25 November 2010
24 November 2010
Organic Thanksgiving
I started today with a 2 mile wake up walk/run with Abbey. We talked about eating right for energy and a positive attitude, ridding our lives of all things toxic. Mostly I talked; she tuned me out. The rest of the morning I began the pre cooking ritual, gathering ingredients, finding the right bowls, playing Pearl Jam on Pandora.
Tomorrow we celebrate my first 100% fresh and organic Thanksgiving dinner. The menu includes Mr. John's famous smoked turkey and ham. A citrus brine with pineapples, oranges and apples stuffed inside the bird while it smokes all night make this turkey remarkable.
I handled the squash casserole and macaroni and cheese, sweet potato casserole with pecans, mashed potatoes, dressing with sausage, sage, and apples, green beans with butter and almonds, sweet peas, broccoli casserole, cranberry relish, gravy and dinner rolls, and also two organic pumpkin pies and an oatmeal, pecan, apple crisp.
We doubled everything and flash froze a second meal so when we see John's parents this weekend we can recreate the experience.
John made an eating rule: We can only eat leftovers if we introduce a fresh dish to the menu.
So on Friday, we'll add collard greens and black eyed peas to the ham leftovers. And I'm going to make, partly for nostalgia and partly because its dangerously yummy, my grandmother's peanut butter, banana, graham cracker cake, organic of course.
I spent the whole day in the kitchen. I love it. Abbey joined me from time to time, snapping green beans, or melting butter. Alex shredded some sharp cheddar cheese. I told them both to add a lot of love while they helped with the food so that it tastes better. I think they did.
Not even disaster could stop this meal's fruition. While Abbey was searching the spice cabinet for the pepper grinder, a narrow bottle of hot sauce landed plumb on a glass cooking bowl, sending shards o' glass all over the kitchen, contaminating every uncovered dish. The broccoli casserole, ruined. The sausage, sage dressing, ruined. The chopped apples, the cheese, all thrown away. Another trip to the store, another $1o0, and at 2:30 in the afternoon, I'm starting all over.
John wisely mentioned: Look at it this way, something had to go wrong to compensate for some other thing that wasn't right; disaster was necessary, so everything could be perfect. By 7:30, with everything in the kitchen prepped, nutmeg and ginger jump from dish to dish, and the once abundant produce in baskets, now mingles with rice and cheese and mushrooms and broth, morphing into delicacies in tin foil covered baking dishes.
Tomorrow, I will mash the potatoes with some butter and steam some green vegetables.
10 November 2010
Kickin' it with Ms. Clark
Jake says these are the only two things you need for a show:
1) be good looking, and
2) be yourself
So, I'm going to have a show: a liberal, authentic, middle aged teacher with baggage, in a small, private, Christian, conservative school. [JG], a senior at the school, named the show. As I covered the office for the secretary because she had to pick up pizza uptown, six or seven students came in during lunch. The headmaster followed and said, what's going on in here, to which [JG] replied, "just kickin' it with Ms. Clark." Instantly I knew that we were on to something. I said yes, like a reality conversation show. [JG] said, I'm thinking Springer, but not. Too which I quickly assured him, "no - more like Howard Stern minus the vulgar inappropriate stuff, just good questions, interesting conversations, and when one bores me, I'll tell the truth."
These are the segments I would have captured today, had the show already existed.
Segment 1: A very physically ill mother berates me over the office telephone because her son ignored her in the parking lot and she needed to give him something. SCREAMING WITH A RASPY SCREECH, all she needed me to do was get him from English class and send him to the car; she just saw him walk by and he ignored her. I did exactly what she asked of me, returned to the office and rolled my eyes. Then she called again. This time, apologizing because she was so upset that she forgot to tell me why she really called. She wanted her other son to sign out because she needed to take him to the DMV since yesterday when they were there all of the machines were broken down and now they had to go back between 12 and 2 today. I calmly assured her that if she came in to sign him out I would send for him. She said the real secretary doesn't make her come in. I said, well, I do.
She came in, embarrassed her son a little, and left.
Segment 2: [DP], a high school student and I discuss how I will not discuss atheism or religion with him until he familiarizes him with a source other than Christopher Hitchens. I also advised him to stop seeking out the opposition argument with recommendations from Christopher Hitchens. At some point he made a comment about another English teacher and me not being like Christians, to which I immediately corrected him, "we are the Christians, it is the others who are not."
He spent a significant amount of time with me as he was sent to the office to photocopy chapters out of a book. I suggested that there might be a law against that.
