Worldwide, it happens maybe a few times in a generation. And often, the public doesn't realize it until after-the-fact. Many of the passionate, others-oriented people who might make a profound difference in the world, avoid the spotlight, and even more so, avoid playing games.

Barack Obama is a light in the darkness.

Book Review: "Empress of Asia"

2008-01-24T09:59:00.000-09:00

“Empress of Asia” begins with protagonist, Harry Winslow, describing life as “bursts of activity that happen so quickly that we can’t even tell exactly what’s happening.”

In a sense, this story is Harry’s description of his own life’s “bursts of activity”. Beginning in the late 1930’s, Harry’s adult life begins when he leaves home to work on boats. As World War II unfolds, Harry is inadvertently drawn eastward and into the heart of the Japanese war in and around Singapore. It is an exciting couple of years for an otherwise mild-mannered, unambitious man, who is far more motivated by really great jazz than political idealism and freedom from fascism.

Shortly before she dies, at the very beginning of the book, Harry's wife Lily exhorts Harry to travel to Thailand in search of a long lost friend from the war. The book’s story unfolds as Harry recollects these defining wartime years of his life.

Harry is masterfully drawn as a painfully short-sighted Everyman drawn into extraordinary events. Encompassing an approximately seven-year stretch of time from about 1938 to 1945, it is primarily through the self-determination and ambition of others, that Harry goes where he goes and does what he does. Over and over, he is the hapless beneficiary of the ambition, courage, and cleverness of other people.

The concluding section of the book finds the elderly Harry in Thailand following the trail of crumbs Lily left for him to find his old friend. What he untimately discovers rattles everything he thought about his life since the war. Despite his dramatic time in Asia, before and after, because of fear and prejudices, he has lived a limited, shuttered life. Thailand wakes him up.

Had I a few less interruptions by my four kids, I would have gotten through “Empress of Asia” in two days instead of three. I stayed up late and woke up early to get in a few extra pages. Even days after finishing, I still have a palpable sense of the Malay Peninsula during World War II; that lesser known WWII arena of exotic heat, bugs, landscape, and people.

“Empress of Asia” was originally published in Canada in 2006; March 2008 will be its debut in the United States. Schroeder is a Canadian poet of some repute, and as a reader, it is clear to me that he has a poet's ear for the cadence of narrative and dialogue. His story flows indelibly from page to page – it is a hard book to put down and pick up, not because the reading is difficult (it isn’t), but because it is so utterly transporting. Schroeder’s subtextual use of dialogue and foreign dialects is masterful. (Note: Though the book doesn’t contain a glossary, there is a very good one on Schroeder’s website that is worth referencing.) Schoeder’s characters are refreshingly multifaceted – all have an authentic balance of strengths and weaknesses.

Towards the end of the book, Harry discovers bowls of live snakes and turtles for sale in a Thai market, and makes this telling observation about the will to survive: “Of course the snakes just slither around in the bottom but…. the turtles are stacked one on top of the other and in the fifteen seconds that I’m watching one of them drags himself to the top and flips onto the pavement!…. [I]f they’re all going to end up in the soup anyway, why should the [turtles] on the bottom give two shakes if the ones on top have a little more ambition? In the meantime the snakes just lay there wondering which minute is going to be their last, so which bowl would you rather have been in?”

Harry appears to be much more like one of the snakes, waiting passively along through events, but there are numerous ambitious turtles with whom he finds himself entangled and carried along, and, in the end, he survives. The reader is left to wonder, of the snake and turtle, which am I?

I definitely recommend “Empress of Asia”.

Advance Book Review: "Olive Kitteridge" by Elizabeth Strout

2008-01-02T15:40:00.001-09:00

I am not normally a fan of short stories. While I appreciate the technical abilities of the short story writer, I find “shortness” troublesome. Generally, the longer a book is, the more appealing. Consequently, I was initially leery of the descriptions of Elizabeth Strout’s newest novel, “Olive Kitteridge,” which calls itself “a novel in stories.”

All of the stories in this book occur in the town of Crosby, Maine. At the center of many of the book’s stories is the person, Olive Kitteridge, a retired teacher. In the stories that don’t feature Olive, her name may appear only once in an effort to tie it to the larger work. That the stories center on one town, and a limited number of that town’s inhabitants, who also reappear from time to time, I did not encounter my usual problems with short stories. This book gently reminded me of what is best about short-stories: a brief slice of a life, a snapshot that tells a complete-enough story. In having all these stories bound together, one feels a bit like the proverbial “fly on the wall”; a fly who may spend most of, but certainly not all, it’s time in one particularly interesting home (Olive’s).

I especially enjoyed reading about Olive in her post-retirement years, the ways in which she deals with other people and herself. In many ways, I can identify with Olive, having doled out bits of malice in angering situations; or having been soft and tender-hearted during others. Like Olive, I too have been both fool and sage.

I really enjoyed “Olive Kitteridge.” Olive is a complex person vacillating between viciousness and compassion. In the way all people are puzzles, so is Olive. In one story she does something deplorable, in another she potentially saves a life. People can never be fully known, merely experienced in bits and pieces, from which a general portrait may be formed. This book is a testament to the mystery that is humanity: why we do what we do, what motivates us, how even self-knowledge is warped and lacking, and how ultimately, all people are fundamentally incapable of seeing themselves as a whole. Olive also embodies hope: one is never too old for surprises.

Many of the “stories” in “Olive Kitteridge” are deeply profound and thought provoking. I will not be at all surprised when this book does very well. It’s structure is unusual; it’s message is penetrating and accessible and universal. Olive causes me to think of the many complex, and at times unlikeable, people in my own life in a different way. Strout is a master of revealing the many onion-like layers of interpersonal relationships. Halfway through “Olive Kitteridge” I went out and bought two of her other books. I am also tentatively considering reading some other short-story collections by authors whose novels I’ve loved.

Like any great book, “Olive Kitteridge” slightly shifts the way in which I look at the world and other people, and perhaps most importantly, myself.

Cosmic Balance

2007-12-15T20:59:00.000-09:00

Because I have not the creativity to write something fresh and original, an excerpt from tonight's email to Kaylin:

Currently, it is 9 degrees outside, 8:39pm, and all the kids are asleep. Bruce is sipping Jack Daniels and watching "Oceans 13". I am also sipping Jack Daniels, eating Costco salted peanuts, and reading a book (when not writing to you, or scoping an eye-full of the "eye-candy" starring in "Ocean's 13").

[Incidentally, the book in question is "The Air We Breathe" by Andrea Barrett - a library-b00k. But lest you think I've conquered by book-buying habit: yesterday I spent $43 on books: approximately 18 used books and one new.]

We ate dinner at a new-to-us restaurant tonight - O'Brady's - just a three minute drive from home, and enjoyed the experience. It was christened with a not-quite-ER-injury on Evan's forehead: a walnut-sized lump in the dead-center of his forehead, with a nasty blood-blackened crease running vertically through the lump's center. One more layer of skin and it would have been record-breaking numbers of stitches.

As it was, we enjoyed our pitcher of Pike Kilt Lifter (perhaps more than we might otherwise have enjoyed it), burgers and fries, and an entire bottle of Heinz ketchup. The cause of Evan's injury? My silly son fell off his restaurant chair face-first into the chair next to him. You'd think this kind of injury would have happened during the sledding we did before lunch today, on less-than one inch of snow (desperate times, as they say). But no, no head injuries during sledding; only while sipping orange soda.

Ah well. If it makes you feel any better about all the health issues so many of our friends and family have so lately been afflicted with: I had an eye-doc appt today and there is absolute NO EVIDENCE whatsoever of tumors in my eyes or optic nerves. (Not that I thought there might be, but with how things have been going lately, how rare is it to have the most benign doc visit reap a non-lethal, nee NORMAL, prognosis?)

[The yang to the above's yin: as of Jan. 1, 2008, our vision insurance will no longer be accepted at this particular eye-doctor. In an attempt to change our vision coverage during the Federal Government's (e.g. "The Man's") insurance open-season, which occurs every fall, I quick cell-phoned Bruce between glaucoma-puffs and dilation. He informed me that our ability to change vision plans for all of 2008 closed 5-days- ago.]

Rejoice, I say!

So much joy had we over my diagnosis, that we went to out to dinner to celebrate - at O'Brady's restaurant - during which time, Evan severely bonked his wee head.

The Year's Reading in Review

2007-12-13T18:44:00.000-09:00

I'm a bit backlogged with reading these days. I'm trying to curb my book spending going by to the library for newer stuff (note: I'm merely talking about dollars spent, not number of books acquired). This causes problems, because, you see, libraries have this thing call a due date which I find terribly problematic. There is pressure to read a certain book in a specified allotment of time whether I want to or not. If the first book in my library-queue happens to be one I'm not "in the mood" for, then I get not only bogged down and frustrated, but, as I've experienced this past week, woefully depressed.

In any case, something I've seldom done, but a state I currently find myself in, is that I have four books going at once. *Gasp!* I am a literary monogamist, intent on losing myself in one world at a time. To flip back and forth, as I'm doing now, between spending time with a Jewish family in Poland during World War II , to the slums of Delhi with Mother Theresa, to a turberculosis sanitorium in the Adirondacks in 1916, to somewhere in New England at some cranky lady's dinner table (hey, I'm only two pages into that last one) - gets a bit schizophrenic.

So, by way of avoidance, I will list the books I've read so far this year, going backward through time, as I have them in my book journal.

December (So Far....)
"Look Me in the Eye" by John Elder Robison (highly recommended)
"The Edge of Evolution" by Michael J. Behe (avoid it)
"A Christmas Carol" by Charles Dickens
"Then We Came to the End" by Joshua Ferris (if you've ever worked in a corporate office, READ IT; the only book I've ever read that is told from the first person plural "we")

November
"Fledgling" by Octavia E. Butler (read if you like vampire books; it's a serious book)
"The Covenant" by Naomi Ragen (read if you are very pro-Israel and hate terrorists)
"One for the Money" by Janet Evanovich (suitable for all adults)
"The Sparrow" by Mary Doria Russell (one of the best books I've ever read; religious and space-travel themes)
"The Abstinence Teacher" by Tom Perrotta (some good stuff in there; the ending didn't rock my world)
"Eragon" by Christopher Paolini (incredible it was written by a young adult! Very good.)
"The Melancholy Fate of Capt. Lewis" by Michael Pritchett (an probing examination of depression and anxiety in both the modern protagonist and the historical figure of Meriwether Lewis)
"Dead Until Dark" by Charlaine Harris (a funny vampire/mystery novel)

October
"Mary Reilly" by Valerie Martin (the Jekyll/Hyde story as told from the housekeeper's perspective; very good, but read it after reading Stevenson's original)
"The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" by Robert Louis Stevenson (always fun to read a "classic")
"Run" by Ann Patchett
"American Gods" by Neil Gaiman (a road-trip novel with lots of pagan gods!)
"A Thousand Splendid Suns" by Khaled Hosseini (a must read!!!!)
"You Don't Love Me Yet" by Jonathan Lethem (some hot sex-scenes, but an otherwise dull, purposeless story)
"I Am America (And So Can You)" by Stephen Colbert (need I say more?)
"The Greenlanders" by Jane Smiley (only read this if you're so miserable that you need to be cheered up by someone else's problems; very long; but historically very interesting; I think Jane Smiley is a master)

September
"Kristin Lavransdatter" by Sigrid Undset (won the Nobel Prize in 1928; the new translation by Tiina Nunally is very readable; a whopping 1200+ pages long, this book is considered by many to be the quintessential medieval book)
"First Among Sequels" by Jasper Fforde (I love every book he's every written, but his Thursday Next series can probably only be most appreciated by bibliophiles)
"Absalom, Absalom" by William Faulkner (I actually finished it, understood it, AND liked it)

August
"Talk Talk" by T. C. Boyle (okay; got me interested in readying more of Boyle's work)
"Angelica" by Arthur Phillips (one of my worst-reads of the year)
"The Emperor's Children" by Claire Messud (didn't like it at all; irritating, unsympathetic characters; I am completely perplexed why such a big deal is being made of this book)
"The Book of Merlyn" by T. H. White (must be read following "The Once and Future King")

July
"The Once and Future King" by T. H. White (one of those books that simply must be read during one's lifetime)
"Harry Potter & the Deathly Hollows" by J. K. Rowling (oh, Harry, Harry, Harry, I love you so!!!!)
"Labyrinth" by Kate Mosse (another thumbs down)
"Ender's Game" by Orson Scott Card (fantastic!!!! Reading this book has gotten me much more interested in sci fi; I was completely surprised by the ending, and that doesn't happen often anymore)
"Literacy & Longing in L.A." by Kaufman and Mack (a forgettable chick-lit book I picked up at Costco one afternoon; seems to me one of the characters had an affinity for reading, or something - I couldn't resist)

June
"Practical Demonkeeping" by Christopher Moore
"Saints & Villains" by Denise Giardina (a fictional account of the life of Dietrich Bonhoeffer; very interesting)
"The Fantastic Mr. Fox" by Roald Dahl (read aloud to the kids while camping)
"Hank & Chloe" by Jo-Ann Mapson
"Saving Fish from Drowning" by Amy Tan (I liked this probably more than I should have, perhaps because I was reading it during the Kachemak Bay Writers' Conference, whereat Amy Tan was the keynote speaker, so I got to meet her; interesting characters, interesting circumstances they find themselves in)
"Mysteries of the Middle-Ages" by Thomas Cahill (the book itself has gorgeous illustrations, spot color, and photos, but this wasn't enough to mask the fact that it's not his best)

May
"Crashing Through" by Robert Kurson (very good; be sure not to miss Kurson's excellent book "Shadow Divers"; met this guy too)
"The Yiddish Policeman's Union" by Michael Chabon (I got to meet Chabon at a reading here in Anchorage for this book; what a thrill!)
"Einstein" by Walter Isaacson (loved this book! Love Einstein!! Never met him.)
"Alas, Babylon" by Pat Frank (once of the best books I'd never heard of; written in the 50's I think, it's still in print)
"Streams of Living Water" by Richard Foster (excellent!)

April
"Original Sin" by P. D. James (for a genre-detective novel, this was pretty good [I'm not a big detective/mystery fan]; I'll read more of her stuff)
"Leave Me Alone, I'm Reading" by Maureen Corrigan (avoid this one; instead read Sara Nelson's "So Many Books, So Little Time" and Anne Fadiman's "Ex Libris")

March
"Two in the Far North" by Margaret E. Murie
"Beyond the Mirror" by Henri Nouwen
"Arthur & George" by Julian Barnes (disappointing, though some interesting tidbits about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)

February
"The Terror" by Dan Simmons (great fun! the arctic, maritime stuff, and bit of horror)
"My Brilliant Career" by Miles Franklin
"Good Omens" by Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman (a fun apocalyptic novel for any adult!)
"The Spiderwick Chronicles" (read it with Sabrina)
"On Beauty" by Zadie Smith (not the greatest storyline, but she's is an amazing writer)

January
"You Suck" by Christopher Moore (I love this guy)
"Bloodsucking Fiends" by Christopher Moore
"A Long Obedience in the Same Direction" by Eugene Petersen
"The Alchemist" by Paulo Coehlo (maybe I'm just not as deep as Julia Roberts, who says this book is her absolute favorite of all-time, but it really didn't transform my life; but, probably worth reading; a nice allegory)
"Teacher Man" by Frank McCourt (I liked this book a lot)
"Exodus" by Leon Uris (the founding of the nation of Israel; very, very good)

Well, that's it for now.

How many is that? I added them up on Excel (I lose count, otherwise), and it looks like, to date, it's 59. I don't think I'll catch up to last year, which ended at 66, or 2005: a whopping 77. Books like "Kristin Lavransdatter", which is actually a trilogy, skew things a bit. Maybe if I quit blogging this, I could get some reading done.

I'll get to that, but first, time to put some kids to bed. Ta Ta.

Book Review: "The Melancholy Fate of Capt. Lewis"

2007-11-12T15:13:00.000-09:00

Michael Pritchett’s debut novel, “The Melancholy Life of Capt. Lewis” has a Faulkner-esque quality; a dense, multi-layering of past and present; a gradual unfolding of plot and circumstances. Pritchett’s control of this technically difficult story-telling method is admirable.

When I started “Melancholy Life,” I was insecure about never having read a history of the Lewis & Clark expedition. Though for years I’ve had a copy of Stephen Ambrose’s “Undaunted Courage,” I’ve yet to read it. At times I was tempted to put “Melancholy Fate” down, quickly read the Ambrose, and then start back up again. In the end, I let my ignorance of Lewis & Clark be a kind of litmus to how well-told “Melancholy Fate” would be. I had no preconceived notions, nothing to compare the story to.

As the title suggests, this is a story in which the two main characters, Meriwether Lewis and a contemporary character, Bill Lewis, both suffer from “melancholy,” that is, profound depressive episodes. The story see-saws back and forth between Capt. Lewis’ exploratory journey, and the present-day Bill, who is a high-school history teacher attempting to write a book about the historical Lewis. The parallels between the two Lewis’ is clear: depression to the point of insanity, difficulty in interpersonal relationships, attraction to unattainable women, same last name (there is no hint of them being related).

The historical details of the early Lewis narrative are sparse. Pritchett is more concerned with painting a kind of abstract of Lewis – what he might have been thinking and feeling, how these thoughts might have influenced his actions and words, as recorded by history and by his own extensive journals. During the present-day narratives, Bill fills in more historical details during many conversations with other characters. As the book progresses towards the historical Lewis’ inevitable(?) suicide (or was it a murder – that is a question Bill Lewis wrestles over), there is a mounting tension in the present, in which the reader wonders whether Bill, who is similar to Lewis is so many ways, will follow the same course. His emotional state is so convincingly miserable, even the reader wonders how he could possibly keep going on.

The psychological rendering of both main characters is excellent. Any reader who has had experience with depression will be able to strongly identify with them. However, while I was able to maintain sympathy for Meriwether throughout the story, there was a point where I just wanted to slap Bill and say, “Better living through chemistry, dude.” There is very little reference to medication or medical help for depression in general. Towards the beginning of the story, there is an incident that suggests Bill neglects his own medical care, which is troubling, because in this day and age, so much of what Meriwether would have been helpless against, Bill could have received help for. It could be that Bill’s neglect of his personal health (as also illustrated by a smoking habit) is a deliberate attempt to get inside the mind and experience of the historical Lewis, or perhaps he is just simply so depressed he doesn’t care. If the latter is Pritchett’s intent, it is masterfully done, if not terribly evident to the reader.

The book sets the reader up for a profound, end-of-the-story kind of redemption and revelation, and while I really think Pritchett is aiming for this – a glimmer of hope with which to leave the reader – I don’t really think he pulls it off. The readers lives so deeply inside the misery and insanity of both Lewis’ inner lives for so long, that it’s hard to come back from that place.

What I loved best about this book, was the historical drawing of Meriwether Lewis, the sense of exploring a new land for the very first time. The idea that in discovering something, in both the naming and measuring of it, its mystery – its beauty and purity – can be diminished. Meriwether and Bill both sense a kind of malevolence beneath the surface of this new country, this United States; it is suggested that the Enlightenment is a myth and a deception. It never happens because no one is ever actually “enlightened.” A current of social malevolence carries forward to the present age, where undertones of cruelty towards society’s weakest members – through the seemingly benign institutions of baseball and golf, for example – still exist.

“Melancholy Fate” leaves the uninitiated reader wanting to learn more about Lewis & Clark. Though not always an easy book to read, I recommend it, particularly for people interested in American history, or those who, like me, have had experience with depression.

Where this country started – nee, how it started – and where we’ve come… there is a thread there, a link that is worth studying and ruminating over. Pritchett is an admirable writer and I look forward to following his career.

My First "LibraryThing Early Reviewer" Book Review

2007-11-05T13:49:00.000-09:00

About a year and a half ago, I joined LibraryThing, an online community for booklovers, on which to catalogue one's personal library. This is a fabulous website for me, because I now have all my books online; can meet other uncontrollable bibliophiles; meet published authors who also LibraryThing; and, perhaps best of all, get free books.

(My LibraryThing profile is here, if you want to see it: http://www.librarything.com/profile/alaskabookworm.)

Several months ago LT rolled out a new program called Early Reviewers. Using one of their many clever techie mathematical formulas, it was determined that based on my personal book collection, I might in fact be a good person to review newly released books. So, they emailed me (among about 199 others) to see if I would be interested in lotterying each month for a chance to “win” a book, which I would then be expected to read and review.

Well. You don’t have to ask me a thing like that twice. So, what follows is a review of my first book:

As both the mother of four young children, and an intermittent Sunday School teacher, I have often found myself at wit’s end while cooped up with antsy youngsters. Many are the times I have simply run out of curriculum or activities, while time slowly ticks until dismissal. Though I’m sure I must have played many games in my own youth, at these times, “Duck, Duck, Goose” is the only children’s game I can ever remember on the fly. For all these reasons, “101 Pep-Up Games for Children” by Allison Bartl is going to be an invaluable resource for me.

From the publisher: “The games are designed to handle a variety of sitatuions: whether you’re working indoors or outdoors, with small groups or entire classrooms, if you have 5 minutes or half an hour.” It’s really true, too.

Designed for children ages 4-11, this book is the ideal tool for various-sized groups of mixed age kids. In many cases, the games require absolutely no preparation or props, which for someone like me, is perfect. The book is well-organized, with easier games towards the beginning and more advanced games towards the end. Pre-defined symbols indicate what size group a game is best suited for, or other special requirements such as space to move or necessary props. Whimsical drawings are found on every page.

All of the games are specifically designed to release pent up energy, or to re-energize a listless group by moving the body. The description of each game is so straightforward and brief that I’m often left wondering, “Why couldn’t I think of that?” But the truth is, thinking of children’s games is not my strength, and that is why “101 Pep-Up Games for Children” is going to be such a fabulous tool.

Not so new news.

2007-08-15T16:18:00.000-08:00

We didn't move.

Show me the money

2007-04-07T19:18:00.000-08:00

Well, we have a deal on the buy-side of our impending housing change. Now we just need to sell our current house on Halyards Circle.

The picture above is of Breakwater's livingroom. As you can see, it gets a lot of bright sunlight (when the sun is shining). You'll also notice the unfortunate choice of window coverings. What you can't see is the poor condition of the carpet and how dead that hanging plant actually is. However, this affords us the pleasurable opportunity of being able to shop for our own replacement flooring.