Segment 3: [JF], a student enters my classroom and says, "how long would you go to jail if you were caught with 30 lbs. of pot?" I said, "I think a really long time that might be intent to distribute." He continues marveling at how much that would cost and what it would look like. I ask, "why are you so interested in this? Or, never mind don't tell me." He says, Wiz Khalifa. I google this character. 60 grams is the actual amount of marijuana he had, 2 ounces. Not at all like 30 lbs. [JF] says, that's still a lot. The bell rings. He leaves.
Segment 4: [LW] the struggling student comes for help. He, like all the others, wants to write about the topics we have discussed in class. I'm asking him to explore ideas analogous to what we study. At first, I tell him what to think, but eventually, he catches on. He writes an introduction with a quote, an in line citation, and a thesis. I'm impressed. He asks if he can come back tomorrow with his draft, and this is why I teach, to watch someone try. He draws conclusions, they are wrong, and I'm proud of him for showing up.
Segment 5: [RK] the antithesis of the struggling student, also struggling, comes to work on his paper. Listening to me as I admonish my daughter over the phone, he motions, should he leave? I shake my head no, so he stays to write. After I hang up, he explains to me that he gives his parents a hard time too, but he really doesn't want to. He told me that his brother grew up without his father actively in his life, quit school his junior year, and cooks in a local restaurant. He's 24 and still isn't sure what he wants to do with his life. He does like to cook though, and he's good at it. [RK] doesn't want to disappoint his parents and plans to attend college. Generally a good student, he admits to laziness.
He writes one sentence on his paper: The wild beast will always exist in humans. He shows it to me apologetically; "I'm not trying to be vague," he says. I'm pleased he has a thought. He tells me he doesn't wish it to be that way, but it is. He continues, slightly digressing, but connecting it all in his mind, that he finds the idea of predestination troubling. If I'm put here to go to hell, and that is predestined, is it designed so that my life will be a lesson of what not to do. Hitler, Mussolini, Charles Manson. And if my life is destined for heaven, then will others learn from my goodness, Jesus, Ghandi, Mother Theresa?
I interrupt. I think predestination is a troubling argument, I admit. Most of us are in the middle, with the paradox of good and bad. So we live in the unknown, thinking we may never really be forgiven for the wrong we have done, but hoping we can be, the purpose I guess being to develop faith. I don't think we can see as clearly as the extreme examples of goodness and evil, we are a combination of the two, so what do we do?
He says, "yes, that is what I struggle with."
I said, write about it.
1) be good looking, and
2) be yourself
So, I'm going to have a show: a liberal, authentic, middle aged teacher with baggage, in a small, private, Christian, conservative school. [JG], a senior at the school, named the show. As I covered the office for the secretary because she had to pick up pizza uptown, six or seven students came in during lunch. The headmaster followed and said, what's going on in here, to which [JG] replied, "just kickin' it with Ms. Clark." Instantly I knew that we were on to something. I said yes, like a reality conversation show. [JG] said, I'm thinking Springer, but not. Too which I quickly assured him, "no - more like Howard Stern minus the vulgar inappropriate stuff, just good questions, interesting conversations, and when one bores me, I'll tell the truth."
These are the segments I would have captured today, had the show already existed.
Segment 1: A very physically ill mother berates me over the office telephone because her son ignored her in the parking lot and she needed to give him something. SCREAMING WITH A RASPY SCREECH, all she needed me to do was get him from English class and send him to the car; she just saw him walk by and he ignored her. I did exactly what she asked of me, returned to the office and rolled my eyes. Then she called again. This time, apologizing because she was so upset that she forgot to tell me why she really called. She wanted her other son to sign out because she needed to take him to the DMV since yesterday when they were there all of the machines were broken down and now they had to go back between 12 and 2 today. I calmly assured her that if she came in to sign him out I would send for him. She said the real secretary doesn't make her come in. I said, well, I do.
She came in, embarrassed her son a little, and left.
Segment 2: [DP], a high school student and I discuss how I will not discuss atheism or religion with him until he familiarizes him with a source other than Christopher Hitchens. I also advised him to stop seeking out the opposition argument with recommendations from Christopher Hitchens. At some point he made a comment about another English teacher and me not being like Christians, to which I immediately corrected him, "we are the Christians, it is the others who are not."
He spent a significant amount of time with me as he was sent to the office to photocopy chapters out of a book. I suggested that there might be a law against that.