One of the troubling, and sleep-inhibiting, aspects of this move has been the likelihood of a school-change for the kids. After concluding the new school was probably similarly good to the kids' current school, I had come to terms with this. However, just for fun, I am going to try and keep the kids at Rabbit Creek afterall by requesting a zone exemption.

Fortuitously, or perhaps (I hope) providentially, today I ran into Rabbit Creek parents all over town. One of the first grade teachers (the one who recommended we bump Jack up to second grade from first) was walking through my neighborhood this morning. I stopped and chatted with her a bit, asking if she thought the zone exemption worth asking for. She was very optimistic, and said she'd put in a good word to the principal.

Then, when picking Sabrina up from a birthday party at a gymnastics-place, I ran into several other Rabbit Creek families who were also at that location having a separate birthday party. One of the families is currently at Rabbit Creek on a zone exemption. Is that a sign or what? Boy, I sure hope so.

We had an Open House today. A few people came through. One family liked it enough to stay for awhile and take pictures. One oddity during the day was a homeowner from up the street who has his own house on the market and was giving Mary (our agent) a hard time for "underpricing" our house, complaining that this was deflating the values of other homes in the neighborhood. Whatever. If it were REALLY underpriced, it would already be sold. His house is listed at $689K. Whatever, dude.

Well, enough with writing for now. Time to go do that overly-neglected task of late: reading.

Angels Singing

2007-03-30T20:34:00.000-08:00

Today, our house formally listed on the Alaska Multiple Listing Service. Tomorrow, between 3 and 4pm, we will vacate for the house's first showing.

The house looks great. She is baring both cleavage and thigh most appealingly. Many thanks to our stellar realtors, Mary and Ron Stephens, whom we first met 3.5 years previous, when we relocated to Anchorage.

Mary was almost killed last August from a brutal car accident during that month's torrential, record-breaking, birch-beetle-exterminating rains. She still walks gingerly and tires easily, but a better realtor, one cannot easily conceive. She is both business-like and motherly; generous and trustworthy. Ron, her husband of many years, is one of her "assistants", and is a great complement, particularly when it comes to moving furniture. Evan thinks Ron is "cute."

I awoke at 5am this morning. Staring ogle-eyed at the bedroom ceiling, I thought about today becoming "official" and feeling despair over the lack of "exciting" homes in our buyer-price-range. So, I got up early, watched movie trailers and the latest "Ugly Betty" episode, and tried to muster some degree of hope and trust for my and my family's future. Really, the only house I have loved so far was one Bruce didn't care for and is now sold.

Bruce managed to "find" some annual leave from work in order to look at some houses this afternoon with Mary and Ron. We met at 1pm at a listing that Mary had hand-picked for us. I prayed on the way to the house, asking God to "prepare my heart"; to help me not compare every house to our current home; to not lose hope.

Upon crossing the threshold of this first house of the afternoon, I fell in love. The tightness around my heart loosened for the first time in what feels like forever, and I truly felt it was a home I would not feel any regret over moving to. Bruce loved it too. I felt in that space the kind of light and space that I feel in our current home. I think I heard angels singing.

So, tomorrow we sign an initial offer, and get the ball rolling.

I told Bruce that if this all falls apart, I will be in a place of despair that he has never-before-now seen during our entire marriage. Though an exaggeration, it must be admitted that this particular house is a rarity, and meets almost all our criteria. "Love" is what I wanted to find; but "love" puts me in a state of terrible vulnerability. I am thankful for a husband who can, simultaneously, be both passionate and dispassionate, and help me through this process.

Driving home this afternoon, for the first time in awhile, I didn't feel an enormous sense of loss pulling into our driveway, and seeing the face of the beloved house that has been a cocoon of renewal and unearthly joy. For a time, I had come to believe that I could never "love" our next "new" house; that nothing we would find would measure up to our first Alaska home. And I had grieved over this. But was willing to live with it. I figured it was the next step in my spiritual evolution.

But now - I wonder - could it be possible? To "love" again? Perhaps. Perhaps.

If you remember, say a prayer for us: that God would keep His hand on us during this crazy time. That if this new house isn't "The One", that I won't collapse; that my hope will remain centered on Him who cares little where I live; but rather, how I love.

Psalm 121
A song of ascents.

I lift up my eyes to the hills—

where does my help come from?
My help comes from the LORD,

the Maker of heaven and earth.
He will not let your foot slip—

he who watches over you will not slumber;
indeed, he who watches over Israel

will neither slumber nor sleep.
The LORD watches over you—

the LORD is your shade at your right hand;
the sun will not harm you by day,

nor the moon by night.
The LORD will keep you from all harm—

he will watch over your life;
the LORD will watch over your coming and going

both now and forevermore.

Movin' Right Along

2007-03-25T21:29:00.000-08:00

Life moves along. Some days go by slowly. Others are a blur. Such is the progress of a week. Or a month. Or a year. Or, so I've been told, a lifetime.

Some nights I crawl into bed so weary I cannot bear to think of another day. Other evenings I lay sleepless for hours, my mind alert to every psychic or physical whisper.

Life progresses. It is truly a rollercoaster: long, grinding upward motion. Then, a period with nothing but thrills. My daughter Sabrina might draw it best as the looping strand of curly hair in her latest rock-star drawing. Or perhaps Jack could do it justice as a track for the Line Rider.

All this sounds like a great set-up for a deep metaphysical discussion. And boy, I sure would like to go there. But I have worked hard today and frankly, the idea bores me. I would rather thumb through my three new books (Anne Lamott's newest "Grace (Eventually)", "The Painted Veil" by W. Somerset Maugham, and Maureen Corrigan's "Leave Me Alone, I'M READING.")

Having just returned yesterday afternoon from two weeks in Seattle , our house was a bit "dry" this evening, so Bruce enticed me to make the sojourn to Value Liquor on the Old Seward Highway by the enticement of two new books along the way.

The reason I ended up getting three was because Borders was having an "educators sale"; 25% off the total purchase for "educators." With suspicious eagerness, the cashier accepted my reluctant explanation that I only "volunteer teach", and I got the discount! Happy day! A bit of corporate grace - unmerited favor dispensed from the boardroom! I took to heart Pastor Jeff's exhortation from this morning's church service about the important of receiving grace. In this case, I was MORE than willing to receive it. Besides, three is my favorite number.

Later, at Value Liquor, I purchased the typical alcoholic trinity of beer, wine, and ginger ale (for the previously-bought J.D.) I treated myself to a six-pack of Moose Drool, as a memorial to the recent inabsentia ungulate hauntings of our front yard. Also, the last thing I saw before I turned out the lights last night was a moose dining in our neighbor's yard. Welcome home!

Anyone reading this already knows we are selling our house to downsize and hopefully cut living expenses (to fund our Borders and Value Liquor habits, obviously). So I don't want to go into that in any detail. Suffice it to say that upon the plane touching down in Anchorage yesterday afternoon, Bruce found his sanding-machine and spent the remainder of the weekend sanding and staining the staircase handrail and kitchen-counter trim. With the new carpet, the house smells all chemical-ly and fresh. We will list by the end of the work-week.

It was a brisk 3 degrees this morning, but warmed to 27 or so later in the afternoon. Despite remaining below freezing all day, the potent spring sun is evaporating and melting the snow. I traversed the back deck in bare feet to remove some thawing dog poo, and figured I'm only a few degrees from the first sunbathing of the season. Time to shake the dust out of my shorts and sandals. Beautiful beautiful beautiful! Sun so bright that I had to wear sunglasses to dust the windowsills and blinds.

What about Seattle, you ask? Seattle was a hoot. Our family and friends are fabulous, and it was a gift to see those that we did. What more can I say?

How about this?: thank God for valium and functioning airplane stabilizer-motors.

Believe.

2006-12-24T21:25:00.000-09:00

Ah, the mystery of technology. Why does the image function not work one day, and then work the next? Merry Christmas to me.

Okay, so to catch up on the last few days, here is Evan in the Spidey costume. See how buff he is.

Here is Ellie visiting Santa and Mrs. Claus.

Here is me in the dogsled.

Here is Ellie on the sledding hill Bruce made in our backyard. He used the snowblower to move all our backyard snow (almost 1 1/2 feet of it) into one big pile. Then he carved a track by building up snow berms around the trees and deck. It is exceptionally fun and has made us very popular with the children.

So, catch up on today, Christmas Eve is drawing to a close. The wee ones are tucked in their beds, certain that they'll never be able to sleep, knowing Santa is so close. And yet, there is not the slightest evidence that any child is still awake.

Today was a whirlwind of church; then a last-minute, mini-get together at our house; a moment of absolute certainty that I was getting the stomach flu; missing candle-light service due to that certainty; a call to my family in Seattle, who I was missing; wrapping of the few last gifts; miraculously feeling better; and lastly, because I was no longer nauseous, making a batch of gingerbread cookies for Santa.

We discovered the NORAD Santa-tracker website last year. Tonight we accessed it and watched the videos from the International Space Station, London, New York, and Indiana. At this moment, I believe he's somewhere down in South America.

The Santa thing has been a bit of a puzzle in our house. Two years ago, Jack concluded, with help from Bruce and me, that Santa is a fiction. So, in exchange for his absolute secrecy, we allowed him to stay up and help us prepare the stockings for the benefit of his siblings, that they might persist in their belief.

Now, two years older and with two more years life-experience, Jack is having a crisis of Santa-unbelief. He no longer disbelieves in Santa.

It started last year when we first discovered the NORAD site.

(Hold on a sec. Gotta check the site again....... Wow! Santa is almost to Seattle!!!!!! That's where I used to live!!!!!)

Okay. So, www.noradsanta.org is really, really, really cool. It even has video sitings. Last year, I showed them the video of Santa flying around the Space Needle and you should have seen Jack's jaw drop. His eyes got wild and panicked. "Mom! Is that really....? Mom. It can't be. You said..... Huh."

So, a seed of belief was planted.

The Christmas party for Bruce's work that we went to the other day featured, as previously mentioned, an encounter with Santa. Through the miracle of Santa-technology, he gave a special, personal message to each child. He mentioned Brownies to Sabrina; to Ellie, he suggested more obedience to her parents; to Evan, nothing, since Evan is still relatively clueless; and to Jack he referred to the computer game, Age of Empires, that Jack obsessively plays. Each child received his/her gift and message, and sat down a bit bewildered. "How did he know that about me?"

Another seed of belief planted.

Around this time, Jack mentioned he was going to write Santa a note specifically asking him if he was real. Tormented by the possibility that Santa might really be real - his sisters and friends certainly think so - he wants proof, if even of a dubious sort.

Tonight, we brought NORAD up again. The first video of Santa we watched was his visit to New York. Jack spat at the computer, "It looks like a cartoon!" Then he turned to Bruce and asked, "How do they get the videos?" When I asked if they wanted to see Santa at the International Space Station, Jack was very enthusiastic, explaining to Sabrina how Santa can get inside it to leave presents: "He uses his magic to make chimneys on places where there are no chimneys."

We made the cookies. We left a cup of milk. Jack wrote a note to Santa. It says, "I hope you enjoy the cookies and milk Santa. Jack. Please sign you name here Santa. [Then, an arrow pointing to a white space.]" When Jack wakes up in the morning, it will be signed.

(NORAD update: Santa flew straight north from Idaho up to Montana and into Saskatchewan, bypassing Seattle. Interesting choice in global navigation. Go Santa.)

In much the same way I teeter between belief and unbelief in God, there is Jack, riding the fence between belief and unbelief in Santa. Even having been told otherwise by his parents; even having participated in and been witness to the "Stocking Ceremony of Unbelief"; even having eaten the cookie and drank the milk and signed the note himself; in spite of seemingly irrefutable evidence, he believes.

He is the opposite of the doubting Thomas. "But Thomas, sometimes called the Twin, one of the Twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. The other disciples told him, "We saw the Master." But he said, "Unless I see the nail holes in his hands, put my finger in the nail holes, and stick my hand in his side, I won't believe it."

No matter what the evidence, Jack will believe in Santa.

And so I ponder the nature of belief. Belief is foolish. It is weak-minded. It is childish and blind.

(NORAD update: Santa is in Seattle right now!!!! And he already hit Forty Mile, Yukon - but hasn't been here yet. The socks are still empty.)

Jack's third-grade class had a Christmas party last Thursday. They watched "The Polar Express". I hadn't seen it in a long time, but was struck by a scene near the end, where the little boy finds the jingle bell from Santa's sleigh. Initially, he cannot hear the jingle of the bell, because only people who believe in Santa can hear the bell jingle. Until the moment Santa arrives on the scene, but the boy doesn't believe in Santa. But the moment he declares his belief, he is able to both hear the jingle and see Santa himself.

The closest I can come to explaining my own belief, is by comparing it to this scene. I hear a sound and see a face that reason tells me shouldn't be there. Every time - every single time - I have laid it all out there, ready to accept the empty void of nothingness in response to my remonstrations, there is this crazy jingle.

But enough about me. I'm getting much too serious on this happy Christmas Eve. There is a gingerbread cookie for Santa that I need to eat. I have stockings to fill and foreheads to kiss.

Here is a picture of Jack explaining Age of Empires to Santa.

If it can be verified, we don't need faith... Faith is for that which lies on the other side of reason. Faith is what makes life bearable, with all its tragedies and ambiguities and sudden, startling joys. Madeleine L'Engle

Imagine, if you will...

2006-12-22T22:51:00.000-09:00

Sadly, once again, Blogger's imaging function isn't functioning. So imagine, if you will, a photo inserted where there is now only italicized text. The photo is of a crystalline expanse in the distance of which a dog sled races against a stand of trees, with snowy mountains towering behind all.

Do you see, way off in the distance, that dogsled pulled by a team of seven sled dogs? Bruce snapped the shot at Otter Lake, north of Anchorage. Isn't it beautiful, with the snow and mountains in the background? What makes it extra special is that Sabrina and I were riding on the dogsled when the picture was taken. It was our very first ride. Cool huh?

Now, imagine a photo that is a close-up of Sabrina and me sitting together in the basket, getting ready for our maiden dog sled ride. Our cheeks are rosy from the cold. Sabrina has lost her mittens so her hands are stuffed into her pockets. The hair she has been sucking has frozen into a halo of icicles around her hooded face.

In going on this little adventure I discovered a little known secret about mushing - its very odiforous. The dogs get so excited that they get gassy, and when you're downwind.... well, you get the picture. When we got home, I mentioned the ride to my neighbor, Gus, and his very first comment was to ask me about the smell. So I guess now I'm in the know. And so are you.

The occasion for the dog sled rides came from the resurrection of an annual potluck from the Engineering Division for the Alaska District USACE; in other words, Bruce's work Christmas party. One of his co-workers is a musher and those are his dogs. The party was held on Fort Richardson at one of the recreation sites. Very unfortunately, the lodge in which the party was held lost power, and so party attendees were huddled in their down and polar fleece while eating samples from countless unplugged crockpots. It was about 11 degrees outside.

The dog sled ride came at the very end of the party. Sandwiched between shivering through the potluck and shivering outside, we had an encounter with Santa and Mrs. Claus. Their red suits looked enviously cosy. Every kid at the party got a special gift. Evan's was the funniest though. He got a Spiderman costume, with flashing spider emblem on the chest, and blinking eyes. The costume was padded on the torso and arms to look like muscles. He could not wait to get it out the packaging and onto his body. He stole the show as he stomped around grunting and flexing his muscles.

Imagine a photo inserted here of Evan mugging in his Spiderman costume. Priceless.

As the party drew to a close, we were asked by one mother where Santa had gotten the costume. The child she on whose behalf she was inquiring was a tiny blonde girl wearing a bumblebee outfit.

As an aside, this inability to insert photos really chaps me. Quite honestly, it is one of the main reasons I quit blogging last spring. At that time, the photo-insert feature quit working; I could not for the life of me figure out how to contact technical support to request support; I really like using pictures in my postings and with out the ability to do so lost heart.

So there, a bit of a rave and a bit of a rant. Imagine that.

Notes on Sabrina

2006-11-28T20:06:00.000-09:00

This morning, I dropped Sabrina off at school early at 8AM to a room full of much older kids. It was the first meeting of the Student Council, for which Sabrina is her class' representative.

She explained to me on the way to school, "When you do different things, there's lots to do." This on a day when she also had Brownies and swimming lessons.

I only found out later that not only is she the youngest member of Student Council, but the next youngest student is in second grade. Yes, she's the only representative from both kindergarten and first grade.

Six-year-old Sabrina can barely write, so the notes she took during her first Student Council meeting this morning read as follows: "tolit trees" for "toiletries"; "close" for "clothes"; "baht rob" for "bath robe"; and "swetshit's pants" for "sweatshirt"? "sweatpants"?

Some sort of "drive" is being organized by the Student Council to help needy people. Sabrina isn't sure who these "needy people" are, only that they need the stuff the kids are going to gather. Apparently, she has already solicited the donation of items from specific classmates, but seems familiarly tongue-tied when asked how she managed to obtain these donation pledges. I can't determine whether she made a presentation to her class, or what. She seems to neither understand the question nor remember how it all came about. It all seems a bit like magic. But then, everything about Sabrina is a bit magical.

During bedtime, she suggested the idea of "incentives" to encourage classmates to follow through on their pledges. Then, she second-guessed herself: "Or maybe I shouldn't do that...." She trailed off, looking very uncertain.

"Oh, you definitely should," I encouraged.

How did all this happen? How did she get to this place, and how will I ever know exactly what she's doing? She doesn't seem to understand it herself.

The enigmatic Sabrina strikes again.

The Secret Lives of Children

2006-11-20T21:43:00.000-09:00

One day, my child comes home from school, and to all appearances, it is a day like any other day. She cries for snacks, she fights with siblings, she trashes her corner of the house, she picks at dinner, and she eludes doing homework with a creativity that would make Tony Soprano blush.

On this particular day, I look through my child’s “take home” folder, and a stark white piece of paper catches my attention.

“Dear Parent…..”

Ah crap. My brain starts to tune out; please not another desperate plea for volunteers, or money.

“……Your child has been chosen as their class’ representative for the [Insert Name of School] Student Council.”

Well! This is a surprise! This sounds important! Lofty! Political! Where on earth did this come from!? My child said nothing to me on her bee-line to the Goldfish crackers upon our return home, but, darn it, she’s going places! THE STUDENT COUNCIL! Next, the Presidency! (Actually, I wouldn’t wish that on any child of mine; perhaps just a modest seat in the State Senate…..)

Yes, the child in question is my first grader, Sabrina. My second born, my enigmatic star/unicorn-catcher, chemist-in-training is on THE STUDENT COUNCIL. (Honest to God, you have to have known her since she was a toddler to understand the significance of this.)

What the hell!?

So, after signing the permission slip, passing it around to Sabrina’s father, and her paternal grandparents, I finally confronted Sabrina. We had just sat down to a decadent dinner of red king-crab purchased from New Sagaya for $9.98 per pound.

“So, Sabrina, I hear you’re going to be on…… THE STUDENT COUNCIL!”

Sabrina looked appropriately embarrassed and humble. “Yeah,” she admitted.

“That’s wonderful! I’m so proud!” I checked the faces of Sabrina’s siblings and grandparents for expressions of awe. Visions of a socially-responsible young person making-a-difference in her community ran through my head.

“Yeah,” blond-haired, blue-eyed, Meg-Ryan-as-a-six-year-old, grinned, “I just wish I remembered what it is.”

Cough. Hack. Clearing of throat.

“Well……” I didn’t bother explaining to Sabrina right then and there what THE STUDENT COUNCIL is, mostly because I have no clue either. I guess she’ll find out when she has her first 8am meeting on November 28th.. (And then, after school and a brief inquisition, so will I.)

What she was able to tell me was that she is the only person from her class that’s going to do it. She also had to be approved by her class and teacher.

And thus, why I am most proud: she didn’t follow anyone’s lead; she wasn’t a lemming; something struck her as being important to do, and even without fully understanding it, she is pursuing it anyway.

That makes me want to cry.

God bless the children! (And I don’t mean that as a shallow cliché.) May she eventually have some idea of what she is doing for the good of mankind!!!!

It is at moments like these that a parent is laid low; humbled; and overwhelmed with a joy that is almost irrational.

Stay tuned!

Let's Get Excited!

2006-11-13T18:41:00.000-09:00

I can count on one hand the number of times a work of fiction has got me really excited. I mean really excited (though, let's be perfectly clear, I don't mean "excited" in a sexual way).

I primarily read fiction; I love fiction. When asked for fiction recommendations, I usually have a list kicking around somewhere. Some I like pretty well; others I love. But very, very few fiction books make me truly excited as both a reader and a writer.

Some recent examples from the "like" department (keeping in mind "like" implies an above-average book):
"The Twentieth Wife" by Indu Sundaresan
"Abundance" by Sena Jeter Naslund
"The Thirteenth Tale" by Diane Setterfield
"The Historian" by Elizabeth Kostova
"No Country for Old Men" by Cormac McCarthy

Some recent examples of fiction from the "love" department (i.e. you really should read this book in the next six months, because it will change how you look at the world):
"Lonesome Dove" by Larry McMurtry
"Song of Solomon" by Toni Morrison
"The Book Thief" by Markus Zusak
"Jane Eyre" by Charlotte Bronte
"The Plot Against America" by Philip Roth

To reiterate: these are fiction books I'm talking about. Nonfiction affects me in a totally different way. With really exciting nonfiction, there is this wonder that the recounting could actually have happened in real life. It's the old adage "truth is stranger than fiction" and most often this is very much the case.

Fabulous nonfiction from the past few months:
"The River of Doubt" by Candice Millard
"Mountains Beyond Mountains" by Tracy Kidder
"Into Thin Air" by Jon Krakauer
"The Devil in the White City" by Erik Larsen

So, back to the original idea - really exciting fiction is a rare thing. But, I am RIGHT AT THIS VERY MOMENT reading a book that is blowing my mind. It is "White Teeth" by Zadie Smith and it was published in 2000 when Smith was a dewy 24-year-old.

I'm not sure what initially compelled me to buy this book, other than glimpsed excerpts of hymn-like reviews, and its inclusion on many "must read" book lists. It has been on my personal "To Read" list for 2006 since January; and with 2006 drawing to a close, I finally decided to dive in.

The first page put me off sufficiently to take a 2-day break to read "Is Sex Necessary" by E. B. White and James Thurber (circa 1929 - how graphic could it be?) which I picked up the library book sale. But rather than start something else after "Sex", I went back to "White Teeth" and am so glad I did. Each paragraph is an epiphany of writing, as decadent as a bowlful of Costco tiramisu.