Segment 3: [JF], a student enters my classroom and says, "how long would you go to jail if you were caught with 30 lbs. of pot?" I said, "I think a really long time that might be intent to distribute." He continues marveling at how much that would cost and what it would look like. I ask, "why are you so interested in this? Or, never mind don't tell me." He says, Wiz Khalifa. I google this character. 60 grams is the actual amount of marijuana he had, 2 ounces. Not at all like 30 lbs. [JF] says, that's still a lot. The bell rings. He leaves.
Segment 4: [LW] the struggling student comes for help. He, like all the others, wants to write about the topics we have discussed in class. I'm asking him to explore ideas analogous to what we study. At first, I tell him what to think, but eventually, he catches on. He writes an introduction with a quote, an in line citation, and a thesis. I'm impressed. He asks if he can come back tomorrow with his draft, and this is why I teach, to watch someone try. He draws conclusions, they are wrong, and I'm proud of him for showing up.
Segment 5: [RK] the antithesis of the struggling student, also struggling, comes to work on his paper. Listening to me as I admonish my daughter over the phone, he motions, should he leave? I shake my head no, so he stays to write. After I hang up, he explains to me that he gives his parents a hard time too, but he really doesn't want to. He told me that his brother grew up without his father actively in his life, quit school his junior year, and cooks in a local restaurant. He's 24 and still isn't sure what he wants to do with his life. He does like to cook though, and he's good at it. [RK] doesn't want to disappoint his parents and plans to attend college. Generally a good student, he admits to laziness.
He writes one sentence on his paper: The wild beast will always exist in humans. He shows it to me apologetically; "I'm not trying to be vague," he says. I'm pleased he has a thought. He tells me he doesn't wish it to be that way, but it is. He continues, slightly digressing, but connecting it all in his mind, that he finds the idea of predestination troubling. If I'm put here to go to hell, and that is predestined, is it designed so that my life will be a lesson of what not to do. Hitler, Mussolini, Charles Manson. And if my life is destined for heaven, then will others learn from my goodness, Jesus, Ghandi, Mother Theresa?
I interrupt. I think predestination is a troubling argument, I admit. Most of us are in the middle, with the paradox of good and bad. So we live in the unknown, thinking we may never really be forgiven for the wrong we have done, but hoping we can be, the purpose I guess being to develop faith. I don't think we can see as clearly as the extreme examples of goodness and evil, we are a combination of the two, so what do we do?
He says, "yes, that is what I struggle with."
I said, write about it.
09 November 2010
Sassy from the collection titled George - the gift that keeps on giving
Sassy lives on my porch. From time to time, when the front door is opened, she'll run through the house to the back door, a short cut. This week she brought me a headless rat and dropped it in front of the sliding glass door to the back deck.
Sassy came into our lives when George and I decided to live apart. George thought he needed a cat, so that Abbey and Jake would want to be with him. He sent me to the SPCA and we picked the scrawny, feisty gray and black striped alley cat. During Sassy's life at George's condo, she lived in the laundry closet. When not confined to her cage, Jake tortured her, chasing her, holding her by her tail. Sassy clawed her way to freedom and ran to her hiding place behind the drier.
When George moved back in with us, he needed to bring Sassy. First we tried to keep her in Abbey's room. My asthma suffocates me and turns my eyes into glassy razor blades. She must live on the porch by the lake. The dark, cold January air caused Sassy to take refuge elsewhere and for nearly 4 months we didn't see her. With death hovering in our lives, the loss of the cat seemed symbolic.
Two months after George's death, a woman from Lake Frances Drive called my sister Kim in the upstate.
"Are you missing a scrawny, gray and black cat?" the woman questioned?
"No, I don't have a cat." Kim confidently replied.
"Well, I live on Lake Frances Drive and I've been caring for this stray cat." she continued. "I took her to the vet, and she has a microchip with your information as the emergency contact."
"Hmmm," Kim wonders, "I think that's the street my sister Melissa lives on. I'll call her," says she.
That George would put Kim's name, rather than mine, as the emergency contact on Sassy's tag makes sense only that if they called me, I might say, I don't know anything about a cat.
I feel a mixed sense of relief, confusion, and annoyance with the news of Sassy's resurrection. Abbey and Jake celebrate the news, and I send them down to the neighbor to retrieve the seventh of Sassy's lives.
I wonder though; "how long will she stay? We offer her nothing but an occasionally filled bowl of food and some water on the back porch."
She stays, having learned the neighborhood, she supplements her feedings with small rodents, birds and human sympathy.