Recounting the plot line is pointless - if I did so, you'd probably never pick up this book. And it's not great one-liners that have me running for my highlighter pen. It's the book as a whole - its characters, its dialogue, its intelligence and saavy, it subtleties and turns of phrase; quirky characters like John Irving, but more accessible. Tons of humor, but completely authentic. This woman is a literary genius; so much so that it's hard to be jealous of her.

In the review-excerpts, she's compared to John Irving, Charles Dickens, Thomas Pynchon, and Mary Shelley. (Imagine them all combined!) But ultimately she has her own very distinct, unforgettable voice. Pure literary bliss!

The only other book I've ever read that has been more emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually satisfying was C. S. Lewis' Narnia Chronicles. In the mere 74 pages I've read thus far of this 448-page book, there has not been the slightest misstep. Yes, I'm this excited after only 74 pages. As a writer, I rejoice in her control of the human language. Her work is an epiphany, because she captures the spirit of some undefinable thing that I long to create myself, but probably never will. I can hold this book up and say, "This is it. This is the voice I've wanted to find in myself."

So, there you have it.

Now, I will be embarrassed if I get to the end of this book and decide I hate it. The other really embarrassing thing would be for someone to read it and completely hate it.

On librarything.com (where my personal library is catalogued in its entirety; see www.librarything.com/alaskabookworm), there was at least one review by a reader who "didn't get it". Well, those of you who love Tim LaHaye and Dan Brown probably won't get it. But those who love John Irving and Christopher Moore probably will.

Well, enough. You're probably sick to death of my gushing. And, I've got a book to read.

You Should Know...

2006-11-12T20:10:00.000-09:00

A watched pot really does boil.

Just Something

2006-11-11T11:58:00.000-09:00

Last night I felt my muse sit up and blink in the bright light of day. It had been asleep a long while. We, my muse and I, stayed awake until after midnight writing with an intent and purpose that I haven't felt in months. It was wonderful and encouraging.

However, this morning I am reminded why for five months I have found it so hard to write: children. No sooner do I start to get meditative and in a literary groove, than my two youngest are swirling around my ankles screaming and hitting, pulling on my clothes, and the appalling odor of a soiled diaper asserts itself.

And so, out of my meditative mood I pop, irritated and snapping. How did Madeleine L'Engle and my other mentors do it? Where did she find the reserves of energy and motivation? I feel like crying.

Should I actually be able to keep my muse awake for awhile, I should point out that the work I'm embarking on is not blog-able. I am re-working previously written essays in a bold-faced attempt to assemble a manuscript. Should that ever come to pass, then with the utter conviction it would be a waste of time to actually find a third-party publisher, I will probably self-publish.

Meanwhile, the TV is on from dawn to dusk (this time of year in Alaska that is not such an unreasonable amount of time) to "sit" the kids. My kids, as a side note, are fast becoming incurable nerds. I shovel books and writing on them, and refuse to enroll them in sports and other activites.

In the middle of the night last night it occured to me that writing may be the ultimate expression of self-love. And this from a woman who is trying very hard to be less self-conscious. This is something I'll have to ponder to make sense of.

Meanwhile, if you've already read this, then you have had a chance to see the embedded picture. Don't be deceived by the tortured looks on the kids' faces. They were very excited to trick-or-treat and not remotely unhappy. I'm not sure how we managed to capture expressions of such boredom and pain. In any case, it is the best shot of the night, so enjoy.

A Gift

2006-10-17T19:04:00.000-08:00

Today, I have been awed to tears by the elegance of God.

On this, my three-year anniversary of moving to Alaska, I was given my heart’s desire. Happy moving-day to me!

My last posting briefly mentioned that I had to go observe a class at the Anchorage Literacy Project this afternoon. Classroom observation is both part of the training, and, to make sure potential volunteers really want to go forward.

I was feeling rushed, having had to drop Evan with a sitter who he vehemently objected to. This made it hard to break away. Then, I hit every light between South Anchorage and DeBarr (almost as far as a person can drive and still be in Anchorage), but at least I didn’t get lost.

Once in the ALP building (I got the last parking spot in the lot), I headed to the office of the Lori, the volunteer coordinator. I wandered past a class where I glimpsed the saffron robes of Buddhist monks. Oh man, I thought, this is going to be interesting.

Though I began the day assuming I would eventually tutor one-on-one, Lori seemed to think a “classroom” situation could be arranged. Until I had completed the training and spoken with the director, she encouraged me to “remain open.” Hmmm. So much for the “safe” route of working with just one person at a time in an intimate setting. A classroom would mean standing in front of eager pairs of non-fluent eyes. Frightening, to say the least.

The first class I observed had maybe twelve students. They were learning such esoteric concepts as the difference between “want” and “need” (why should I be surprised by the difficulty of this distinction? – I experience it every time I walk into Costco), and practicing the inclusion of the word “is” into sentences (as opposed to “Pencil on desk”). They studied a picture of a scenario, then spoke about how to “read” the nuances of the situation according to American custom (i.e. did Jimmy give Kitty the lily because he likes her or because he loves her).

Even after five minutes, it was very illuminating and I had the absolute conviction that this experience is probably going to teach me far more than any potential students might learn from me.

Of those twelve people, here are some of the countries represented: Uzbekistan, Taiwan, Thailand, Laos, Cuba, Peru, China, Cambodia, The Dominican Republic. Only one person had lived in America more than a year. Most have been here less than three months. There were men and women, young and old, single and married. Several looked upper-middle class and polished. One woman wore a maid uniform.

One woman discovered that the proper name for the footwear she had on was “boots.” One woman could not get the jist of playing “hangman”: she was completely paralyzed when it came her turn to pick a letter. One man was exploring the distinction of “this” and “that” over using “here” and “there.” They practiced the differentiation between prepositions (“on” versus “in”). They corrected each other. They were unafraid to speak out and make mistakes. And as inadequate as I felt as a potential teacher, just by virtue of being a native speaker, I was eons ahead. Who knew the English language and American colloquialisms were so non-intuitive?

The other class I observed (the one with the two monks), was for more advanced English speakers. It was a class on idioms. For those who don’t know (like me, five hours ago), an idiom is an: “expression whose meaning is not predictable from the usual meanings of its constituent elements, as kick the bucket or hang one's head, or from the general grammatical rules of a language, as the table round for the round table, and that is not a constituent of a larger expression of like characteristics.”

They were discussing a story about Julia Butterfly Hill, who lived in a redwood tree for two years to protest their being cut down. This story was a springboard for discussing what things motivates a person; what this woman meant to accomplish; and what is worth sacrificing a great deal for. Side by side, different skin shades, different eye shape, different native tongues, cracked sideways jokes; a sense of unity amidst utterly different backgrounds became very apparent. One Buddhist monk compared the Butterfly-Hill story to monks who disappear into the caves of Thailand for many months and later return to the cities as “enlightened masters.” To this story, affirming nods from all and a spontaneous moment of reverential silence. Another sharply dressed woman said she would not be willing to live in a tree for two years even with her golf clubs, though she would be more than willing to play golf everyday for two years straight. Another woman indicated she could never live in a tree because she squirms too much when she sleeps and would probably fall out. Laughs from all.

And the whole time I’m thinking: there is something here. Something miraculous. Something hopeful. And I want desperately, despite fear and inexperience and ignorance, to be a part of it.

Later, on the drive to Ellie’s preschool, I cried off and on. There is no way to describe the way I was feeling except to compare it to two recent experiences. One was the way I felt last Saturday morning driving down Turnagain Arm to eat breakfast in Girdwood. The fog was just lifting, and the sun just breaking over the mountains, casting rainbows of silver, gold, lilac and orange. I have never seen anything more beautiful than the light and color of that morning. It was almost as if, for a moment, the world became transparent; a promise of something more solid, more real, and just around the very next bend. The other thing I compare the feeling to was when I recently read C. S. Lewis’ Narnia Chronicles for the very first time. I cried all the way through them, dumbfounded by Lewis’ spiritual vision, and as if those books were love-letters from God directly to me. Something very important had been found.

Something happened today. I still don’t know what, exactly. That will only be revealed one day at a time. But there it was, that promise, that kiss, that giving way to something absolute.

This was God’s gift to me.

The Door

2006-10-17T16:01:00.000-08:00

There a new door in front of me that I dare to walk through.

After a season of deep introspection and a great many revelations, it is time to turn outward.

In the hope that it may be a good match with my interest in reading and writing, I am seizing the opportunity to be an adult-literary tutor with the Anchorage Literacy Project.

It came about in the way that most providential things come about: a friend of a friend, a few phone calls, some chasms being bridged, and “coincidental” timing.

Today I observe in a classroom setting. Tomorrow night I begin the training course.

More later.

Feelin' A Bit Cocky

2006-10-03T21:23:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure to what extent I've talked about LibraryThing.com since I joined it last April. It doesn't really matter. Suffice it to say, I've got most of our family's books logged into this online library cataloguing forum. Excluded are kids' board and picture books, and cookbooks; included are old text books, Bibles, and kids' "chapter books".

I discovered LibraryThing while googling for book-cataloguing software. For $25 I have a lifetime membership to LibraryThing, and I also have the enjoyment of knowing that my bibliophile-ness is not unique to the universe. I have had delightful, diversionary conversations with book-nuts in random places like Juneau, North Carolina and England.

However, I had been feeling a bit gloomy about the fact that six months of cataloguing books has yielded a library of (as of this very moment) only 2,273 titles.

Compare my 2,273 books to the LARGEST library catalogued on LibraryThing, belonging to "bluetyson", which has 12,403. I mean, wow.

LibraryThing now has 90,497 members. Of those members, I have the 220th largest library. That's the top 2.5%. Yeah for me.

This puts it all in a more positive light.

I only purchased eight new books in the past week. Seven of them were for $2 total from Salvation Army on Northern Light Boulevard, here in Anchorage.

Our city has several Salvation Army Thrift Store locations, but the one on Northern Lights is my favorite. Its a bit further from home, has a slightly more "questionable" clientele, but when I take a pile of books up to the register, rather than itemizing them (i.e. $1 for a hardback, .50 cents for a paperback) they casually eyeball my pile and throw out a figure 75% or more lower than what they might otherwise charge (had they bothered to itemize). I'm not sure this is a "store policy" but three different cashiers have done the exact same thing.

You can't imagine how quivery-happy this makes me.

Plus, the inventory at this particular store is much better than the other Salvation Army stores. It is the best book-deal I've yet found in Anchorage (including the annual library book sale, which is 50% off on the Sunday of their twice-yearly "book-sale weekend").

Speaking of which - the next library book-sale is the first weekend in November. I'm torn between joy and angst: the joy of getting new books and the angst of spending money on books that I will not read any time soon, and that I no longer have any room for.

Maybe the 100 new books I anticipate buying from the library sale (figures based on past-library-sale-purchase-results) will put me somewhere in the top 1.8th percentile in LibraryThing.com.

One can only hope.

Further Up and Further In

2006-08-23T09:53:00.000-08:00

“They say Aslan is on the move – perhaps has already landed.” – C. S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

Today’s second-most widely read article in the Seattle Times online newspaper reports the response of two families in the greater-Seattle area who were affected by a tragic fatal car crash last Saturday.

Gavin Coffee, father of four-and-a-half (his wife is pregnant with their fifth) was killed instantly when an unsecured shelving unit fell out of a pickup truck driven by 21-year-old Brian Campbell, who was taking it to the dump. Coffee swerved to avoid the shelves, resulting in the domino-effect car crash that took his life.

At the moment the accident occurred, Coffee was talking on his cell phone to his pastor and good friend, Jon Aydelott. Despite the severity of the crash, the phone connection wasn’t broken and Jon remained on the line listening to the voices of witnesses and, later, troopers, who were on the scene.

Based on what he heard, Aydelott realized things looked serious. So he broke the connection and called Coffee’s wife, Heidi, to alert her. They attempted to get more definitive information by calling both the police and local hospitals, but because the accident was still so recent, no one had a record of it.

So, together, Aydelott and Heidi drove to the crash scene, where both recognized Coffee’s vehicle. They were told by troopers that Coffee was dead.

A tragic story, yes. A freakish accident, yes. This story personal to Bruce and me because we know both the Coffee family and Jon Aydelott.

I doubt the Coffees would even remember us. Bruce and I met Gavin and Heidi through mutual friends when we were newly married. We often ran into each other at barbeques and birthday parties. Gavin was one of those guys with twinkling eyes (even as a newlywed, I had a disconcerting crush on him), an infectious, wicked sense of humor, but a deep passion for life, God and his family.

Back then, we all attended church at Calvary Fellowship in Seattle. At the time, Jon Aydelott, who is now the pastor of City Calvary Church in Seattle where the Coffees currently attend, was one of the assistant pastors. When Calvary Fellowship had to relocate to a different facility a decade or so back, several of the assistant pastors took the opportunity to branch off and start their own churches, which eventually spread across the greater-Seattle area. Calvary Fellowship bought a building in Mountlake Terrace, several miles north of the city. Jon Aydelott kept his new church, City Calvary, in a new location in Seattle. Gavin Coffee stayed with Aydelott, and served as a youth pastor at the new church.

In a strange twist that reeks of some deeper mystery, Brian Campbell, the young man who was driving the pickup with the unsecured load, currently attends Calvary Fellowship, where both Aydelott and Coffee used to attend. Campbell aspires to be a youth pastor, just as Coffee was.

This unusual coincidence is part of what has made headlines in Seattle.

Though we haven’t seen the Coffees in probably ten years, Gavin’s death has hit both Bruce and I hard. Such an untimely, needless loss, of someone whose life situation is so similar to ours, hits hard. It is brutal reminder that any of us can die at any time doing the most ordinary things.

Driving home from work last night, with this loss still fresh in my mind, I noticed a van with ladders strapped to the top driving directly in front of me. I slowed way down, for fear one of the ladders might come flying off and into my windshield.

I don’t pretend to understand the theology of incidents like this. These kinds of things happen all the time, and never get any easier to understand. Last night I prayed that, though I might never be witness to it, God would bring good from the situation; that the devastation would be interspersed with hope.

Also noted in the Seattle Times article is the beautiful, gracious gesture of Heidi Coffee extending an invitation to Campbell to attend Gavin’s memorial service this Saturday.

Says Heidi: "Gavin had this great saying, 'Holding a grudge is like taking poison and waiting for someone to die.'” She does not blame Campbell for the accident, and neither does she want him to continue to blame himself.

From what I can tell, God is already doing something. If the popularity of today’s article is any indication, the opportunity to demonstrate forgiveness and acceptance in our strife-torn world does not go unnoticed.

I don’t lull myself into thinking that there won’t be a terribly difficult road to healing for both the surviving Coffees and the Campbell family. Genuine healing requires facing and walking through deep hurts and wounds. It takes a great deal of time and energy. And those hurts and wounds don’t ever totally disappear.

But, I believe death is not the end, as does Heidi Coffee and Brian Campbell, and there is great hope in that.

If corpses can't be raised, then Christ wasn't, because he was indeed dead. And if Christ weren't raised, then all you're doing is wandering about in the dark, as lost as ever. It's even worse for those who died hoping in Christ and resurrection, because they're already in their graves. If all we get out of Christ is a little inspiration for a few short years, we're a pretty sorry lot. But the truth is that Christ has been raised up, the first in a long legacy of those who are going to leave the cemeteries. 1 Corinthians 15:16-20 (The Message)

Other People's Kids

2006-08-19T17:24:00.000-08:00

I really don’t like other people’s kids that much.

There are, of course, exceptions. In fact, the older I get (and the more seasoned, e.g. “beaten down”) the more exceptions there are.

But, by and large, kids I don’t know scare the hell out of me.

So it was really weird when I felt a very specific inspiration to participate in my church’s three-day summer camp, "Fit for His Work" (FFHW). Usually I flee from Vacation Bible Schools and Harvest Carnivals at a high rate of speed.

The camp ended only and hour and a half ago, and I now sit in my cozy home sipping a glass of wine while, outside, there rages a storm of autumn-in-Seattle-proportions.

Today is only August the 19th, and this afternoon we see our very first termination dust. People become very divided over the issue of termination dust (when the highest-most parts of the mountains get their first snowfall). For every adult at FFHW who cheered over the snow (which will probably melt by tomorrow), there was other adult whacking him or her across the head.

I, for one, am tickled and thrilled (though, thankfully, no one hit me over the head). There is something about the anticipation and promise of snowy days that makes my stomach happily flutter.

FFHW began at 9am this morning at the Campbell Creek Science Center, which, until a couple weeks ago, I didn’t even know existed. It is only 15 minutes from my house, and as nature centers go, it is a going concern.

It covers over 700 acres of BLM land, which is connected to Chugach State Park, which eventually turns into Tongass National Forest. It is the doorway to a wild, ranging wilderness, and though not even a mile from residential neighborhoods, is absolutely untamed outside the beautifully groomed trail system.

There were many opportunities to see wilderness-in-progress today. On one hand, due to our recent incessant rainfall, we witnessed Campbell Creek four-feet above flood stage. The water flowed more swiftly than I have ever seen a stream or river flow. During our guided nature walk, I fretted that my five- and six-year old charges would try to test me by teetering over the creek bank. (I warned one child that if he went in, I wasn't going in after him.) Though I only had four kids in my care, given their personalities, I was not being overly paranoid. Several times, one particularly wayward kid had to be forcibly dragged away from the bank and back into the protection of the group.

Which leads me to the other kind of wilderness.

Other people’s kids. They are wild and unfathomable and scary. And for me, it’s very hard to discern appropriate discipline for someone else’s kid.

My “wayward” charge ended up slung over my shoulder for part of our walk for reasons I won’t go into. But I realize over time that often when I run into a kid who perhaps lacks firm boundaries with parents, or lives in an unsettled home, when that kid runs into an adult who is more than willing to enforce the rules, the rules are often challenged.

So, because I can’t stand to see kids disrespecting adults and blatantly throw down the gauntlet, I can’t help but pick it up. Even if the gauntlet is the kid, who gets slung over my shoulder and taken for an abdomen-compressing ride. If it were my kid, there would be much more than abdominal-compression to worry about.

So. After winning a round of “Sea, Sand, and Sidewalk” (as led by “Pastor Jeff”), stitching together three craft-foam water-bottle holders, twice running an obstacle course through torrential rain, and enduring children’s Bible-songs insipid enough to inspire even a teetotaling pastor to long for a cold-one, it is done.

It was a delightful experience. Will I do it again next year? Assume nothing.

Upon coming home this afternoon, I sent Bruce off fishing, perhaps for the last time this season. He is with a friend, and they will be driving two hours in the hopes of catching their limit (six each), and then will head home late tonight.

Evan and I spent a few minutes sitting in the living room’s bay window watching the rain pour torrentially, yet again. I used a Clorox wipe to clear the husks of summer’s mosquitos from the windowsill – a sure sign that fall is upon us.

I know most folks outside of Alaska are still enjoying their balmy summers, but I am feeling a little cocky that it is fall up here. Fall is, afterall, my favorite season.

The rain has let up, and I even see some blue sky to the southwest. Sun, rain, snow, or wind – I don’t really care. One is as magical as the other, if I'm willing to "go with it".

Life always seems to present “opportunities” to engage in things that evoke a feeling of discomfort and dislike. I wish I could find elements of enjoyment and delight in all times, despite obstacles, the way I did this weekend with the kids and the weather.

You Gotta Laugh

2006-08-17T22:00:00.000-08:00

As if discovering my identity was stolen (or, at least, my social security number) wasn't bad enough, the battery died on the Suburban tonight. Our church was doing a VBS (Vacation Bible School) program, which I atypically volunteered to help at, and it involved transporting kids. With our behemoth Suburban, I had plenty of room. This is NOT a good time for a car-battery to die.

I was not so panicky that I forgot my friend Jeff's cell phone number. Suddenly it was as if it were etched in glowing numbers on the backs of my eyelids. Jeff is not only my good friend, but, conveniently, the pastor of my church, and as such was also involved in the VBS program. When I called him, I knew he was close by.

So he came to my rescue in the parking lot of the Alaska Club South (where we, and numerous other masochistic adults, had been swimming with 40 elementary-age kids.)

Then later at church, when it was time to go home, my car failed again.

"Jeff!!!," I beckoned. Again, to my rescue he came. Good man. Thanks, Jeff!

And, I avoided a nervous breakdown without supplemental seratonin.

Meanwhile: I'm sort of famous at church right now.

With a great deal of help from my own lips, already many church-folk know that my social security number was "borrowed." I got a lot of sympathy and comments like, "Wow, I didn't know things like that really happened." Yeah, until 11am this morning, neither did I.

(Did I mention, via the police, I need to get a piece of paper that I need to carry with me at all times indicating that I am not the other person with the Texan criminal record? And that I need to get a mug-shot and fingerprinted with the Alaska authorities? Sigh.)

Elaine jokes I am the poster-child for the value of background checks. It can be a safeguard in the same way monitoring one's credit history can. Apparently, at our church there is some resistance to the idea of background checks. This is not a surprise. Who wants to live in a world where background checks at church might be deemed expected and ordinary? I certainly don't. But, people, that is the world we live in, whether you choose to accept it or not.

The funniest comment made to me tonight came from a guy at our church whose wife recently got released from a year-long stint in prison for fraud and embezzelment. He told me that, upon hearing of my travails, he commented to his wife, who is still in a half-way house, "Those darn criminals." He said it to tease her. He meant it very tenderly and lovingly. I didn't know how to take it (and I consider myself more out-of-the-box than most at my church). (This is a wonderful couple who has handled their family's ordeal with a divine level of grace and honesty.)

So, its been a day. I'm working on Beer #3, and just starting to relax. But the reality is, despite feeling tired and stressed, I have a strong sense of God's presence in all these events. I might have gone on indefinitely not knowing about the identity theft. The first infraction happened in 1989 - 17 years ago! The most recent infraction on the report occurred in 1999. So while I've been happily getting married and having babies, some poor soul has been desperate enough to steal that which belongs to others in order to survive.

But for the error made in one keystroke by the church administrator, I might have continued on in ignorance. (She had desperately wanted to call me and tease that she'd found something horrible during my check; little did she think she'd actually find something.) I always joke that ignorance is bliss. I would much rather have spent the whole afternoon blissfully lost in a book than be on the phone all afternoon with various federal and state agencies.

But would the ignorance of what is, in fact, reality, be preferable? I might go years and years continuing to live happily oblivious, and then have things catch up with me in a catastrophic way. Whether I am aware of my social security number's use in criminal records or not, it continues to exist with the imminent potential to profoundly influence my life.

I believe there is a reason for the timing of these events. I could have ignored the things that happened today; blown them off. But sometimes a door opens, and even though what lays across the threshold looks uninviting, you go through anyway. A small mess can lead to a much bigger one, down the road. You go through the door and start cleaning and clearing - by faith.

It is the bee-in-the-sewer-pipe theory all over again: just because you don't see it, it doesn't mean it isn't there. You flush a dead bug, and while it may seem to be gone forever, it does continue to exist, riding through sewer pipes as it decomposes. (Only a very few of my correspondents are familiar with this experiential analogy of mine, so don't expect to recognize it.)

As far as the dead car battery - again, Providential timing. Knowledgable help was readily available. Inconvenient, but in the end, there was resolution and satisfaction.

I wonder what fun new adventures lay in wait tomorrow?

Stolen Identity

2006-08-17T12:57:00.000-08:00

Just when I thought I was getting more in touch with myself, my identity goes and get's stolen.

Yes, I have inadvertently been sharing my social security number with a criminal in Houston, Texas who has over a dozen aliases.

After conversations with the Social Security Administration, the Federal Trade Commission, the Anchorage Police Department, Alaska State Troopers, and the Alaska Bureau of Investigation, I am little closer to answers.

What I have been forewarned of is this: if for some reason this person "borrowing" my social has a warrant out for her arrest, and I up here in Anchorage were to be pulled over, I might be arrested.

Hmmm. Interesting concept.

So, I could be ferrying the kids to the library and maybe go a bit to fast to make the light at 36th and New Seward, and get pulled over. Then, with my four kids watching, be arrested then and there. Yikes.

How it came about is divine. Our church is doing routine background checks on people who work with children. My report would have been clean, except that Elaine, the person administering the check, "accidentally" typed my birthdate in wrong by one number. And suddenly all this criminal history came up.

Now, keep in mind this hasn't seemed to touch our financial records. Nothing is amiss with out credit cards or my credit report. The only way this was found out was by a background check and a entry error. But the problem is real, as evidenced by the reaction of the representative with the Social Security Administration. Clicking her tongue and sighs of "my goodness" were enough to set my heart 'a-racing. And every phone call ended with each genuinely sympathetic person saying "Well, good-luck with that."

So, I guess identity theft is real. Bruce speculates this person may be in the U.S. illegally and borrowed my southern California-issued social and birthdate.

Word

2006-07-18T22:48:00.000-08:00

Last night, after half a bottle of wine, I had an epiphany. So enthralled was I by my genuis, that I got out of bed to jot down notes so that I wouldn't forget my thoughts overnight.

Those notes are on my bathroom counter. I don't need them. I didn't forget.

For years I have longed and yearned for tangible proof of the existence of the God I have long sought after. He, in His infinite mercy and omnipotence, has seen fit not to grant me my wish in the way I expected.

But after a few glasses last night, my guard was down. It was late. My mind started to wander.

A commonly curious question arose: what most separates humans from other creatures?

Language? No. Lots of other creatures communicate with each other.

Tools? No. Lots of other creatures use tools.

Our houses, cars, and computers? No. Other creatures build dwellings. Cars and computers are just tools.

So, what then? What makes us so unique and different from other creatures?

Books.

Yes, books.

The devouring of language; the subsequent symbolizing of it; the records of experience passed down over many generations. The wall paintings, the scrolls, the papyrus, the tablets, the manuscripts, the books, etc., etc., etc.

Name me one other creature on this planet that has books or their equivalent?

Because of books, we have a sense of history is being linear rather than cyclical. Because of books, we can emotionally connect with the experiences of those who lived millenia before us. Because of books, if we choose, we can see ourselves with painful clarity.

Something compels us to tell stories and pour out ourselves. Something compels us to read.

Books are my life. They are what I am unwaveringly passionate about; what I breathe and eat and never tire of.

Books are made of pages, paragraphs, sentences, and words.

The Word was first,
the Word present to God,
God present to the Word.
The Word was God,
in readiness for God from day one.

Don't you see it? Isn't it perfectly clear?

I love books because they are proof of God; the God I love.

And this explains another ultimate question: why I love books so much.

"...the Word was God."

The Elegant Universe

2006-07-17T20:17:00.000-08:00

For the first time since his death six years ago, I cried over my father. Six years is a long time to hold onto tears, but I always figured someday grief would catch up.

It wasn't that my heart was hard or insensitive to losing my dad, but I had already done a share of grieving. He had been on supplemental oxygen for nine years until he died; every time we spoke or saw each other, I wondered if it would be the last time. During those nine years, as it got progressively harder for him to breathe and move around, concluding a visit was always wrenching.

Two weeks before he was hospitalized with fatal pneumonia, I dreamed of his death. In the dream, I panicked and cried, and asked myself the eternal question: has everything that I need to say been said? The answer was "yes", and after that point in my dream, I was at peace. So, when the actual event happened, I felt as though I had already sort of been through it, and so was better equipped to support my mom and brother.

I remember thinking: How could you guys not have seen this coming? But they hadn't, so I appointed myself the official "grief carrier" of my family, stoically sitting beside them as much as I could. By the time their grief had ebbed, my own grief seemed stuck in suppression-mode.

So, what recent trigger finally set me off? Well, it was an email exchange between myself and my good friend Gillian, who lives down in the Seattle-area. She had been telling me about her upcoming visit to Lummi Island at the beach cabin of a family friend.

Now, it just so happens that the beach-front cabin Gillian is staying at on Lummi Island is right next door to the beach-front cabin that my parents bought way back in 1980, when I was 10-years-old. For years, all our weekends and summers were spent on Lummi Island. Though much of this time I was a sullen and emotional teenager, those times on Lummi are the best memories I have of my childhood. They are the most vivid. My parents owned that cabin until 1992, when, because of my dad's health, they were finally forced to move to the mainland, where medical care was more accessible.

I begged my parents not to sell. By then I was 21. I had a fantasy of the place staying in our family as either a home or vacation property. I was just a few years to young to be heard and taken seriously, and so it was sold. The loss of that place, for some inexplicable reason, still causes an ache inside of me - for what might, and maybe even should have, been.

The first time I ever saw the Northern Lights was from the beach on Lummi Island. My dad woke me up to show them to me. Little did I know that some day I would live in the place from which they are borne. My dad taught me to catch and cook crab and fish. There, I developed my love of solitude, and did the first real writing of my life. There, I did jigsaw puzzles, and hunkered under a mountain of blankets during vicious storms. There, I stole and smoked the cigarettes that destroyed my dad's lungs. There, I walked the mile to the island store and bought trashy novels. I rode a few horses, tried to waterski (a failure), and slept a great deal.

It is there my dad's ashes were scattered upon the water, where they sank down to mix with the sand and the salt and the remnants of many other once-living things; where they probably are still.

So, now, 13-years later, I live in Alaska with my husband and kids. And it is my dear friend Gillian, and her wonderful family, who continue to visit Lummi Island in our stead. Instead of me continuing to laze one the beach with a book, it is Gillian who does so. Instead of my own kids flying kites in the front yard, or digging in the sand, building forts from driftwood, or roasting marshmallows over a beachfire, it is Gillian and her kids who do so.

And it was all these memories taken together, and elegance of continuity, not by my own participation, but in the presence of people I love, that finally unleashed a torrent of tears and gratifying grief.

I do not believe in coincidences. I believe in design, even in things such as childhood memories and enduring friendships. If one only looks, there is a pattern, a tapestry, and it is strange and beautiful.

Tattoo Dreams

2006-07-11T18:54:00.000-08:00

Did I mention I want a tattoo? It's something I've been thinking over for the last 18-months or so.

One afternoon last summer, while working at the gallery, a man came in who had just come from the tattoo parlour. I had never seen a "fresh" tattoo before, and it was so bloody and disgusting looking that I completely freaked out. Suddenly choosing a body part - any body part - seemed a lot less pressing. Despite the tempting offer of several friends getting tattoos at the same time (friends who, at their request, will remain anonymous), I backed off. (Its what we do for fun in Alaska: group tattoos.)

Last Saturday, I bought a new stud for my nose, and while I was at the body art studio, I studied the tattoo catalogue. I was getting ideas again. I asked the body-piercing-specialist if the tattoo artists can help design the image. Emphatically yes.

So here I am, ready for pain and blood.

I even know where I want it.

I want to be able to see it without using a mirror, so that leaves out my whole backside. I considered my upper arm, but was warned that upper arms - like many other body parts - tend to change size as the years progress, thus "altering" the image. So I gave up on that idea as well. (Additionally, an upper arm tattoo is a lot more difficult to hide, which might be necessary the next time I interview with a Fortune-500 company.)

Ankle tattoos look really cool. Originally, this was my first choice. Then someone told me that because ankles have so little body fat, tattooing them is very painful. And since I can't be drunk while getting the tattoo (and thus numbed), ankles quickly lost their appeal.

(Incidentally, before having the first of my four kids, I would often try to imagine the pain of childbirth, wondering, How bad can it be? Really? Having learned the hard way that this is a mortifyingly stupid question, I did not want to duplicate this pattern with a tattoo. However, habits die hard. Hence my recent musings while reading Jon Krakauer's book "Into Thin Air": Come on. How hard can climbing Mt. Everest really be? See how I am?)

With all this in mind, it has become very clear to me that the perfect place for my tattoo is the front, lower part of my shoulder, a la bra-strap-region (as long as it stays well-above those areas which will some day inevitably creep in a more southerly direction).

I have also chosen what to get tattooed with. But I'm not going to tell you.

Choosing a tattoo image is a lot like naming a baby: if I tell you, I know I'll get the inevitable "Huh", plus all sorts of unsolicited input. Let's face it: getting branded with something I'm going to have look at several times a day until I die is a fairly personal thing. You, on the other hand, may never see it. It's not about whether to buy the Captain Crunch or the Cocoa Pebbles. (Duh, by the way.) But I can assure you it will be G-rated - no gory, half-mutilated, naked-people hiding under my bra strap, thanks. (Neither will it feature Disney Princes and Princesses.)

Bruce is urging me to get it done sooner rather than later. I'm not sure what this says about him - that he wants his wife tattooed - but I told him it won't be any sooner than this fall, when the weather cools and I'm less likely to expose that particular part of my anatomy to the sun (which I've been told is a no-no for a little while afterward).

I may very well think of another reason to chicken out between now and then. We shall see. We shall see.

2006-07-11T00:40:00.000-08:00

Just about my favorite crazy web-photo of all time, called "Free Kitty." Somehow I identify with it.

2006-07-11T00:33:00.000-08:00

The cloud painting by Tom Missell. A very typical Alaska cloudscape.

Cloud Gazers

2006-07-11T00:23:00.000-08:00

John works at the Hotel Captain Cook as a wine steward, and when he wandered into the gallery tonight he was truly baffled that in my year with Stephan’s he’d never seen me before.

That was how our dialogue began. With disbelief.

In answer to my question of which painting was his favorite, John indicated an original oil by Tom Missell, the subject matter of which is clouds. I concurred, citing it as my personal favorite. But then, I apologetically explained, I am a cloud-gazer.

He turned to me, startled. “You too? Ah, she’s a poet. Have you seen tonight’s clouds? Sunset is going to be a doozy.”

Ah, a fellow cloud-gazer. I met another one recently, also at the gallery over the very same Tom Missell painting.

Then he pointed to “Turnagain Treasure” by Charles Gause and said this was a painting he must have before he moves this fall. I replied that it is so far the only painting of Gause I’ve collected. Again, a weird moment of symbiosis.

It is sometimes scary to meet someone with whom you so totally, instantly connect. I made very sure to talk-up my children and marriage.

It turns out John has four children too. Two are in their twenties, two are teens.

Having just finished reading “Into Thin Air” by Krakauer, I felt compelled to blurt the question/comment: “So, you’re a climber.”

He again looked startled. “How did you know?”

“You look like one.”

He didn’t require further clarification, but took for granted that we both agreed it was true. John is very tall and very thin and very tan and his short hair sticks straight up in the air. He wears rumpled clothes, but they are clearly of the highest quality (Carhartts, North Face, etc.) with real-life wear and tear. He’s also got raccoon eyes from then-absent sunglasses. A dead giveaway. If you’ve ever drank beer in Talkeetna in mid-summer, next to a table full of climbers fresh (and I do mean FRESH) off Denali, then you’ll know what I mean.

John admitted he doesn’t do more than day hikes anymore. The days of invincibility are over. As he’s gotten older (40’s, maybe? – I never asked) he admitted to increased fearfulness about life.

“You are fearful,” I said, “for the same reason you stare at the clouds.”

He looked at me quizzically.

I further explained: “Cloud gazers have vivid imaginations.”

Boy, is THAT ever an understatement. But after a moment’s thought, he agreed.

It turns out John is also a book reader. He threw down the gauntlet when he suggested he is a more maniacal reader than I am.

“Well,” I bragged, as only I can, “I have bought over 200 books in the past six weeks.”

He was shaken. What? Where? How?

“Library book sale, as a jumping-off point.”

He asked me my favorite author, and the most profoundly affecting book I’d read recently. I was blank. Where is my book journal when I need it? I am helpless without it. It is both a weapon and an elixir. I failed that challenge miserably.

John wanted to recommend a couple of titles to me, specifically from Robertson Davies and William Boyd.

“Oh,” I said, “I have some books from them.”

“You have books from them that you haven’t read?” John couldn’t seem to grasp this concept. Clearly he needed a bit more clarification.

“John, I have over 1,000 books I haven’t read yet.”

John laughed and said, “You are crazy. That’s great.” He seemed genuinely pleased.

I win!
So that was one of the interesting experiences I had tonight at work. One I don’t want to forget. And, on the drive home, I got to enjoy the most beautiful sunset of my life.

Waxing About Waning

2006-07-05T21:33:00.000-08:00

Fireweed is here. This lovely, magenta-colored indigenous bloom, which commonly shows its face in July, is starting to pop up everywhere. It begins blooming from the bottom of its blossom upward. For Alaskans, fireweed is a harbinger of things to come; a reminder that summer's waning is imminent. The legend, as I understand it, is that once fireweed goes to seed, coating the city in a second "summer snow" (second to that of the cottonwoods), the first winter snow is only six weeks away. So when I see the fireweed, it is a bit like a first golden maple leaf, or a first frost, or a first pumpkin of autumn. Fireweed is as distinct a flower as a daisy, and its vibrant fushia color makes it impossible to ignore.

I feel both melancholy and cozy when I see fireweed, torn between toasting my skin in the summer sun, and curling on the couch watching termination dust creep down the mountains. So, here is the fireweed, and I'm only just beginning to realize that summer is upon us.

In other news: We just concluded a 12-day visit from Bruce's sister's family. Liz, Steve, and their two boys, Brendan (9) and Patrick (4), melded with our family, and together we had various adventures, the details of which I'm already having a hard time remembering. Fortunately, Steve played the role of photojournalist for the trip using his fancy new camera, so at least we have some still lifes with which to jog collective memories.

Based on the pictures, there seems to have been some fishing, a birthday party, a little bit of sight-seeing, the zoo, a bear, a couple glaciers, a few moose, camping on a lake with some other people, a parade, several restaurants, and what seemed like many bottles of wine.

Of course, Steve did such a great job taking pictures there are almost too many to choose from. (Actually, for some reason, at themoment I am having issues uploading pics. I'll try tomorrow when it is a more reasonable hour and when I don't have an Ellie-girl on lap.) At least this is a start.

With the major event of our summer now behind us (yes you guys, for better or worse, you count as a "major event"), we hardly know what to do with ourselves. Well, at any rate, I don't know. Bruce has three weekend fishing trips to look forward to, plus his birthday. Shortly thereafter, it will be back to school for the kids. Their first day is August 22nd.

I imagine at that point my eyes will begin to drift back toward the mountains, but instead of the expectation of summer's upward-spreading green, I will instead seek signs of a downward-blanketing white; that icy canopy beneath which a most fertile and colorful world will again return to sleep .

2006-06-22T14:50:00.000-08:00

Evan's Bandage-Covered Stitches

A Wing and a Prayer

2006-06-06T18:02:00.000-08:00

It's been two months since I rejoined Weight Watchers. And though I've managed to lose 13 pounds, during that same period of time, I've written almost nothing at all. I've determined that the reason I haven't been blogging is because I'm focusing on losing weight. Isn't that weird? It's like I can't do two "creative" things at once. I channel all my energy into one thing at a time, and then I am incapable of switching gears and focusing on something else. So, because I'm blogging today, that means I'll probably gain five pounds today.

I would not have been able to lose any weight without exercise. The other day, after feeling guilt about eating two portions of a fattening dinner, I went for a walk, and the next morning rather than being up a couple pounds, was actually down a half to a new low.

I often read the testimonials of people on the WW website who have lost significant amounts of weight; in at least one case, a woman lost half her bodyweight. Each one of these testimonials makes me cry. How hard these men and women have worked! And, in every single case, these people had made fitness a key component of their daily lives. They conquered lifelong aversions to exercise. Many of them now compete in triathalons and marathons.

Since I got back to Weight Watchers, I have been walking a lot. With summer here, and four kids home during the day, I need to make an extra concerted effort to get outside. A few minutes walk from my house is a 1/4 mile running track, part of the grounds of South Anchorage High School. I can take the kids up there, and they can fool around while I walk. It's an ideal place to walk.

I frequently recall a 15-year-old conversation with my aunt, during which she said that the best way to start running is to gradually build up to it. A few steps of walking, then a few steps of running, then a few steps of walking, and back to a few steps of running. Back and forth, back and forth, until your body builds stamina. It takes time and patience and perseverence - things I've avoided in a life of immediate gratification.

The other night I was walking Seamus up at the high school. I was walking as briskly as I could, but I still didn't feel like I was going fast enough. So, I tried to run. We made one full circuit around the track before I slowed to a walk again. Then, after half a lap of walking, Seamus and I tried running again. This time it was only half a lap. We walked another lap before running another half.

I was glad no one else was at the track, because I would have been embarrassed. I see runners up there all the time who can go around and around and around without becoming uncoordinated with fatigue. I would love to be one of those people. At present, I am far from gazelle-like, and much more likely to trip and tumble face-first onto the track than to inspire the admiration of passersby. In my blue jeans, five-year old Costco athletic shoes, and supportless bra, I don't need an audience. Nevertheless, my experiment was a success; it felt great to run, to push; it felt great to feel great.

A memory of my uncle, who would run like five miles everyday at lunchtime during the summer I lived with he and my aunt in Kalamazoo, Michigan: after his daily five mile run, he would come in for lunch. What would he eat? A carrot. A single, stinking carrot. And then he would shower and dress and return to work for another five or so hours. For the longest time I equated exercise with an impassioned kind of hunger. I so typically felt impassioned hunger just from reading a book or light housework, that I couldn't imagine what a five mile run would do to me. I have been known to work up a five-taco appetite just by strolling half a block. I want to teach my body and mind to sustain itself on a single carrot. Or at least an avocado (preferably, smashed up with lemon juice, powered chilis, and a lot of garlic).

The last time I attended Weight Watchers regularly was four years ago. At that time, I had spent four or five months losing upwards of 50 pounds after having Sabrina. So passionate was I about their program (and still am), I decided to work parttime for them. I did this until shortly before Ellie was born. Then, a few weeks before my due date, I quit, and didn't go back until now.

My weight loss has slowed in the last couple weeks (though not stopped) because: a) the kids are out of school (more distractions); b) I've been doing other things (because the kids are out of school); and c) since dropping a clothing size, I am feeling so much better about myself that my motivation has decreased.

Of course, last night, after Evan broke open his forehead (requiring 3 stitches, and eerily identical to the wound Sabrina sustained 2 1/2 years ago), I said "mailto:!@* it", and gave myself permission to drink an extra 16 fluid oz of wine, and at least a cup of hummus with tortilla chips. Yes, it was comfort eating, and I don't care. And though some things warrant a little comfort, the more I lose the easier it is to justify "exceptions".

The past couple days has been chock-full of exceptional moments (though only the last one REALLY pushed me over the edge). Yesterday, in addition to regular daily frustrations, Ellie peed in Darlene's bathroom floor (accident); Bruce broke a wine glass into the just-drained spaghetti noodles (accident); and Evan fell off the couch only to have his fall broken by his forehead striking the corner of the coffee table (accident). Today, I broke a glass plate. I don't know WHAT the deal is. I'm afraid to leave the house; I'm afraid to stay home. Jack and Sabrina, both of whom don't know how to swim, are at a birthday party at H2Oasis, an indoor waterpark. I sent water-wings with them and asked God for His protection ("a wing and a prayer", so to speak).

Regarding Evan's fall, we were supposed to wake him several times during the night to make sure he didn't have a concussion, which he didn't. He was so alert at those times, he would say things like, "Mom, put me back to bed", and later, "Mom, is it time to get up?" He speaks in full sentences now, but in a baby-voice, which confuses my ability to process him. It's also possible the blow may have turned him savant, which would explain this morning's picking up Eoin Colfer's "Artemis Fowl" for some light reading .

I DO want to start writing and blogging again. I just don't quite know how to switch gears back to doing it. It seems like my slivers of time are narrower and narrower, what with family demands, and camping on weekends.

Ah yes, family demands. That segues nicely into my next thread of thought.

With these precious years of my little ones quickly slipping away, and their bold, bright, exciting, autonomous future just around the bend, I am alternately grieving over the loss of my babies, and straining at the bit to move ahead. I want to self-publish. I want to go to graduate school. There is a rush of excited adrenaline at the thought of returning to school, and then a tearful ache when a moment later a young mother walks by with her newborn.

No one warned me about this stage of life; this crossroads. But when I feel almost overwhelmed with sadness that both my kids and I are getting older, I tell myself there is a high likelihood of eventually holding "my own" newborn again - the son or daughter of one of my children. And then I feel relief, because rather than dwell on what is no more, I eagerly look forward to what is to come. It is the same type of longing I imagine those more pious than myself must feel about one day getting to heaven.

Recently, I was at work and two older gentlemen came into the gallery to browse fine art prior to eating dinner. In the course of conversation, I mentioned having four young children. One of the men observed that I didn't look old enough to have one kid, much less four. I told him I certainly am, at age 36, and I did an internal jig of delight when he expressed (I think sincerely) surprise at my age.