We leave the lake and move to the island. Life dramatically changes again for Sassy. This time, she gets a balcony, fifteen feet from the ground. She needs to use trees and propane tanks to get to her food bowls. She spits up worms on the front porch, wages war on predators in the night, leaves hairballs filled with raw animal guts and blood by my patio furniture, tortures lizards and dragonflies only until she kills them, whines if it rains until Abbey sneaks her in the garage or in her bedroom, and reminds me of George.
Sassy brought me the headless rat to show me she was doing her job keeping snakes, mice and lizards out of our home. I didn't refill her bowls for two days. John finally came and removed the rotting rodent.
Sassy came into our lives when George and I decided to live apart. George thought he needed a cat, so that Abbey and Jake would want to be with him. He sent me to the SPCA and we picked the scrawny, feisty gray and black striped alley cat. During Sassy's life at George's condo, she lived in the laundry closet. When not confined to her cage, Jake tortured her, chasing her, holding her by her tail. Sassy clawed her way to freedom and ran to her hiding place behind the drier.
When George moved back in with us, he needed to bring Sassy. First we tried to keep her in Abbey's room. My asthma suffocates me and turns my eyes into glassy razor blades. She must live on the porch by the lake. The dark, cold January air caused Sassy to take refuge elsewhere and for nearly 4 months we didn't see her. With death hovering in our lives, the loss of the cat seemed symbolic.
Two months after George's death, a woman from Lake Frances Drive called my sister Kim in the upstate.
"Are you missing a scrawny, gray and black cat?" the woman questioned?
"No, I don't have a cat." Kim confidently replied.
"Well, I live on Lake Frances Drive and I've been caring for this stray cat." she continued. "I took her to the vet, and she has a microchip with your information as the emergency contact."
"Hmmm," Kim wonders, "I think that's the street my sister Melissa lives on. I'll call her," says she.
That George would put Kim's name, rather than mine, as the emergency contact on Sassy's tag makes sense only that if they called me, I might say, I don't know anything about a cat.
I feel a mixed sense of relief, confusion, and annoyance with the news of Sassy's resurrection. Abbey and Jake celebrate the news, and I send them down to the neighbor to retrieve the seventh of Sassy's lives.
I wonder though; "how long will she stay? We offer her nothing but an occasionally filled bowl of food and some water on the back porch."
She stays, having learned the neighborhood, she supplements her feedings with small rodents, birds and human sympathy.
We leave the lake and move to the island. Life dramatically changes again for Sassy. This time, she gets a balcony, fifteen feet from the ground. She needs to use trees and propane tanks to get to her food bowls. She spits up worms on the front porch, wages war on predators in the night, leaves hairballs filled with raw animal guts and blood by my patio furniture, tortures lizards and dragonflies only until she kills them, whines if it rains until Abbey sneaks her in the garage or in her bedroom, and reminds me of George.
Sassy brought me the headless rat to show me she was doing her job keeping snakes, mice and lizards out of our home. I didn't refill her bowls for two days. John finally came and removed the rotting rodent.
27 October 2010
The iPad Manual
Standing in the midst of the technological tsunami that swallows entire networks of people with it's hypnotic digital clicks, I calculate precisely how I'm going to make my gadgets and devices work for me; (all of which are necessary for my valiant stand against the forces vying for control of the minds of the masses. Keenly aware that I too am a victim, I accept that the potential is only limited by the ability to think the thought, and the vast avenues of exploration overwhelm even the most ambitious thinkers.)
Productivity, greener living, entertaining, multidimensional existence (or is it?), reading, convenience, cool factor, cutting edge in a pop music kind of way, recipes in the kitchen, Apple, - but mostly the books - paperless books, I have my entire library with me at all times. I can read whatever I'm in the mood for and I can buy books anywhere there is wi-fi. All these confirm the iPad's necessity in my life, not a luxury, a must.
Will I miss the paper? Hell yes. I love paper. I love to fold the edges, write in the margins. I break the binding on paperbacks on purpose to help the paper flow as I scroll through it with my thumb. I keep paper in my desk, on my counter, in my bookbag, the console of my car, my nightstand, and my purse. I love graph paper the most, index cards too. I rewrite notes and lists to myself because there is a pretty piece of yellow paper that needs to be written on. I make lists of what lists I've made. I write in cursive and print, all caps and cursive print mix, just because playing with how letters look is fun. Now I keep all my lists on the Notes app in a comic sans style font (yellow lined digital paper with a running index of all my lists and notes, timed and dated.) I will miss my paper, but my iPad makes me a little greener.