After years of my mother nagging me to take care of my skin and body, now in my mid-thirties, I finally do. I spackle a different lotion or cream on every part of my body everyday. I sandpaper and scrape all those same parts regularly as well, eagerly trying to unearth new skin cells that haven't yet learned how to wrinkle and sag. I suddenly care a great deal more about weight loss, knowing that hair and make-up alone no longer disguise the aging process. Exercise is also becoming a more significant part of my life. In the same way I finally understand the proper application of skin and bodycare products, I am starting to understand how walking, running, and strengthening can fundamentally improve the quality of one's life. I have given up on plucking the gray, which is now coming in with vigor.

But, you know, despite a certain melancholy at saying good-bye to youth, I also feel relief. I feel a great deal less the need to prove myself, the way I once did. I kind of like my battle-scars; I'm a little proud of them. When I was younger and more attractive, few ever bothered to know the person inside me. I was often shuffled into an "airhead" box, and abandoned there. Being "cute" became a curse, and I sometimes think I "allowed" myself to put on weight as something to hide inside.

Anymore, I don't know anyone who thinks I'm an airhead (at least, not in the way they once did. I suspect that the airhead-label may be justified in-part by virtue of braincell-loss from birthing four kids). I guess I've proved my point. But it hasn't been enough. I want to be pretty (to myself) again.

So, I guess I've come full circle in this posting. Weight, to daily life, to aging, to self-care, to weight again. Time marches on, and so do we.

Thank-You Notes from the Underground

2006-05-15T19:58:00.000-08:00

Actually, Ellie's birthday thank-you notes were not written underground, but I thought it was a catchy title.

Ellie's fourth birthday party was a week ago. We had a variety of kids come through, and though we got a little damp during a drizzle-storm, the real rain started only after we retired indoors.

Party activities included:
a) make your own door-hanger using foamies
b) a treasure hunt using tiny toys and Easter eggs
c) outline and then color-yourself using sidewalk chalk and our backyard fence
d) volley-balloon

Guess which was the most popular?

Answer c). Wildly so.

I thought it might be annoyingly clever to provide for you the text of the thank-you notes I penned to Ellie's party guests. Writing thank you notes has always been a painful task for me, and it was all I could do to restrain myself while writing them. I tried very hard to make the words sound like her. The following thank-you's at least have the real text of the notes I wrote on her behalf. For fun, I "embellished" just a few for my blog. Can you tell which are which?

Cassie, Thank you for coming to my birthday party and for the Barbie mermaid. I love to play with her. She's very pretty. I hope we can have a playdate togther this summer so I can ride your pony.

Ryann & Caden, Thank you for coming to my birthday party and for the nice presents. I have already watched the "Hello Kitty" DVD a bunch of times. I like the teacher Barbie and girl dolls. My Pinkies like to sleep in the doll sleeping bag. You are good friends, and I hope we see you lots this summer.

Hayden, Thank you for coming to my birthday party. It was fun having you there. I love the dress-up stuff you got me for a present. Thank you! I wore the dress all day the next day. It makes me look like a beautfiul princess. It's a little low cut in the front, however. Mom tried to get me to wear a shirt underneath, but I refused. She drew the line at letting me wear it outside. You are a good friend.

Lia, Thank you for coming to my birthday party. It was fun having you there. Thank you also for the gift! I love bubbles, and my mom let's me take bubble baths with the Cinderella soap. My hair smells good from it too. My big sister likes it too, but my mom won't let her use it, because it's my special present from you. This makes my big sister cry.

David, It was fun having you at my party. Thank you for the nice gift. The Sky Dancer doll is really fun, and I like the way it lights up and plays a song. Even my big brother Jack likes to make it fly.

Cooper, It was fun having you at my party. I'm glad you came. Thank you for the nice gift. I wear the shoes all the time at home. In fact, on my birthday I insisted on wearing them out to dinner. Unfortunately, just as we got to the restaurant, I discovered cuts on my feet from the shoes, and I screamed and cried. Mom threatened to take us home and feed us PB&Js if I didn't keep them on my feet during dinner. I managed to stifle my screams. My mom won't let me wear them to school. The purse is good too, and I like to put stuff in it and wear it. Thank you for being my friend.

Lauren, I'm so glad you came to my party. You are my special friend. Thank you for the nice gifts. I love the pony and pony book. I wear the sunglasses whenever I go outside. My mom says I look like a movie star. The cellphone is great too. So great, in fact, Evan keeps stealing it from me.

Aiden, I'm sad you missed my party. I wish you could have colored our fence and eaten cake and ice cream with us. It's been fun being in your class this year. You are a nice friend. Thank you for the beautiful Strawberry Shortcake doll. I love her so much I took her camping last weekend. She smells terrific. I hope you like your new house.

Your friend, Ellie

The only one's I didn't tamper with are the one's to Ryann and Caden, David, and Lauren.

Well, that's the birthday roundup. Only one more kid party for the year, and then a six-month break.

On Williwaw Pond

2006-05-15T10:22:00.000-08:00

Our first trip out in our trailer was a success. What follows are a series of observations and descriptions about that trip. Warning: content very nonlinear.
So thorough were Bruce’s preparations for our trip, that nothing went badly awry. The only glitches were insufficient bed-clothing for the adults, no coat for Evan, and the omission of drinking water separate from the trailer’s supply. Since we’ve returned home, we have made a couple extra trips to the trailer in its storage facility to retrieve: my glasses and contact lens stuff, my make-up (God forbid!), aluminum foil, and Juneau’s meds.

The campground we had expected to stay at was closed due to unusual amounts of snow in Portage during March and April. But with relative ease and fuss we found out little pond-side pull-out spot a short way from the campground. Over the course of the weekend, several other campers came and went from our spot, including our neighbors, who we arranged to rendezvous with.

We were close to the road and so enjoyed not only the sounds of birds twittering, but the sound of cars rushing by. However, apart from that, we might have been miles from civilization, so dramatic were the 4,000-foot mountains rising up from the valley floor in front of us. Behind us, on the other side of the road, the southern wall of the valley boasted the remains of a huge avalanche.

The kids had a great time, didn’t bemoan the lack of television once, and otherwise acclimatized amazingly well. They spent the better part of the trip throwing rocks into the pond. Bruce and I alternated closely watching the younger kids around the pond. There wasn’t much transition between shoreline and watery depths, so we militantly insisted the little ones stay several feet from the edge.

During Evan’s Saturday nap, I took the older kids a couple miles down the road to the Portage Visitors Center. We spent a fair amount of time there, playing at the exhibits, watching the movie about glaciers, and eating ice cream.

At my mom’s suggestion, I packed a journal in which to record our travels.

Saturday morning, sitting in the bright sunshine and sipping a cup of coffee, I was suddenly inspired to write. Only then did I realize the journal I’d chosen already had some writing in it – it had formerly been a “prayer journal” from 1990. I read some of the old entries, cringing all the while. Most of them asked God to spare me from the pain and agony of male rejection, and, if “God willed,” to magically zap those boys, with whom I was infatuated, into adoring me back.

With little other choice, I turned to the next blank page in the journal and, with these words, picked up where I left off: “Sixteen years and a great many adventures later….”

An excerpt from Saturday:

“Today is brilliant and cloudless. Crystal clear, cloudless. Though the air is chilly (40? 45?) the sun is quite comfortably warm. Warm enough for mosquitoes, even. It’s supposed to warm up to 60 today [it only got to about 50].
“Across from where I am sitting an eagle is soaring about. He’s been up there a long time, circling and arcing, but he hasn’t flapped once. Bruce just noted a trout surfacing fifteen feet away.
“So, the eagles, magpies, trout and mosquitoes have awoken, but our children are deteriorating. They are now within the ‘beluga’ [trailer], thumping about. Screaming, crying, calling for help. There is a great deal of motor noise from the road, presumably heading towards Whittier. Smallcraft planes fly overhead. Lots of birds twittering. And, oh, what’s that? The sound of Seamus breaking out of his collar and getting in a fight with the cocker spaniel one RV over. Hm.
“Ah, all is well again.
“The kids have made a fort of their bunkhouse. Juneau, lame in one rear leg, is loose, off-leash, exploring. It has been a long time since she was on a ‘venture.’
“10:40am My eagle is back joined by two friends. Already, two have glided over the ridge-line, no longer visible. Only one left. From their movement, it appears there is a wind-current-road, as clearly delineated to them as the yellow and white striped asphalt is to me. Eagle number three is vanishing on that invisible road far aloft. Good-bye eagles.
“10:50am Two more eagles. Distinctly circling us looking for a morsel. Put Juneau in the trailer for safe-keeping. I presume at 30+ lbs. Evan is too heavy for even them.”

While we all enjoyed our trip and regretting having to come home, I think the one who most enjoyed herself was Juneau. Juneau is now 10 ½ years old, but when she was a puppy, years before we even had any human children, Bruce and I used to backpack in the mountains of Western Washington. Juneau was the gamest small dog I ever saw on a trail. She led the way up and down the dirt trails, tongue straight out in front, and tail straight out in back. At night, she would curl up beside me in my sleeping bag. We used to call her “Venture Dog” for her love of “ventures.”

It’s been a good many years since she went on a proper “venture.” Since Seamus joined us in 1997, we haven’t taken her out much. In that time she’s gotten epilepsy, Cushings disease, and blown a knee. I worried about how’d she’d do in the trailer, little anticipating an animal transformed.

Despite her sore, stiff knee, that darn dog wandered to and fro; her nose, healthily cold and wet, pointed towards the wind, reading volumes about the surroundings in its myriad of scents. Saturday, during a leisurely walk on in Moose Flats, despite knee discomfort, she turned tail against riding in the stroller and insisted on walking, walking, walking. She befriended other dogs, reclined on sun-warmed stones, and did it all free of leash and tether. Her sparkling eyes looked 10 years younger. And at night, she whined to be let into our bed, where, puppy-like, she curled up next to me and the slept the sleep of the very young.

For more pictures of our trip, see our family website: www.brucelindas.com.

Expect the Unexpected

2006-05-10T21:23:00.000-08:00

I haven’t written anything in a long time, because in order for me to write effectively, I must be somewhat inward focused. The last couple weeks, I’ve been very “outward.”

I have a confession to make, and though it may be considered heroic, it still shames me to have to admit…

I rejoined Weight Watchers a week and a half ago after a four-year hiatus.

See? This is a good thing, right? I’m addressing lifestyle habits that are harming me and my family. Still, I’m ashamed to admit I can’t lose weight on my own. Frankly, I’m ashamed to admit I need to lose weight at all. I don’t want to have this problem. I want to be able to eat nachos and cheese fondue to my heart’s content. I don’t want there to be a direct correlation between food, which is a great comfort and creative outlet for me, and what I look like. But there it is. Some things simply can’t be wished into being real.

So, with being very deliberate about weight loss, a great deal of energy and time has been absorbed. If you’ve never had a large amount of weight to lose, then you cannot know how consuming it is to successfully and consistently lose weight in a healthy way. You have to be consciously thinking, strategizing, and working in exercise-time into a life that, for years, you’ve convinced yourself doesn’t have room for it. So, it means canceling plans; cutting short downtime; sacrificing housework, social time, acts of service, and writing time. It means standing at the kitchen counter with your Weight Watchers guide, trying to figure out what to eat for lunch and dinner, and constantly fighting the urge to say “screw it.” For my first week, this entailed tears, hunger, and desperation. It meant pacing the floor, salivating over the kids’ macaroni and cheese, and limiting myself to one lousysingle-serving size bag of Doritos.

Now, it’s better. At my Week 1 weigh-in, I had lost 3.4 pounds. A decent and encouraging first week. And based on my daily morning weigh-ins on my bathroom scale, it continues to come off. Perhaps writing about it from time to time will keep me accountable.

Now, on a totally different subject I need to talk about Preschool Moms. A year ago, I was traumatized by preschool moms. It just so happened that the group of moms I was forced to cross paths with each day all seemed to know each other, hang out together, and pretty much ignore my existence. They were, by and large, size 6’s, tall and blond, and always perfectly coiffed. I hated them all. Many days I drove home from preschool sobbing over my exclusion from this group. I tried being friendly and engaging in conversation, but it was junior high all over again. There was absolutely no clicking with any of them.

Okay, so like a week or so ago I get a phone call from the woman I considered to be at the nucleus of this group. But why would she call me out of the blue? First, some background.

She was the shining star that all the others orbited around. For some reason I was always aware of this woman, possibly because she drew in so much attention and everyone seemed to know her. She was always right there. After awhile I got to recognize her car, because her older kids also go to Jack and Sabrina’s school, and we’d often follow each other from Point A to Point B on the daily kid-round-up. This year, her youngest, a daughter, started kindergarten, and with hind-sight-embarrassment, I admit I secretly hoped this little girl and Sabrina would be in the same class together so that I might have a chance to enter the orbital ellipse. But, that didn’t happen. The mom, meanwhile, started working part-time in the school, and when I’d drop in from time to time, wearing curlers and eating bon-bons, we’d politely exchange greetings. Hey, I thought, she recognizes me!

So, back to the call. It turns out her son is in Jack’s second grade class. I had no idea. Apparently Jack and her son are friends. I had no idea. Her son was having a birthday party and he really wanted Jack to go. Really? My son? She also mentioned that she knows we live fairly close to each other – just a couple blocks, really, because she’d seen our car turn off into our little cul-de-sac. She recognizes my car?

Imagine that.

Well, we chatted briefly before and after the birthday party, and she was very nice and friendly and interested. Then tonight, we had this school musical that the 2nd and 3rd graders performed. I got there early enough to get front row seats. This woman arrived shortly after me, and chose to sit beside me, despite lots of other empty seats (I really think it was the front row aspect that was the draw). Nevertheless, we chatted constantly for the whole half hour before the show started, and even though other women tried to talk to her, she kept talking to me.

Okay, by now some of you are thinking, Linda, get a life. Why are you letting a stranger dictate your value and worth? Yes, this is a valid point. But here’s my response: I’m not letting her do those things. I have become very much aware over the past month or so that the reason I feel isolated from other people has more to do with me than with them. I simply find it ironic that at nearly the same moment I am having a personal revelation, a person who unconsciously tormented me has become a friendly acquaintance.

This year I am starting to befriend some of the preschool moms (a different group than last year), and we’re even starting to socialize. We’ve done kid-swapping for play dates, done coffee together, done the walking thing, and made pizza. I think what’s happening is that I’m reaching out more. And I’m not doing it in an I-have-an-agenda-I-want-you-to-be-my-new-best-friend-forever way. No. I have compartmentalized too many people for too long, and had it bite me in the rear. Time to let them off the hook. Besides, most people don’t have an irrational psychological need for every friendship to involve the sun, moon, and stars.

I think of when Anne Shirley in meets Diana (from “Anne of Green Gables”) for the first time, and she calls her, “my most bosom friend.” Who doesn’t want a most bosom friend? I do. I have some very dear, wonderful friends, but they share their bosom with lots of other people. And so must I.

What is the lesson? Well, I’ll tell you. My insecurity, my tears and frustration and self-doubt were entirely, completely self-generated. If I had really wanted to befriend some of these women, I could simply have arranged play dates. I could have suggested getting coffee, or taking the kids and grabbing a movie after preschool. Did I ever once do those things? No. Not once. Do I think it’s that simple? Yes and no. Because surrendering expectations of other people is immensely hard for me. Even today, I overheard two of my new friends making plans to do something tomorrow. Without me. For just a second, I felt jealous. Because, if I take just a second to do so, I can see that both of these women are reciprocating interest in me, reaching out, and more than willing to meet me halfway. But that’s the thing. I have to go halfway too.

In grade school, junior high, and high school, friendship came easily. You either deeply connected with someone in an instant or you didn’t. The gradual acquaintanceship kind of friendship has been foreign to me for most of my life. But as an adult, it is a necessity. And it requires, stepping out, reaching out, taking a chance. But not expecting anything. And then, if it happens, great. And if it doesn’t, so what?

So, it’s taken me almost 36 years to kind of start to get this concept. Am I preaching to the choir? Are you shaking your head, pitying my social awkwardness and naïveté? If you are, then my guess is you’re one of the privileged few. Good on you.

I’m still trying to figure a few things out. But, I’m trying. I haven’t given up, and I certainly hope I haven’t given in.

The nice lady who is the former shining star of all Preschool Moms may someday in fact become a friend. Wouldn’t that be ironic? I think so. What would really be fun, would be if someday we became good enough friends that I could trust her to read this. We’d both get a laugh out of it.

Then again, I dare not expect.

It's Here!

2006-05-03T20:40:00.000-08:00

Well, it really happened. We actually own a travel trailer. Are we grownups yet?

At the moment, it, and Bruce inside of it, are in the driveway. Bruce managed to get it backed into the driveway on the first try. Very amazing considering he is hardly a seasoned trailer-backer-upper.Tomorrow during the day I'll take stock of what's in it, and make notes of what needs to be there. Then, tomorrow evening, Bruce will go store it. We'll take our maiden voyage in a week.

The above picture shows it pretty well. It has a big awning, which will be nice in the rain and an outdoor range (just to the left of Gus). You can see in the far left of the picture how the queen bed slides out.

Bruce and I spent just a few minutes tonight sitting out there absorbing. We sat in various places, pushed various buttons, toggled various switches. Neither of us can find anything wrong with it. It's really in very good condition. I'll set my timer to see how long it takes for the kids to trash it.

The next picture is of Lucy checking things out. On the left is the eating area, and on the right, the sofa (both folded down into bed-mode). Behind everybody is the queen bed. The queen bed is where Queen Linda will sleep.

The next picture is of some very excited children begging to go camping right now.

Here is a picture of Sabrina checking out her bunk.

And here's Ellie checking out hers, right below Sabrina's.

We have a whole lot to learn. Right now it seems intimidating. I wish I'd paid more attention to land-yachting when I was a kid (my parents had a motorhome when I was growing up). We'll start with some short trips to get the hang of it, and gradually grow bolder.

Or we may conclude we've made a dreadful mistake.

Really, the most important thing to remember is not to accidently leave one of the children behind in the trailer, like we almost did when we first saw it up on Elemendorf A.F.B. We had paid the former owner his deposit, and we were walking back to our car to go home when we saw this...

Oops.

On A Roll

2006-05-01T20:18:00.000-08:00

Things I did today, no particular order:

* Sent an email to my aunt verifying her prior connection to this Friday's featured artist (Nancy Taylor Stonington) at Stephan's Fine Art gallery (where I work). [I want to ask Ms. Stonington if she remembers my aunt, but to avoid embarrassment, felt I better check with my aunt first. Rumor has it, my aunt dated Ms. Stonington's brother many years ago.]

* Scooped all the miscellaneous toys scattered all over Jack and Sabrina's room up into a plastic garbage bag. After storing the bag in their padlocked toy-closet (to be dealt with later), I thoroughly vacuumed their room.

* Cleaned a small spot of dog vomit of a couch cushion.

* Got about as caught up on laundry as it is humanly possible to get in our home.

* Planted seven varieties of seed amongst 50 peat-pots in an unusually optimistic attempt to bring forth vegetable life. Seeds in question include: onion, mixed flowers, broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage, zucchini, and cilantro.

* Did dishes.
* Forcibly helped Juneau shed her winter coat.
* Vacuumed the entire downstairs.
* Faithfully stuck to my Weight Watchers "diet".
* Called the vet to ask why I've been waiting for two weeks for the call I was supposed to get the day after Juneau's last appointment.
* Called the school to find out when the psychologist is going to finish Jack's IQ test.
* Read the May 1st devotional and scripture reading for my new "Daily Word."
* With a toothpick, meticulously picked deeply embedded dog-poo out of the tread of Evan's shoe.
* Took a walk around the neighborhood with Ellie and Evan in the Radio Flyer wagon.
* Made spaghetti sauce for the pasta, and cheese sauce for the veggies.
* Moved one of the shelving units from the master bath down to the office, so that I have a place to set my book and coffee mug when curling in the armchair in there.

* Started my summer schedule at the Hotel Captain Cook, Mondays from 6pm to 11pm.

I think that's about it. Not very deep and profound, is it?

My Little Enigma

2006-04-27T21:20:00.000-08:00

Parent-Teacher conferences were last week. After last fall’s performance, I should have insisted Bruce attend with me. He must be sufficiently confident in our two oldest children that he doesn’t feel the need to bother. But, I tell you, never again will I face a teacher alone.

Really, both conferences went well. But Sabrina’s revealed certain idiosyncrasies that I’m still processing.

In Kindergarten, certain tests are administered to measure a child’s learning style and aptitude. Two of the areas these tests measure are whether a child is an auditory or visual learner.

I can’t remember how Jack scored on these tests. I’m assuming it was fairly well, because their results don’t haunt me one year later. (Hard to believe Jack was taking those same tests only a year ago, and now we’re faced with putting him in a school for “highly gifted” students.)

Anyway, Sabrina’s test scores were high on the auditory scale and erratic on the visual scale. This basically means that she’s a strong auditory learner, and weaker in the visual areas; which means areas of difficulty could involve symbolic reasoning (math) and reading.

This made some sense to me. Bruce and I often joke that if you want to get Sabrina to learn something, make a song out of it. (That’s how Bruce ultimately pushed her over the edge with potty training.) She’s always loved music and sings very well.

But, Mrs. Kruse said, the visual thing was strange. If you showed Sabrina a symbol, and then asked her to draw it from memory, she had a hard time. Sabrina, however, has a fantastic memory, almost photographic. Furthermore, Mrs. Kruse noted, despite the test scores indicating she should be doing otherwise, she is one of the best readers in the class. As a student who struggles with visual clues and symbols, she shouldn’t be reading as well as she does.

Hmmmm. An enigma. It makes me wonder.

I sat down with Sabrina tonight and we talked about reading. I had the same talk with her that I had with Jack a year-and-a-half ago. I indicated my thousands of books, and said, “Sabrina, you know how to read. You could read any one of these books [with a little help]. The world is your oyster. Reading is the key to unlocking the mysteries of the universe.”

Her eyes widened and she became very excited. She insisted on trying to read a bit of an adult book. We looked at the preface to “Two in the Far North” by Margaret Murie. She read two paragraphs slowly, but amazingly well.

I think back to when Jack learned how to read just over a year ago. He was at a fourth grade level by the end of Kindergarten. He was a wunderkind to his teachers. And though I’ll be the first to admit that he has an above-average intelligence, he was also almost a year older than many of his classmates. When most of his classmates had just turned six, he was going on seven.

In contrast, Sabrina is just turned six, and she is already reading better at six-plus-three-months, than Jack was at the same age.

I’m not sure why I’m even writing this. I know I shouldn’t compare my kids. Jack’s academic abilities are a hard act to follow, especially for his girly-girl, uber-fashion-conscious, blond-haired, blue-eyed sister.

I admit to feeling a bit defensive of Sabrina. I have worried about her academic abilities. I worry about her self-image. Secretly, I think she's a genius.

I can’t help but think that many of the tests used in schools these days only go so far in measuring innate ability. Clearly, there is more to Sabrina’s current reading level than test scores can begin to measure. There is more to intelligence than copying symbols and seeing letters point in the right direction.

What test measures a child’s ability to manipulate his or her environment in new and unusual ways; to think outside the box? What test measures emotional intelligence, or creativity? What test measures technological aptitude?

I don’t mean to criticize the school system at all. They can only do so much. And it is true, Sabrina is an obviously auditory learner. This is essential information. But if, as a mother, I confined my opinion of my daughter’s abilities to an aptitude test, I would be sorely short-sighted. As her parent, it is my duty to see these test scores as merely a piece to a much bigger puzzle.

Yes, Jack is a genius. Yes, Evan is talking earlier than all my other kids did, and already displays an unusually quick, sophisticated wit for a 2-year-old. Yes, Ellie still has that “wizened soul” that she emerged with from the womb. But Sabrina, as unconventional as she is, is the one I watch. More than all the others, I believe in her and her ability to do great things. Why? Because she is truly different than her siblings. She has her head in the clouds, and yet sees and hears the minutiae of life. She inspires me.

Tonight, she read to me “Guess How Much I Love You?”, and I watched her not only know most of the words, but follow the meaning of the story, and, as she read, affect different voices for the different characters.

My Sabrina is made of moonlight, rainbows, and unicorns. She has challenged her father and I. When she was a toddler, we used to lay in bed and wonder how we were going to love her. We used to sing our own adaptation of a familiar “Sound of Music” song: How do you solve a problem like Sabrina? We have endured goofy comments, clumsy motor skills, and a great deal of screaming and crying. But in the end, Sabrina continues to blossom and amaze.

As she read the last page of “Guess How Much I Love You?”, I silently echoed back to her the words she read to me: “Then [Big Nutbrown Hare] lay down close by [Little Nutbrown Hare] and whispered with a smile, ‘I love you right up to the moon – and back.’”

Yes, yes I do, my darling girl.

Cross-Dressing Two-Year-Old

2006-04-27T21:10:00.000-08:00

After a recent bathing experience, Ellie saw fit to dress her little brother all by herself. Although, he did make a point to say, "Cute!" when unveiling his new look to me, I am only moderately concerned about how much Evan enjoys wearing dresses. Later, his father said, "Son, you don't need a dress to be cute."

Curious Package

2006-04-25T21:49:00.000-08:00

There was a book-sized box left on my front doorstep this afternoon by the postman. Though I am expecting boxes from Old Navy and Birthday Express, this wasn’t from either of those vendors. I didn’t recognize the sender; it was partially covered up by a zip code sticker.

Hefting the box, it was clear it contained a book. I was baffled. I didn’t remember ordering a book. I’ve been trying to be good, and read what I’ve got for awhile.

Before even opening the box, I peeled back the sticker covering the return address saw it was from CAIR, the Council on American-Islam Relations.

Ah, yes. I remember. The box contained my own personal, brand-spanking-new copy of the Quran.

For just the slightest moment, I hesitated opening the box. What if the CAIR is just a front organization for Al-Qaeda? What if, when I opened the box, there was anthrax or a small bomb inside?

Thinking such thoughts shames me. It just goes to show how destructive and insidious fear can be. When I shy away from the organization whose sole purpose is to educate and break down barriers between Muslims and non-Muslims, it is definitely time to make nice and ask some serious forgiveness.

Out With the Old Part II

2006-04-25T21:10:00.000-08:00

Bruce asked me to write this posting. He wants me to let everyone know that we sold our Ford Explorer today. He worked hard on marketing it, and is very pleased to have it gone. It will give him a great deal of pleasure to call our insurance agent tomorrow and ask her to remove it from our policy.

The guy who bought it was fourth in line to see it this afternoon, behind three other motivated buyers. It must have been meant to be with this guy, though, because he really wanted it, could pay cash, and, amazingly, the deals with the three people before him fell through.

So, car-selling is done. Now all that remains is to pay off the exceptionally nice man we bought the trailer from (which we will do when the deposit from the Subaru sale clears), and take possession of it.

Meanwhile, I am mulling over stocking the trailer with towels, Comet, and canned chicken, and Bruce is thinking about... guy-stuff. And we are plotting out our trip schedule for this summer.

My mom, who is traveling in Greece at the moment, will be (I hope, happily) surprised to hear we will be spending three days camping with us in Seward over Memorial Day weekend.

Since the kids (Ellie and Evan in particular) are so young, we won't try any big trips this summer. A couple nights here, a couple nights there. Get used to things, figure out what the heck we're doing, and maybe in a year we'll get more adventurous. So, I will finally get to Homer, and perhaps do some fishing on the Russian River.

Well, enough of that. I hope I've satisfied Bruce's ego adequately.

Heaven and Earth Part II

2006-04-23T21:54:00.000-08:00

So, the marriage seminar was good. Some things to think about. But, in the end, the providential tugging helped satisfactorily accomplish another project Bruce and I have been endeavoring towards.

We bought a travel trailer.

It's really kind of weird how it happened. It is the perfect layout at exactly the price we wanted to spend. But for the marriage class that almost didn't happen, we would not have found it.

After the class was over, I casually mentioned to Bruce that there was a trailer for sale across the street from church that I was curious about. We checked it out. It was small, but could fit 6 sleepers, so we made an offer which was summarily turned down.

We didn't feel too bad about that, because a supposedly identical trailer was for sale on the "lemon lot" up on Elemendorf A.F.B. for half the price. So, I headed home in one car, and Bruce headed up to the base in the other car to check things out. I was grumbling that Bruce hadn't already written down the phone number for the trailer's owner during a previous visit, but in the end it was the best thing that could have happened.

He called me from Elmendorf to say that this particular model had one less sleeping bunk, so that it would only fit five. I was disappointed, but we agreed that the right thing would come at the right time and that our patience would pay off.

Five seconds later, it did.

A guy pulled into the "lemon lot" while Bruce and I were talking.

Bruce asked the guy if he was selling: "Yes."

How much? For the exact amount we had budgeted.

How many does it sleep? Up to ten!

So, we bought it. It has the exact floor plan we had most liked, but at half the price of the models we had previously seen.

We are very excited. But, its 10pm, I still have to watch a movie before going to bed. Go to go chill. Will write more later.

Heaven and earth, baby.

Moving Heaven and Earth

2006-04-23T12:07:00.000-08:00

Heaven and earth have been moving in mysterious ways lately.

Upon our return from Spring Break in Seattle, we discovered the adjoining lot directly behind our house had been razed of trees to make way for new construction. I had known it was coming for some time, but that sudden dirty void was a shock nonetheless. I had kept secretly hoping that the lot would be determined too small for a single family residence (like a minor obstacle like size that would ever stop developers). I was not pleased about losing the trees, and consequently, our privacy.

The loss of trees was bitter, but at least for a few weeks their absence would allow me a view of the Kenai Mountains out my bedroom window, and a great deal more sunshine at the back side of the house. I would be able to enjoy sun and mountains for as long as it took the house to be built. Then, once the second story and roof were in place: hasta la vista, baby. My temporary view would be blotted out forever.

From my bedroom window, I watched the earth be cleared, graded, a foundation built, then floors, first-floor walls, and then… oh my gosh!…. can it be true?!… roof joists?…. roof framing?…

It truly seems too good to be true, but it looks like this house is going to be a single story. In a city with very little buildable space left, where optimizing square footage is the rule of day, the new house I’ve been dreading is going to be rambler! This is truly a miracle. I can still easily spy the mountains from my bedroom window!

Meanwhile, the heavens are heaving about, unsure which season it really is. Yesterday we “Seattle snow” – enormous, fluffy flakes that melt on contact; one second erasing visibility, and the next vanishing as shafts of sunlight illuminate the gunmetal-gray yard. On days like that, when it is snowing and sunny at the same time, I wonder: is there such thing as a snow-rainbow? I’ve yet to see one.

Last night I had the pleasure of announcing to Bruce that Sunday night we could expect two inches of new snow (keeping in mind that winter’s snow is largely gone; we have been outside a great deal despite unseasonably cool temps). This morning I chuckled to see that the forecast had been modified: now only one inch expected tonight, but up to three tomorrow, for a total storm accumulation of four inches; on the 24th of April no less! I love it!

The grandest miracle of all was this morning. I had gone to early church service because Evan has a cold and we didn’t want to take him to the nursery, thus infecting all the other kids. Bruce planned on attending second-service.

This afternoon, between 2-5:30pm there is going to be a “mini” marriage seminar, which until this morning I hadn’t given much thought to. But, this morning, I became quietly convinced that this was something we should try to get to; a great opportunity for Bruce and I, who have been trying to “tune-up” our relationship lately. Childcare was provided for kids up to age 11.

Obstacles:
Evan’s cold
Jack and Sabrina’s invitation to Hayden’s birthday party between 2 and 4pm.
Bruce having to be on Elemendorf A.F.B. at 1pm to show the Explorer to a prospective buyer.
Evan’s daily nap at 1pm.

I called Bruce from ToysRUs (yes, we still have ours) and expressed a strong interest in going. I told him I was willing to go alone if necessary. Not surprisingly, he pooh-poohed me, citing the day’s obligations and obstacles, and firmly stating that no matter the opportunity, the timing was very, very bad.

Unhappily, I acquiesced to his wishes. I pouted, but then, recognizing another typical instance of my expectations not being met, of being disappointed, and thus angered, I decided to let go of control.

Instead I prayed.

“Ok, God. If you want Bruce and me to go to this thing, You are going to have to move heaven and earth [I was thinking specifically of Bruce’s resistance]. I’m willing, but I wash my hands of ‘making’ it happen through my own efforts.”
Thus freed, I felt calm and peaceful while shopping for Hayden’s gift. Ten minutes inside of ToysRUs, the phone rang; it was Bruce.

“You know, I’ve been thinking. If Lucy and Gus don’t mind keeping Jack and Sabrina for a bit longer, and if Evan gets an early nap, I don’t see why we can’t go to the marriage class.”

The earth shifted, the heavens parted, the angels sang.

So, it has been arranged. We are going. Evan will get an early nap; Jack and Sabrina will hang-out at Charley and Hayden’s house for a bit longer; though Evan is still a bit stuffy, he is cheerful and perky and not at all feverish. I guess God really does want us to go; He must have something significant to teach us.

Uh oh. Perhaps by day’s end, heaven and earth will be moved yet again.

The Best Book I Never Read

2006-04-20T10:37:00.000-08:00

Young moose Bruce recently snapped in Eagle River.

I am a notorious reader and book collector. I’ve got two full-sized bookshelves double-stacked with things I haven’t read. What with those shelves reaching maximum capacity, I’ve my collection now overflows onto my nightstand, under the coffee table, and on the end tables of our living room. No matter how many books I buy and/or read, I can always be counted on to find one more I cannot live without.

The latest addition to my must-have list is a book about writing by Lynn Freed. It’s called “Reading, Writing, and Leaving Home” and it is reviewed in the January/February 2006 issue of Bookmarks magazine.

For anyone who hasn’t heard of Bookmarks, it is a book-magazine on steroids (in a good way). It features author articles, composite reviews of new books, and various genre and readers lists of long-time favorites. It’s a bibliophiles’ dream magazine, and I take to each new issue with a pen, marking what I have read, feeling elation with each checkmark, and despair over what remains undone.

“Reading, Writing, and Leaving Home” is a must-own book (as versus something I might check out from the library). The Bookmarks review starts with a quote from Ms. Freed: “If it is done right, someone will be hurt.” She is referring to the craft of writing, which she calls an “unforgiving, violent affair.” (Already I’m identifying with her.) She also says that writing cannot be taught, and that mere intention does not make a writer. (I’m glad I’m slightly past the “intention” benchmark. At least I am doing some writing.)

When a mere 200-word review evokes in me the desire to turn off the phone, cancel all my appointments, turn on the TV for the kids, and just WRITE, then either it has the potential of being a profoundly formative book, or it is an exceptionally evocative book review.

I know that I will never learn the craft of writing by reading books, or perhaps not even by taking a class (Freed should know: she teaches writing). The appeal of Freed’s book is that her lament of the difficult and enigmatic writing-life, will somehow validate for me that I am doing something right, because sometimes sitting down at the computer to write is more painful than having a toenail removed. (I should know.)

Anymore, when I write, it is an act of faith. At some point in the past, I have felt a calling, and so I write: even when unmotivated, even when consumed with doubt, even when I have absolutely nothing to say.

If, in the process of saying nothing, something is actually said, then a mystery occurs: the words becomes “flesh”; they are seen, heard, and felt by others. It is for that reason I carry on; hitting keys faster, then slower, then faster again. And sometimes, when I am done, I go back and reread, and something even more mysterious happens: I believe.

Oh, Poop

2006-04-18T22:35:00.000-08:00

Spring is an interesting time.

For six months I have been able to forget that I have a yard. Suddenly I am confronted with last fall's leaves, abandoned toys, and scum-covered grass.

Furthermore, while winter's snow helped me forget the unaddressed doggie poo that has accumumlated since mid-November, April's mostly-above-freezing temperatures has startled me to reality.

In much the same way that my internal agonies are being laid bare (see previous post), so are Juneau and Seamus' various "businesses."

While most of our snow has melted (including the inch we woke up to on Monday morning), the pile in the "dog yard" is still large, and peppered with doggie bombs. It's sufficiently bad that Juneau and Seamus both refuse to go there. (Good for them! - they're smarter than I thought!)

This, however, does cause problems. Especially when, out of an instinctual aversion, business is attended to indoors.

So, while Bruce is spent a day and a night in Dillingham (an Alaskan fishing haven - sadly, he isn't there to fish), I scratched my head and thoughtfully stroked my chin while studying the problem.

What with the daytime temps reaching a scorching 47, I determined it was the perfect day to re-hookup the hose. That accomplished, I aimed at the imposing and nauseating mound of tainted snow in the dog yard, and let loose a powerful stream of water.

I learned a few things:

* Beware of back-splash

* Half-year-old poo is satisfyingly structurally unstable

* Melting snow is surprisingly porous and absorbant (hooray!)

* Darn-it if standing half-an-hour squirting water at a mound of icy poop didn't actually make a difference!

* The dogs aren't fooled, and still won't go back there (Good for them! - they're way smarter than I thought!)

Give me a few more 47 degree days (not in the forecast, incidently), and we might make some progress. Meanwhile, the Bissell is primed and pumped for on-demand carpet cleaning.

Happy Spring cleaning to you, too!

Growing Pains

2006-04-18T11:10:00.000-08:00

"End of the Hunt" by Fred Machetanz

The further Bruce and I get into “Inside Out” [a “self-help” book we are going through together], the less I am inclined to write about my journey. I imagine anyone reading about it would be bored. They would be thinking, “Get over yourself, already.” And the deeper I delve into my layers, the less I want other people to see them.

Consequently, the fount that had previously been my muse, has dried up. So, I write this, with little to no intention of sharing it, but only for the exercise of writing; because our “assignment” this week for Writing Group is to spend at least half an hour each day writing.

Bruce and I had an “Inside Out” time last night, and it was very hard. In some ways I was mentally unprepared – there were no protective layers, or idealistic verve to soften the difficult words we shared with each other. I found myself cringing as Bruce invoked earlier “Inside Out” conversations, and I have to admit that though certain things have been laid out and made known, I detest their presence. I was getting comfortable with the elephant in the room, even so far as “forgetting” some of things we’d shared.

So last night was a dose of reality. When he said, in response to the question of feeling loved, “I feel love from the kids. I feel mostly irritation from you.” That hurt me deeply. I felt my defenses go up instantly. But, he’s right. I make excuses, but its true. I shared how difficult it is for me to accept him the way he is, in certain areas, inconsequential areas, like how tidy he is.

Then a common theme emerged. My key area of weakness is in the area of disappointment with other people. They constantly disappointment me, which leads me to anger and even, at times, resentment and wishing ill upon them. Why do they disappoint? Because they don’t meet my expectations. And what are my expectations? That they be an extension of my own will and desires.

This common theme is surfacing in almost all areas of my life; it is one of the common denominators of all my “issues”, and it is both surprising and surprisingly painful. It is something so deeply entrenched as to be almost invisible to me, and when the deepest thread of who I am is so fouled, it feels very hopeless.

I still sense God’s will in this path. Though it was only once, and several months ago, when I heard him speak directly to me, I had a very strong sense of His presence (He said, “Trust me,” and that was enough). He hasn’t been patting me on the back or hand-holding me or downplaying my responsibility, but has allowed the armor to crack, perhaps even so far as messing with my hormonal cycle. Much that I might otherwise have been able to keep hidden, is come pouring out, uncontrolled.

But what I know now, as I stand on the edge of a void, is that the pain is there for His good purposes. (From “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe”: “He is not safe, but He is good.”) In almost every allegory of the Christian faith, the warrior must go into battle, must face overwhelming odds, must face the pain of death and defeat, and must abandon entirely the luxury of self-preservation.

I have long feared this battleground. I have sensed it out there, and have hid from it. I have felt in awe of “warriors” who seem unconcerned with losing themselves during the fight. I thought the field of war would be external, but I find it is internal. And it is a far uglier place than any I could ever see out in the world.

Last night, I had the impression of entering the forest. While I can still see the path behind me, leading out of the woods, turning back is not an option. The sun, what there was of it, is setting, and should I go back, it might never rise again. The only way to see the light of day again, is to move forward into the blackness. The first place the dawn will reach is the far side of woods.

It is hard to imagine ever finding freedom from the shackles I wear. As the light dims, they begin to become more apparent. I never knew there were so many.

Out With the Old, In With the New

2006-04-15T20:00:00.000-08:00

In the space of this one day, we sold our faithful Subaru and purchased, what we hope will be, a faithful Suburban.

Barely an hour after parking the Subaru up on Elemendorf A.F.B.’s “lemon lot”, Bruce got a “hot” call from a prospective buyer.

The buyer is a serviceman out car-shopping with his parents, who were up visiting from California, and we going to buy him a vehicle. Our car was exactly what they had been looking for. So, after a quick spin and minimal dickering over the price, the deal was done.

During the course of conversation during the deal, Bruce came to find out that the California-dad is a pilot with Fed-Ex. He is a colleague of, and acquainted with, our friend and neighbor, Gus, who, if you’ve been following my blog recently, just taught Jack how to ride his bike. Small world. But hey, that's Alaska for ya. And, we also know his money is good. Ha ha.

So, for several hours, we were down to two vehicles, one of which we are also selling. We both startied to feel a bit under the gun about finding something to replace the Subaru and Explorer.

For the past week, since we decided to pursue the Alaskan dream and trade up to an SUV, and eventually purchase a travel trailer, we have been borderline obsessed with learning as much as necessary to make an intelligent buying decision.

What we found is though Suburbans and Tahoes are a dime a dozen up here (like, every fifth car on the road), very few on the secondary market have the wheaties we feel we need. (Admittedly, we don’t know what kind of towing capacity we’ll really need, but we wanted to err on the side of more power, so that we don’t needlessly contrict an already tight RV market.)

The few Suburbans and Tahoes we found in our price range either had ridiculous miles (hard-earned by someone else living the Alaskan-dream), or weren’t powerful enough.

So, I was cruising the internet checking out various now-familiar websites for new listings, shying from the dreaded 5.7 liter Tahoes (talk about a dime-a-dozen…) and eagerly coveting 5.3L.

I finally found a listing for a 2000 Suburban, priced slightly lower than others we’d seen, though still just a tad more than we wanted to spend. I told Bruce about it and he indicated that he’d seen it, it was perfect, but the dealer absolutely wouldn’t budge on the price.

So, we bought it. (See above picture. Isn’t it a pretty color?)

It drives absolutely beautifully. Its way nicer (in terms of bells and whistles) than I felt I needed (it has a sunroof and leather interior). I’m pretty sure it’s quite a bit smarter than I am, because there’s all sorts of buttons and lights on the dashboard that I don’t understand yet. But it least it doesn’t talk.

So, our next step is to sell the Explorer.

I guess when a person knows what path you want to go down, you might as well just go. You check and re-check your suitcase to make sure you haven’t overlooked anything, but I’m not sure it does much good hemming and hawing once you know what you want. Just do it. Right?

Well, tomorrow is Easter, and though I was sad we aren’t hosting or being hosted this year, I now feel relieved to look forward to a quiet day tomorrow. Today was enough chaos for a month.

Since we missed the church’s Easter egg hunt today, we’ll have to do our own tomorrow. I did have enough foresight to buy the kids treats for their baskets, and today, before I knew how crazy our afternoon would be, I made “bunny-buns” (loaves of bread in the shape of rabbits).

So, now that this phase of the “car thing” is out of the way, I can do what I really need to do – reflect on Easter, on the risen Jesus, and why, when it all shakes down, cars, kids, and “bunny-buns,” though all wonderful, still break, barf, and burn.

And so, good night.

A Day of Firsts

2006-04-13T17:19:00.000-08:00

When I woke up this morning, I was convinced that it would take a miracle to get me through the day. So tired and foggy did I feel, I persuaded Bruce to take a sick day and help me with the kids.

I didn't anticipate then how good of a day it would be.

Jack learned how to ride his two-wheeler bike today! It has been a long time coming, but he did it! Just minutes before this picture was taken, he was still using training wheels.

Also, for the first time today, I was able to say to Evan, "Honey, would you let the dogs out?" Yes, Evan has figured out how to open the backdoor all by himself. Good thing its warming up, because now he let's himself out onto the deck in his bare feet. (sigh)

In other departments: Evan continues to show and interest in potty-training. I'm going with it, baby. Ellie continues to show in interest in potty-training Evan. I'm going with that too.

Those darn kids; they just keep growing and learning. What a flippin' trip.

Juneau's health is noticeably better than its been in months. We have her on a non-FDA approved med that seems to be doing the trick. I did, however, tell her vet that I would not be opting for the $1,500 knee surgery.

We bought a document-shredder today. While making an afterschool snack for the kids, I could hear Bruce in the next room shredding away. After a bit, I came into the office to check on him. While I could clearly see him shredding docs, the box of stuff to be shredded was no where to be found. However, next to Bruce and the shredder was our box of home mortgage records, which was to be archived in the garage.

"Uh, Bruce, please tell me you not shredding the stuff in that box."

Silence.

Finally: "This isn't the stuff that needs shredding?"

I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "No, honey, that's valuable information, like closing documents, title insurance, and other proofs we own our home. That stuff most definitely should not be shredded."

"Oh. Huh."

So, oh well. We don't really know what he shredded, but ignorance is bliss, let me tell you. He was remorseful, but I think its actually pretty humorous.

The snow is almost gone out of the backyard. The temps are cool - lower 40s - but its brilliantly sunny today and feels closer to 55 or 60.

Ah, life.

Done!

2006-04-12T19:23:00.000-08:00

Why, you might be asking, doesn't she write, anymore? Doesn't she love us? Doesn't she care? Has the passion that fueled earlier letters died in the lingering cold of winter?

NO! Fear not! I yet write!

Sort of.

I have been doing all kinds of fun, rewarding and wonderful things, like work, cleaning out our home office, attending Jack's pinewood derby, deciding we need a travel trailer, etc. The following posting includes pictoral of moments of the past week or so of my life, about which I am mostly pleased.

Life is so weird. I've been dreaming about re-vamping my office for weeks and weeks, but last weekend pushed me over the edge into a manic kind of rearranging/organizing frenzy. Two events help to push me: our neighbor/friends' garage sale on Saturday and our decision to buy a travel trailer at some point in the imminent future.

Okay.

Saturday was one of those momentous turning points in our lives. Jack was competing in the Cub Scouts pinewood derby that morning, so I was instructed by Bruce to be at Rabbit Creek Elementary at precisely 11 am for the festivities.

Prior to our leaving, however, I noticed our wonderful neighbors, Sarah and Andrew, were having a garage sale. Sarah and Andrew, about whom I could say a lot, but won't, had just sold their house on the corner, and had last weekend to empty the house of every last possession. Naturally I wanted to profit from their relocation to distant Dillingham, Alaska, so I made Sabrina, Ellie, and Evan come with me to the garage sale where at I purchased many things, including a desk for our home office.

Prior to now, our computer desk has been an old dining room table with the leaf in - way too big for its intended purpose, and a magnet for dusk and detritus. I was excited, because for a long time, I had been dreaming about cleaning out our office, which truly, is the junkiest room of our beautiful home. I fantasized about it being a cozy santuary. The first step in the process was to get a new computer desk. While I had intentions of a "armoire" type deal with doors that would close upon the chaos, I couldn't pass up Andrew's old office desk. It is smallish, but more than adequate and very nice-looking.

Later, being the submissive wife that I am, we [Ellie, Evan, Sabrina, and I] arrived at Rabbit Creek Elementary at precisely at 11am for the pinewood derby race. I was delighted to see friend/neighbor/fellowchurchmember Mary at the race with her husband and two sons. We chatted, and, even though I was wearing glasses, I was happy.

(Me on the left with Sabrina and Ellie; Mary is on the far right trying to get her camera to work. Note the cast on her leg - poor Mary.)

A little while later, Tara showed up. Tara is mother to Sean and Chris - both friends of Jack - and is/was Jack's first grade teacher. She is the one who suggested I bop Jack up to 2nd grade this year. For some reason, she really seems to think highly of Jack. Not for that reason, but just because of who she is, I think highly of Tara.

Anyway, I happened to ask Tara what she and her family were planning on doing this summer. She mentioned their travel trailer and pretty much being out of Anchorage for the whole summer. She raved about how wonderful trailer life is, and I started to get that weird, yearning feeling I sometimes get that preceeds all kinds of problems.

(A pivotal moment in my life: talking to Tara, and realizing we NEED to get a a travel trailer so that my family and Tara's can party together during the summer. To her side, 2nd grader son, Chris, who is in Jack's class.)

Fast forward to lunch at McDonalds to celebrate Jack getting 2nd place in the derby, and to avoid my having to make lunch:

(The "cubbies": I don't know any of their names, except Jack is second from the right, and Zachary, Mary's oldest son, is second from the left.)

My words to Bruce at McDonalds: "I've had an epiphany."

The typical response to my making this statement is for Bruce to refer to horse-excrement, and sit heavily in the nearest available chair.

I explained to him, in what I felt was extremely reasonable logic, that instead of selling our Ford Exlorer as we had been planning, we should keep it, throw caution and sense to the wind, and buy a travel trailer instead, so that we could experience the real Alaskan lifestyle.

Bruce was very quiet as he munched thoughtfully on his french fries.

Suffice it to say, by the end of the day we had: been all over town "kicking" travel trailers with absolutely no success; visited various car lots looking for SUV's with more "wheaties" than our Explorer; and determined we were pretty much going to have to sell not only the Explorer but also our Subaru Outback in order to get a car capable of pulling a trailer.

So, that was Saturday.

Sunday, immediately after church, Bruce cruised through town test-driving SUVs. By the end of Sunday we had determined: we should sell the Subaru privately due to high demand, better profit, etc; it will be a miracle if we can find a travel trailer to suit our needs in Anchorage - we may need to go out of state to find one; crazy though this tangent seems, this is definitely the right direction to go in.

So, while Bruce was out test-driving, I was home pacing (as if waiting for a baby to be born). I decided right then and there to redo the office: post haste.

The new desk was in the garage (Bruce didn't feel able to bring it inside the house because he'd thrown out his back.) So, with the help of Jack's skateboard and 9-year-old Charley, from two-doors-down, I managed to scrape and heave the desk into the house.

I worked solidly on Sunday with rearranging furniture. Monday I went through cabinets and drawers, tossing the superfluous and saving the necessary. Today (Wednesday), I caught up on two years of filing, and tossed or archived many years of unnecessary documents. (Now we need to buy a shredder.)

The following are pictures of the "after" of the office. If you've never seen the "before" before, then it won't mean much. But I know my Mommy will be proud.

(This corner used to have a kitchen table that was piled with papers. That table is now in Jack and Sabrina's bedroom. )

(This credenza/base cabinet used to be covered with books, cds, and other miscellaneous crap. Much less cluttered-looking now.

(Here is our new desk - note the apple-tini to the immediate left of the keyboard [thanks Kaylin!]. Note the orca painting by Grandma Pat.)

(The living room, now that the arm chair is in the office. Very cozy. Please, come have coffee with me!)

And now I'm done. The office looks great. I have yet to curl in my armchair and rest my feet on the ottoman while sipping coffee and working my way through "Don Quixote", but it will come - maybe even as soon as tomorrow.

(Me, reading [still] "Don Quixote", and trying to avoid having my picture taken. Shot taken before re-model of office - otherwise I would have been snapped in cozy armchair in office.)

Meanwhile, Bruce and the two older kids are watching "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe," and are completely entralled. I, in contrast, am writing this.

As I look out the office window I see fence, bare birch trees, and a progressively thinning swatch of snow. It is only a couple feet wide at the moment. Each day, despite cool temperatures, it shrinks back a bit more. I am ready to feel the sun on my face; to lie almost-naked in the backyard; and maybe even swat a mosquito or two.

Enough. I am done for now. I hope you've enjoyed the pictures.

Prehistoric Fairy Eggs

2006-04-07T14:01:00.000-08:00

Each day in Alaska offers a new adventure. Especially in spring, when you’re never sure until you wake up and peek out the window whether it is still going to be spring, or if the world will have regressed back into winter. Yesterday morning, for instance I awoke to two inches of new snow. Didn’t even know it was coming. During the winter proper, I carefully watch the forecasts and radar in eager anticipation of snow, but this time of year, I just assume its going to be partly sunny and mild every day. I don’t mind snow in April. Our days are 14 hours long now, so light is not an issue, and the likelihood of snow sticking around is highly unlikely.

The previous day had been a beautiful, quintessential April Anchorage day. What with the time change, the kids have been out-sleeping me, so I am awoken by the sun, rather the scraping of kitchen stools and blood-curdling screams of clashing childrens’ personalities. The morning was spent in a long walk with Darlene the end of which had us both peeling off gloves, and zipping open jackets. Darlene’s husband Jeff called to say he spotted the first mallard of the season. I commented that my avian harbinger is the ever-familiar seagull, which I haven’t yet spotted.

The afternoon was spent reading “Jane Eyre” – the April bookclub selection. I could hardly put it down. It’s so exciting and so romantic that more than once at the end of a chapter I was left sighing heavily and wiping tears from my eyes. It is, truly, the most romantic book I’ve ever read. (Sigh) Anyway, enough of that.

Bruce and I ate a late dinner due to an error in judgment regarding how long it would take to make the chicken. My roux took almost an hour to brown to an acceptable level, so we didn’t eat until almost 7pm. Then, it was little kids to bed.

I’m not sure how the rest of us all ended up outside in the culdesac, but there we were, still almost two hours from sunset, with neighbor Gus trying to teach Jack to ride his bicycle (he still hasn’t figured it out sans training wheels). Sabrina was also zipping around with the help of training wheels, and Bruce was staining wood for the dressers he’s assembling for Ellie and Evan.

I wandered about the culdesac, crunching over the remaining hills of slush, hunting for the b-b’s a different neighbor’s son likes to shoot with his friends. My kids, especially Sabrina, love collecting the used b-b’s. They are all different colors and kind of fun to discover. So, I was busying myself with collecting, followed by Jet, Gus’s black lab, and Charley, Gus' oldest son.

Charley wanted to know why I was collecting them. I explained that lately Sabrina has been collecting items discarded by fairies. Sabrina believes evidence of fairies is everywhere, like a rogue swatch of iridescent ribbons, or a tiny tumbling feather. I figured these balls must surely also be fairy-stuff, with their bright colors and tiny proportions. Maybe they were fairy eggs.

“They look kind of prehistoric to me,” Charley observed.

“Hmmm. They do, don’t they?” I agreed. “Maybe they’re prehistoric fairy eggs.”

Charley and I gave each other conspiratorial grins.

Despite Gus’ most earnest efforts, we ended the evening little closer to Jack and Sabrina being able to ride their bikes properly. But, we had found evidence of many, many fairies: a certain enchantment, the promise of warmer days.

Sabrina is keeping the prehistoric fairy eggs in a plastic cup in the basket of her bicycle. As soon as this morning’s snow melts, I hope they will work their magic on teaching her to ride without training wheels.

A Whole Lot of Nothing

2006-04-03T17:57:00.000-08:00

I've been having a mini-breakdown lately. My head has felt a bit like one of those snowglobes that's been shaken up. But I'm really okay, and actually kind of happy, just a bit tossed around and confused. Imagine the snowman inside the snowglobe, with its smiley little face. That's me.

It doesn't help that it's April 3rd, and as I sit looking out the window, springtime snow is falling. For someone born in California and raised in Seattle, that is definitely confusing. But its all good. It certainly can't last very long (can it?). The two inches we got Saturday night and awoke to on Sunday melted right away.

For several days last week I was kind of manic, making all sorts of plans for my life, dreaming big dreams, shouting "carpe diem" out the window at the shirtless workman next door (no, not really). I had visions of starting an online bookstore out of my garage by subscribing to Alibris.com's bookselling service (worldwide exposure on places like bn.com, Amazon, etc. - how could that go wrong, baby?)

Also, I've been dreaming about theater. I've always enjoyed acting, and since no one is knocking on my door begging for me to be in their movie or play (other than my 7-year-old son, Jack), I thought, "Heck, why don't I produce a play?" So, I've been researching play production, and dreaming those big dreams that have a tendency of popping the very first time I mention my idea to someone a little more earth-bound than myself.

With my bubble burst (only temporarily, thank goodness), I was a bit blue for a couple days. I was wondering once again, "What is wrong with me? Why am I so different from everyone else I know?" I mean, I don't see Lisa producing plays. And Gillian, reader that she is, isn't starting an online book-selling business. Sigh.

On a whim this afternoon, while sitting at the computer trying to read "Don Quixote" while Ellie and Evan fought, and sipping a glass of wine before leaving for work, I happened upon the website Darlene saved on my "Favorites" several months ago. It is about the "INFP" personality type. INFP stands for Introvert-Intuitive-Feeling-Perceptive. I re-read this little snippet and was delighted to see that I'm PERFECTLY NORMAL! Perfectly normal for an INFP, that is.

It so happens that only 1% of the population are INFPs, so when a typical INFP (like me) feels like they're just a bit different than everyone else, and feel like they don't quite fit in, it's because IT'S TRUE! We are the least represented of all the personality types, so we really are the odd-men (and women) out.

And this made me especially tickled (and reassured): INFPs love quiet, solitary activities like reading (hmmmm); and they love to perform in theater (hmmmmm!); AND they make excellent novelist and writers (HMMMM!!!) So, I am normal afterall.

Most of my beloved friends and family have tried to tell me I'm okay for many years, but I can't quite get it through my thick skull. I tend to be very hard on myself (that's the idealist in me). The reality is, I don't quite see the world the way most other people do, and it really is confusing at times. I make decisions based on feelings and passion and want to conquer the world, and then I sink into morbid depressions of self-doubt and uncertainty. Most of the time, when I'm around other people, I'm faking fitting in. It's taken many years and much practice, let me tell you. The downside is that this only perpetuates a feeling of not fitting. Oh well, I'd rather be different.

Hey, I have an idea. I should start an INFP support group. I know two other INFPs off-hand who might benefit. Elaine and Jeff, what do you think?

The More Than Half-Full Glass

2006-03-28T14:15:00.000-09:00

After my previous angst-filled posting, I thought it appropriate and necessary to acknowledge the overwhelming amount of love we received on our recent vacation.

I had opportunity this morning to talk about vacation with some friends, and I was suddenly overwhelmed by the memory of all the people who so graciously fed, housed, entertained, and accommodated us. I realized I have not painted an complete picture of our trip.

So, the following is a list of much-deserved thank you’s to some of the people who made our trip special and memorable:

Thanks to Karin for housing and feeding us so generously, and for being so centrally located. There were many great conversations over glasses of wine. I got my first introduction to TIVO and watched “The Sopranos” for the first time ever. Karin has a genuine gift of hospitality. She was very gracious about letting us invite over extra people.

Karin and John

Doug, John, Me and Ellie

Thanks to Doug and Kathleen for being so willing to slip into any available time slot we had, including coming all the way up to Birch Bay just for the day. The cousins had a great time playing together, despite wind, chill air, rain, and facial injuries. And for having us over at their place just long enough to go to the playground, break a vase, and eat some sandwiches.

Baby Joey

Thanks to Gillian and Kent for having us over and feeding us lunch at the drop of a hat, and for having us for an entire afternoon. Also thanks to Gillian for driving up to Birch Bay for an overnight (not an easy task with two-month-old Baby Joey, plus the two girls). Jack will miss Katherine almost as much as I miss Gillian.

Jill

Thanks to Jill for pulling kids out of school in order to have a two-night stay at Birch Bay. We had some great talks and managed to keep the nine kids relatively reeled in. Jill brought games and kites for all the kids, and had a supernatural patience and graciousness in helping the kids play both inside and out.

Mom and Me

Thanks to my mom for coming down to Seattle for one night just to spend some time with us, and for later hosting us at Birch Bay. Even more thanks for her bottomless graciousness in allowing me to invite two friends and their kids up for a couple days. Thanks also to Mom for so quickly mailing back to Anchorage the videos, Bluey, and day-timer that we left at her house.

Thanks to Gary and Mary for not only hosting a St. Paddy’s Day party, but letting us stay overnight, and take over the master suite. I promise next time I’ll try to stay sober long enough to play a genuinely competitive game of Texas Hold ‘Em.

Me, Kaylin, and Karen

Thanks to Auntie Karen who so graciously let us move our family reunion to her house at the last minute, despite recovering from back surgery. Her poor dogs may never be the same after being bombarded by the six nieces and nephews. She also spoiled those same nieces and nephews with lots of presents. Thanks for spending that extra afternoon with us on Mercer Island.

Thanks to Scott and Wink for the amazing brunch at their beautiful home, and for some more great conversation. Wink’s own nose-piercing paved the way for acceptance of my own. Wink also provided me with a couple valium to get me through the terror of flying home.

Kinh and Hali

Thanks to Kinh and Dave, who, despite almost having given up on us making our prearranged meeting time, had us over anyway, and were amazingly tolerant of our eating in such close proximity of their new sofa.

Ellen, Gillian, and Me

Thanks to Ellen and Marian for taking valuable family-time on a Sunday night to spend a couple hours with us, trying to catch up and connect in a meaningful way – not an easy task with so little time and so much to say.

Thanks to Gillian, Jill and Margie for working in time to meet at our traditional haunt, Third Place Books, for dessert and decaf. Extra thanks to Margie for offering her lake-front vacation home as a possible base-camp for next year’s trip.

Thanks to Liz and Steve for coming down to Federal Way for the afternoon, despite a very busy schedule and some health restrictions, and for contributing such thoughtful choices in brews. I wish we’d had more time with you. I hope you can make it up in June.

Thanks to Bob and Barbara for having us invade their Port Ludlow home just days after Bob having a “procedure” on his retina. They always spoil us with activities and treats. Barbara was kind enough to babysit a couple times, and Bob and I had one of our traditional dates involving lunch and books. He even helped us find a beach with sand.

Thanks to Kaylin and Dave, for making me feel like a princess even when I’ve convinced myself I’m a toad. In addition to attending and partially bartending (apple-tinis only) the St. Paddy’s Day party at Gary and Mary’s, they hosted us for an afternoon at their beautiful Mercer Island condo. Thanks for the change of clothes for a very moist Evan.

Lisa and Me

Thanks to Lisa and Rich for having our family over for a rewarding and memorable morning. It had been way too long.

In the end, every day of vacation was spent being loved by beautiful, beloved people. Why it takes me so long to notice how full my glass is, I don’t know. I’m thick, I guess. From how we were treated, you might have thought we were movie stars.

Who Am I?

2006-03-27T21:13:00.000-09:00

Spring break is over, and so also is winter in Alaska. Despite the remaining piles of snow, and puddles of ice all over town, the air has tempered, and the accumulated dirt and grime of the past five months is being freed.

The past two weeks has felt timeless – as if it were a much longer span than 14 days. This last weekend barely gave me a chance to reacclimatize to being at home and fully in charge again.

Today, I arose early (relatively), did all the requisite school-day preparations, and found we were still running 20 minutes ahead of schedule. It must be the longer days. During our absence, Anchorage gained 1 ½ hours of additional daylight. Now, and for the next six months, the kids will arise and go to bed with the sun in the sky.

On the dusty, snow-free drive to the library to return a book, which I worked very hard at not losing on our Seattle trip, every possible mountain greeted me. McKinley and Forakker hovered ghostly to the north. Susitna’s folds are showing delineations of snow free earth. The Chugach, Kenai, and Alaska ranges, still cloaked in winter white, all towered at their respective distances, a symbol that ever-present God watches over all.

The esoteric question of the moment is: Who am I, and what, exactly, do I think I’m doing?

Vacation was a clarifying experience in some respects. But a bizarre kind of clarification. Just when I think I know what I’m about, it becomes very clear that I don’t know nothin’ at all.

I thought I was Who-I-Am-Becoming in this isolated sub-arctic cosmopolis. I thought I was wife to Bruce, trying to reconcile childhood issues in order to restore and refresh our marriage. I thought I was mother to Jack, Sabrina, Ellie, and Evan, trying to teach being true to oneself while cultivating an others-oriented spirituality. I thought I was friend to my Alaskan companions with whom I attempt emotional transparency in the belief that, while I can never be perfect, I can be better.

But during vacation, the armour that is these things did not fit and had to be shed, piece by piece, until I was entirely defenseless. And I so I cloaked myself in garments I thought I had left behind, and as I adapted to old but familiar surroundings, I wondered if anything had or will ever fundamentally change in me at all.

Am I still the daughter of Pat, trying to be dutiful and kind, even from across a continent? Am I still sister to Doug, trying to be witty, self-deprecating, and maybe a little wise? Am I still friend to Seattle-buddies Jill, Gillian, and Margie, around whom I check my language, drinking, and heretical theology?

Like a chameleon, I fade or I darken or I mottle in order to fit into whatever-shaped box I walk into. Sometimes I shape-shift so well I disappear altogether.

But I am not deceiving anyone deliberately - I am all these things, playing all these roles and more. And the issue then becomes larger than myself. Rather, who are all these other people? And I wrestle in frustration over not being able to bring each and every person into each and every multi-shaped compartment that is me. I ask myself: Why can’t So-And-So fit into my heart-shaped place? And why does Him-Or-Her refuse to rest inside my square?

I can be “all things to all people.” I can fit in almost anywhere, with any crowd. But the harder challenge is letting people be all things to me: letting those who are angry be angry, letting those who are shallow be shallow, letting those who are hurting be hurt, letting those who are content be content, letting those who are seekers ask their multitude of questions.

Accepting other people as they are, where they are, is my monumental challenge. And it comes down to understanding of what love really is. And therein lies the rub: how can I fully comprehend love, when my practicing love does not even extend to myself?

Perhaps when I can finally can accept myself - love myself - I will finally be able to accept and love others in the way I so deeply desire to be loved.
I will never be perfect – not in this life – but, in time and with effort, I may begin to be better.

Home Again

2006-03-24T22:11:00.000-09:00

Okay, so this isn't a "real" post, but I just want to announce to the world that we are back in Anchorage after two whirlwind weeks in the greater Seattle-area.

Between the borrowed valium for the return flight home and the bottle of Gewerztriminer (misspelled) I downed this evening, I am not committed to writing 6,000 words of the top five things I learned this year on vacation.

Let it suffice to say: 1) we are home safe; 2) I seem to have vaguely noticed some cold white stuff still on the ground; 3) 32 degrees in Anchorage feels warmer to me than 45 in Seattle; 4)my dogs are thriving if somewhat more cuddly than usual; 5) "Don Quixote" is a very readable and humorous book; 6) I am committed to starting to write again once I finally accept that I'm REALLY home and that it isn't just a dream.

It will be until at least tomorrow what all our twenty-billion vacation pictures are downloaded to the computer.

Epiphany no. 1 of tonight's alcohol-and-valium-induced-spirituality: One of these days I'm going to have my own ISBN number. Any person interested in helping in me accomplish this goal - PLEASE send me a line. Dammit, I CAN'T do it alone.

Best email correspondence line during vacation was sent by Darlene who said at EXACTLY THE RIGHT MOMENT: " Your angst was delightful to read. Both from the topic and literary perspective. Angst hones your writing my Dear. Sorry."

Don't be sorry, Dar! Freedom to be angst-filled is an enormous gift. I feel like a delicate butterfly! Fly, Fly! Little Butterfly!

Okay, so I'm no longer making sense. Writing is my life. I will do more later - when I put down "Don Quixote" long enough to be creative.

That Which Doesn't Kill , Serves to Make One Stronger

2006-03-16T11:14:00.000-09:00

This phrase (see header) is floating around in my mind. I can happily declare that I am no where near physical death (or so I like to think). However, there is an inner welling, a foul roiling kind of thing, that started in my belly and is progressively working its way up to my throat.

I am really angry at the moment. I feel very powerless in the face of unrealistic expectations. Every inclination wants to lay down on the altar of martyrdom and take responsibility for everyone's grievances. In trying to re-direct responsibility to those who are, in fact, responsible, I am frustrated over appearing the nag/gestapo/bitch.

How can I free others, when I still don't know what freedom really looks like? I have only ever tasted it, had an impression of it, seen it flickering in my peripheral vision. I want to live in it, broken free of unhealthy obligation and indebtedness. I crave equality, graciousness, and beauty in all my relationships.

As if.

I thought maybe I was getting stronger, but now see that I am not. I am still wretched and broken. But perhaps, not yet beyond repair.

There is no freedom yet. I continue to be enslaved by guilt. I wrestle with anger and frustration and disappointment.

Or, it could just be PMS.

Vacation: Part I

2006-03-14T16:35:00.000-09:00

Day four in our annual pilgrimage to "Seattle" is winding to a close. Downstairs, my mother makes dinner, Jack cries over Evan having upset his block tower, and electricians put the final touches on my mother's hottub. I have had my first beer of the night (Pike Kilt Lifter) and am desperately trying to finish the library book I swore I would not bring all the way to "Seattle" for fear of losing it. The real vacation book is supposed to be an unabridged translation of "Don Quixote," but between the five books I bought today and the busyness of our schedule, my "vacation book" may not get cracked until the plane ride home.

I am upstairs in Mom's "bonus room," which is where all her myriad of art supplies are stored, where her home office is set up, and where Evan's port-a-crib is situated (far out of arms' reach of aforementioned art supplies and home office equipment).

"The girls" (my mom, myself, Sabrina, and Ellie) went for tea today in Lynden at a tea shop. Happily for me, we parked our car right smack dab in front of a coffee shop/used book store. After cucumber dill sandwiches and way too much clotted cream, we waddled in to visit the books, as I felt strongly one was calling my name. It would take perseverance, patience, and fortitude (things my daughters and mother sadly lack in bookstores) to discover the one diamond-rough tome that beckoned.

I did finally find the book - one that writer/reader-friend Darlene already has - E. B. White's "The Second Tree from the Corner." Mine is a hardbound (with damaged dust jacket) edition from 1954 (first published in 1935). Once I greedily snatched it off the shelf, my soul relaxed and I knew it was okay to leave.

Out in the street we ran into two of my mom's friends, one of whom is a local artist, who upon hearing I sell art in a gallery in Anchorage, rushed to her car for her brochure; like all artists ever-hopeful of finding another marketing resource.

So, now here I am, writing for the first time in.... a long time.

The main story I wanted to relay happened last Sunday at our old church. I sat listening in an exhausted haze to teaching about Revelation 5 (on 3 hours of sleep it almost made sense). I was letting my mind wander, thinking about the underlying level of [insert descriptive phrase that conveys sense of differentiation] that I no longer share. Yet, I also rejoiced to be worshipping with dear friends.

After service, Pastor Scott came over to talk to Bruce and me. In mid-thought, he suddenly grabbed my arm and said, "Hey, I've been meaning to talk to you! I've got an idea for a book, and I want you to write the woman's perspective." I chuckled and said, "Of course I will, but be careful what you ask for." And here, I indicated my nose piercing. I added meaningfully, "I'm a little bit edgier than I used to me."

Scott's eyes twinkled. "You haven't seen Wink [his wife] yet, have you?"

Talk about wind out of the sails! My former pastor's wife got her nose pierced over a year ago! That was even earlier than I did it! No one cared about my diamond stud, no one commented, no one was shocked over how "free" life in Alaska has made me.

Sigh. So much for coming back reinvented.

When I mentioned this story to my mother last night, I added, "May be I should go ahead with the tattoo."

Her eyes twinkled. "You know, if it weren't for the needle, I wouldn't mind getting a tattoo either."

My mother said this. My mother, who.... well most people reading this have probably met my mom. You understand the significance of this. She attributes her newly discovered rebellious nature on being a member of the Red Hat Society, which, incidentally, were thicker on the streets of Lynden than June tourists in Anchorage.

Lord help me. I can't rebel for snot.

So far, so fun. Tomorrow promises a busy day with my brother and his family visiting, and then, about the time they leave, my friend Jill and her two kids are arriving in Birch Bay for a couple nights.

I could probably spend all night blogging about all the things I have been observing and all the connections I've made with dear loved-ones, but hey, I've got to finish this library book and start on "Don Quixote."

Where Am I?

2006-02-24T15:11:00.000-09:00

Today is the first day since mid-December when the arrival houseguests hasn't been imminent. I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. There is no rush to replace the sheets on the guest bed, or mop the floor. Nevertheless, I've been darting from one activity to another, addressing things that have been neglected for a long time. I made an appointment to see an eye doctor. I cleaned out and organized the master bedroom closet. I called my hair dresser to schedule an appointment. I have been working on the mounds of backed-up laundry. I am continuing on the task of completely purging the children's toys, so far resulting in more than a dozen jam-packed garbage bags. I have trying to figure out who to donate all the toys to.

It has been a great couple of months, but a bit of a blur too. In response to a recent posting about our most recent guests, who left just yesterday morning, my brother wondered at my neglecting to blog about his visit with his family which was a recent as two weeks ago. An "anonymous" reader furthermore commented that perhaps these beloved family members never actually made it here, otherwise I surely would have featured them in my blog. True, true.

Visitors are wonderful, but having had so many lately, I realize something about having guests: I am unable to function normally when there's a party going on. The excitement of guests paralyzes me from doing anything "normal." I hover and fawn and fuss and cook, and find myself unable to break away for more than a potty break at a time. So, things like writing and reading and housework suffer terribly.

Anyhow, I apologize to the guests of winter (my in-laws, my mom, and my brother and his family), who generously gave me a great deal of blog-ammo that I was unable to utilize.

But, thankfully, my one-year-old nephew John Wesley leaves enough of an impression that even two weeks after his departure I can still remember him being here. It wasn't a dream - I'm sure of it.

Several days after returning home from a long weekend up here in Anchorage, John Wesley started to walk. My brother Doug put video of the event on their website mere moments after it occured and it was almost as if we were there. We rejoiced for him.

As happy as I am for JW and his prowess, I am a bit grieved that his first steps weren't taken at my house. Before his arrival, it had been my secretest hope that being around his four older cousins would inspire John to take the plunge towards perambulation.

We worked hard at convincing John that being bipedal is way more fun than crawling. To prove it, we took him sledding, we strolled around downtown Anchorage, and we went to the Arctic Oasis inside play gym on Elmendorf AFB. Walking is a great asset in all these activities, as he could surely witness, but John is a baby with dignity, and so he ultimately saw fit to take his first steps in the privacy of his own home. He probably figured that any stumbling and falling in Anchorage would have been recorded over and over on his parents' and uncle's cameras. His cousins, while trying to encourage him, would not have hesitated to laugh if John wiped out.

I am so thankful for Doug and Kathleen and their frequent visits up to see us. This one was visit number four, and between seeing each other and their diligence in putting almost every moment of John's life on their website, the distance and separation isn't quite so accute. Thanks, guys. We'll see you in about 11 days.

Yes, we're going down to Seattle. In a grand finale of a very busy winter season, we are heading down south for two weeks. While snow still covers the ground during Spring Break in Alaska, we are going to find some green grass and flowers. We are all looking forward to seeing family and friends, and am praying for health while we are there.

2006-02-24T15:07:00.000-09:00

Kiley and Ellie

Some Pictures

2006-02-23T20:38:00.000-09:00

Jack and Tyler at the Fur Rondi Snow Sculpture contest - unfortunately, what with the warm temperatures, all the sculptures melted.

Evan being cute - a much less frequent occurance now that he has hit "the twos."

Evan, Ellie, and Kiley. At first glance it is easy to confuse the two girls.

The five older kids during out first dinner together.

Kiley and me after a great sledding run at Ocean View park. No need for coats.

The Best Things

2006-02-23T19:55:00.000-09:00

Only the loyal-est of my readers will ever see this blog. Because by now you will have given up on me. I can't even remember the last time I wrote, or what I wrote about. I am pretty sure I will continue to be inconsistent until or after March 24th, when we return from our annual pilgrimage to Seattle for Spring Break. Bear with me.

This evening I was checking email and weather. Hope springs eternal that I will a) receive electronic correspondence, and b) that it will snow before our current guests return to Seattle after a 9-day visit. (A brief history of weather in Anchorage over the last month: 40 degrees and meltage.)

The guests of the week are the King/Neil clan: Kaylin, Dave, Kiley and Tyler. Kaylin and I worked together in the same office. Dave is her husband; Kiley is 3 (just two months younger than Ellie, and her twin separated in utero - I mean that literally: wait until I post a pic of them together!) and Tyler who, at 8 1/2, is one year older than Jack.

I would call it an immensely successful visit, were it not for the vicious attack of kittens (aka stomach flu) that Kaylin experienced two days ago, and completely incapacitated her.

So far everyone else has been spared, but every time one of the kids is a little extra fussy, or someone picks at their food, the adults just freeze in terror.

Ironically, two weeks before they came, I had a horrible dream that the second they crossed our threshold upon arriving in Anchorage, Kiley bent over and started spewing. I told Kaylin about the dream and she laughed nervously.

The dream may have been evidence of psychic ability on my part, or it may have been simple paranoia. Kaylin's family and mine have an history of sharing kittens. Five years ago, when Jack was only two and Sabrina one, I returned to my former place of employment for a short-term work project. It was a full-time job for just seven weeks. Dave, who was home with the kids during the day, was willing to be hired as a daycare provider for my kids during those seven weeks.

At some point during that time, kittens came to visit. We kept passing it around, and I think it took several weeks before it all passed. Though I have chosen to block them out of my memory, I seem to recall memories from Dave about my kids vomiting in his home. When Tyler got it, it seemed like he was going to have it forever.

But like all things in life, even Armageddon (as we called that particular episode) had its end. So here we are, five years later (almost to the day, mind you), and we are in a totally different context. There are three more kids in the mix since those days (a chance to double our fun) and miles away.

I can't speak for Kaylin and Dave, or Bruce or any of the kids, but I have LOVED having them here. I wish they would stay forever. I am fantasizing we are a little commune slurping down pots of coffee, making mounds of pb&js, and buring the mudroom in winter paraphernalia.

We haven't done a ton of stuff since the King/Neils have been here, but at least we've gotten out each day. We've gone sledding, gone downtown, gone to the zoo, and eaten out a couple times. We've had great conversation and laughed A LOT! I'm considering drugging them so they can't leave. Kaylin is pretty sure I'll breathe a sigh of relief when they go. If she only knew how wrong she is. There are few people as delightful in the world as this family. I can't imagine life without them in my house. I tried to express myself to Kaylin tonight with the words, "You complete me," while clumsily trying to assemble dinner.

Being reminded of the wonderful friends and family that are still in Seattle is very hard. But I have a hard time imagining being back there. Kaylin and Dave have told us about the changes that have occured even since we moved. None of it tugs at us. What does tug are relationships, beaches, and tall, tall trees.

For about five minutes, Kaylin and Dave played with the idea of life in Anchorage before quickly dismissing it. The same things that discourage Bruce and I from wanting to return are the things that make them want to leave. But the things that make them stay are the very things that continue to tug at us. What makes one person cross the line towards major change? I don't know. It doesn't matter.

Man, I'm gonna stop writing now. Wine has made my head fuzzy (though I'm still able to type). No more waxing poetic tonight. For now my desires are simple: one more large glass of wine, three inches of new snow, and a little bit more good conversation. Meanwhile, exhausted though I am, sleep can wait. The best things in life cannot.

Home, Home in the Rain

2006-02-06T21:33:00.000-09:00

I am so out of the mode of writing I’m not sure I can still type.

It may also be the case that I can’t write because I just finished clearing the back deck of several inches of slush. My arms are weakened and feeling a bit rubbery.

It is a balmy early February evening in south-central Alaska. The current temperature is 35 degrees. (My computer says its 49 at the airport. That CAN'T be right! Can it?) Several days ago we were pushing zero, so this weather is almost hot in comparison (I really do mean that.)

I did my shoveling wearing a cardigan and no gloves, and I was almost too warm.

When I descended from my bedroom lair this morning, it was a balmy 41 degrees. I made a mental note to tell the kids they didn’t have to wear their snow pants to school. Shoot, they didn’t even need their coats! I hummed about the kitchen making their sandwiches.

Then Bruce called from Mississippi. He informed me that schools in Anchorage were all closed today.

“How do you know THAT? You’re in MISSISSIPPI for pete’s sake!” I hadn’t even thought to check for school closures. I thought school's only closed around here if a foot of snow dropped overnight.

Bruce said the husband of the co-worker he is traveling with in got in a minor fender-bender this morning because the roads in Anchorage were so awful.

Sure enough, I checked the school district’s website. School canceled. What to tell the kids? It wasn’t quite a Snow Day. Maybe a Freezing Rain Day? Slick-as-Snot Roads Day? Let’s Avoid a Lawsuit Day?

In the end, they didn't care WHY there wasn't school, only that they were FREE for another day. They cheered and hugged me as if I were the one who had arranged the whole thing.

So I loaded the kids into the van and instead of school we drove two treacherous blocks to a friend’s house. And they WERE treacherous, believe me. We spent the morning there.

This afternoon as I was fixing dinner, the temperature was bopping around all over the place. One minute it was 37 and sunny, the next it was 35 and hailing, moments after that 33 and snowing, and moments after that 33 and raining. Today for the first time I saw it snow, rain, and hail ALL AT THE SAME TIME. I didn’t know clouds could do that. Weird stuff.

In spite of the warmth and rain, there is still a fair amount of snow on the ground. When Bruce called to check in from his hotel room in Mississippi, I assured him that the grass is still covered. But the mailbox isn’t. (Technical points of reference.)

Temperatures are expected to stay mild for awhile, but hopefully will drop below freezing before too long. Though it is warm, it is way too wet for the kids to go out and play.
The kids are in bed. I am imbibing in a glass of wine, and my book awaits (“Shopgirl” by Steve Martin). I’ve earned a few minutes of solitude. And so have you!

A Letter to Darlene

2006-02-01T14:33:00.000-09:00

Dear Darlene,

You know, forgetting to call someone back when you are exceptionally busy is a fairly common occurrence. While uncharacteristic of you, it didn't occur to me to take it personally. Had I been in a place of emotional crisis when I called, that might have been the case. You will be happy to know, however, that I am not in a place of crisis - other than experiencing strong feelings of remorse over my VISA balance, and my inability to pay more than half of that balance. And I am also feeling some remorse over having spent $50 on some great deals at Old Navy today. There is some irony regarding today’s spending, as the only reason we were at the mall at all was to walk and get some exercise. When we started walking at 9:15am this morning I cockily thought to myself, "Hey, I don't have to spend my hard-earned money on a fitness club membership in order to get exercise! All I have to do is Walk the Mall! Think of all I'll save."

Anyhow, that wasn't why I was calling yesterday. In fact, none of the above had even happened yet. The reason I was calling was simply to tell you that I have a book for you that I picked up in the library freebie bin. “Dr. Zhivago.” Do you have it?

There's another book I picked up too - one I both have and have already read (“Silas Marner” by George Eliot) but I am reluctant to part with that one because of the nice woodcut illustrations throughout. I considered giving you my other copy of “Silas Marner”, but it is, unfortunately, connected in one volume to two other George Eliot novels which I haven't read yet. Perhaps since you didn't call me back yesterday, I should quit wavering and just keep the new copy for myself.

I have not been writing at all lately, despite having a wealth of material stirring around in my brain. I wonder if it is a rare thing for a writer to have too much they want to say. I don't know where to start. I could write about my adventures in amateur philately, adventures in going through the personal-growth book "Inside Out", or adventures in Bruce being in Mississippi. With my mom here, I am unable to quite relax. I cannot help but be somewhat unnerved by the idea of her cleaning out my refrigerator while I lounge and work my way through my latest library book. Even writing this feels like a bit of a luxury. And yes, as I write this, she is still working on removing mystery crusts and goos from my fridge's interior .

Yesterday I was going to write, but my mother threatened to disinherit me if I didn't work on grooming Seamus. That took a couple hours and still isn't done. Prior to that I'd actually sat down to write, but the phone kept ringing. I kept answering it. Mistake. Then, I had an amazing epiphany about something very specific that I was absolutely burning to write about as soon as I returned home from picking the kids up from school. Unfortunately, I had promised to take Jack and Sabrina to the toy store, so away we went, and now, for the life of me, I cannot remember what that epiphany was.

Well, as this is the only writing I've done this week, I think I'll blog a copy of this. I hope you don't mind. Then I think I'll go read.

Linda

"No man can be called friendless when he has God and the companionship of good books."
-- Elizabeth Barret Browning (1806-61)

Warming Up

2006-01-26T09:02:00.000-09:00

Warmth II
Originally uploaded by Raymenie.

Our furnace is on the fritz. Not a good situation when the outside temperature is –4 degrees F.

I’ve taken to layering these days. In the morning I wear a tank top, turtleneck, and wool sweater on top, and long underwear, jeans, wool socks, and fleece slippers on the bottom. I sip a cup of hot tea to keep my hands warm. Strategically placed fleece blankets strewn around the house come in handy too. So does sitting close to the roaring gas fireplace.

Even so, don’t you think it’s a bit of overkill? I shouldn’t have to go to such extremes to keep warm, should I?

Fortunately, the coldest our house has gotten is about 64 degrees. There are five separately wired heating zones in our house, and only one of them isn’t working. Bruce suspects there is a malfunction in one of the valves controlling the outward flow of scalding water leaving the pump to the nonfunctional zone.

Tomorrow the heating-guy is coming out to take a look. I’m bracing myself for a $3,000 estimate. Hopefully it will be far less than that. But if I keep my expectations low, then I can only be delighted when the final bill is only $1,500. So much for Thanksgiving in Hawaii.

The furnace thing is an inconvenience, but it’s got me to thinking. I’ve been thinking that my life is a bit like our furnace. Eighty percent of my life is chugging along pretty good – doing its job; staying warm. The other 20% maybe isn’t doing as great as it could. It’s a bit chilly in that zone.

I thought that no one, including myself, would much miss the 20% absence of warmth. Surely, it could be compensated for by the other 80%. But the truth is, this just doesn’t work. If one piece is malfunctioning, the whole thing goes to shit.

(It’s getting chilly in here.)

Fortunately, the heating-guy is just a phone call away. He’s been alerted to the situation, and I trust his ability to help work the problem.

Before too long, I look forward to removing some layers.

In the end, it may be a fix requiring substantial resources, but in the long run, well worth it.

It is better to be poor and warm, than rich and cold.

Go Seahawks!

2006-01-23T23:20:00.000-09:00

Monday Morning
Originally uploaded by timoth.

Finally, it may have been definitively proven that I am not the sole cause of losses to the professional sports teams I follow.

Congratulations Seattle Seahawks! I am all “ver-klempt” for you! Sunday’s game may be the only football game I’ve ever watched (almost) in entirety! I cried when it was over!

I am the ULTIMATE fair-weather fan, I admit it. But, it just goes to show what an historic, incredible, mesmerizing thing the Super Bowl will be this year.

I worried that my watching the BIG GAME between Seattle and Carolina last Sunday would cause Seattle to lose, and that would have been a great burden to bear. You see, I have a painful history of causing teams to lose. I would guess my viewing-a-loss ratio at 85%. Those kinds of odds can’t be an accident.

Out of concern for the then-maturing Seattle-sports organizations, I withdrew from fan participation in 1995, when the Mariners lost to the Cleveland Indians in the bid to get to the World Series. I was at that last game. I wanted it too much. And Seattle lost.

I was in despair. It was the only time in my life I was actually interested in a professional sports team. That alone jinxed the poor Mariners.

Sorry.

Yesterday, Sunday, I was uncharacteristically interested in the Seahawks game. I carried my book and a couple of beers into the family room so I could read and drink while Bruce watched the game beside me. Things were going great for Seattle! They were unstoppable! Then, at almost the exact moment I finally set my book aside to focus on the game, Carolina got their first touchdown.

ANATHEMA!

Dog-gone it! That’s what my team got for winning my attention! Fortunately, they were so dominant that day, my powers were ineffectual. Thank heaven.

Perhaps, being in Alaska, my ability to jinx is diminished by the many miles of mountains and water between myself and Seattle. Maybe this is the only safe place from which I can safely watch professional sports.

They won! That is the important thing! What an exciting game! I’m so happy for Seattle!

……

Oh geez. I just realized what happened. I KNOW WHY Providence let the Seahawks win! Something had to give in the cosmos to make it possible. It all makes sense now. A price had to be exacted.

The first concession: Bruce will be in Vicksburg, MISSISSIPPI for a work-related class on Super Bowl Sunday. He, Jack, and I will not be able to share Super Bowl experience together. Sure, he’ll be able to watch the game, but from MISSISSIPPI of all places! The west-coast of the United States of America will be a distant memory! Maybe he’ll forget about the game all together in preference for poling through a gator-infested swamp.

Hmmm.

The other tragic thing is that my mother will miss the game entirely, as she is scheduled to be on an airplane on Super Bowl Sunday – AT THE EXACT TIMES OF THE GAME! What are the odds? Really?! She will be returning to Seattle after a last-minute, week-long visit with ME, that she only scheduled because I whined and complained about how Bruce is going to MISSISSIPPI for two weeks (to pole through a gator-infested swamp). And my mother truly loves football!

See?

I am a traitor to my own family. I am ashamed.

This is what I will do….

1) I will HOST a Super Bowl Party even though Bruce won’t be here. 2) I will actually WATCH the Super Bowl this year, even if it means completely ignoring the children to do so. 3) I will ROOT and JUMP and YELL at the appropriate moments (taking my cues, of course, from my Super Bowl Party guests). 4) I will bring the football-fan spirit to my household in the absence of my mother and husband.

Isn’t that a good idea!?

(I just hope I don’t jinx the game.)