Then of course, the yoga podcasts and guided meditations, the photo slide shows, the music library, the newspapers and magazines, the calendar and the games for my babies - all this in one little flat, skinny, shiny, fingerprint smudged device.
When I got my ipad there was one screen, and it was blank. Without much effort I filled seven screens with more than twenty apps on each screen. I have Nook, Kindle, and iBooks, Craigslist, Ebay, Priceline, and Amazon, Ted, NASA, the City Paper, NPR, BBC, and The New Yorker. I added Fandango, Flixster, Netflix, and Pandora, Marvel comics for Jake, Calvin & Hobbes for Abbey, FingerPpaint and Etch a Sketch for me. I have WebMD so I never need a real doctor again, and yoga so I can make myself well.
Glimpses of who keeps company with me in possession of the tools for technological enlightment terrifies me at the least. The first group is the people with money that buy it because they can, but have no idea what they will use it for or how. The next group are the technologically wealthy who have it because they can, know how to use it and flaunt it. Then of course are the people who get it because it's the newest, coolest thing, and they save or borrow for this one next cool new thing. And then there's me. I can't afford it, don't really need it, know exactly how to use it, and indulge because, well, I convinced John that he should buy it for me and he did because I always get what I want.
John's accountant Bob and his wife Janna purchased their iPads. They fall into the group of buying it because they have enough money. They will play solitaire on it while sitting in recliners in their living room. Which is fine, you can do that with the iPad. Bob called. He needed John to come fix his printer because he wanted to print the iPad manual.
Productivity, greener living, entertaining, multidimensional existence (or is it?), reading, convenience, cool factor, cutting edge in a pop music kind of way, recipes in the kitchen, Apple, - but mostly the books - paperless books, I have my entire library with me at all times. I can read whatever I'm in the mood for and I can buy books anywhere there is wi-fi. All these confirm the iPad's necessity in my life, not a luxury, a must.
Will I miss the paper? Hell yes. I love paper. I love to fold the edges, write in the margins. I break the binding on paperbacks on purpose to help the paper flow as I scroll through it with my thumb. I keep paper in my desk, on my counter, in my bookbag, the console of my car, my nightstand, and my purse. I love graph paper the most, index cards too. I rewrite notes and lists to myself because there is a pretty piece of yellow paper that needs to be written on. I make lists of what lists I've made. I write in cursive and print, all caps and cursive print mix, just because playing with how letters look is fun. Now I keep all my lists on the Notes app in a comic sans style font (yellow lined digital paper with a running index of all my lists and notes, timed and dated.) I will miss my paper, but my iPad makes me a little greener.
Then of course, the yoga podcasts and guided meditations, the photo slide shows, the music library, the newspapers and magazines, the calendar and the games for my babies - all this in one little flat, skinny, shiny, fingerprint smudged device.
When I got my ipad there was one screen, and it was blank. Without much effort I filled seven screens with more than twenty apps on each screen. I have Nook, Kindle, and iBooks, Craigslist, Ebay, Priceline, and Amazon, Ted, NASA, the City Paper, NPR, BBC, and The New Yorker. I added Fandango, Flixster, Netflix, and Pandora, Marvel comics for Jake, Calvin & Hobbes for Abbey, FingerPpaint and Etch a Sketch for me. I have WebMD so I never need a real doctor again, and yoga so I can make myself well.
Glimpses of who keeps company with me in possession of the tools for technological enlightment terrifies me at the least. The first group is the people with money that buy it because they can, but have no idea what they will use it for or how. The next group are the technologically wealthy who have it because they can, know how to use it and flaunt it. Then of course are the people who get it because it's the newest, coolest thing, and they save or borrow for this one next cool new thing. And then there's me. I can't afford it, don't really need it, know exactly how to use it, and indulge because, well, I convinced John that he should buy it for me and he did because I always get what I want.
John's accountant Bob and his wife Janna purchased their iPads. They fall into the group of buying it because they have enough money. They will play solitaire on it while sitting in recliners in their living room. Which is fine, you can do that with the iPad. Bob called. He needed John to come fix his printer because he wanted to print the iPad manual.
You can catch an eel with squid.
Saturday, October 16, 2010 ~ 7:30 am
Still woozy more than 30 minutes later. I hesitate to recount the last two hours. I write about it to sort it out.
The morning began two days ago, purchasing Guy Harvey T-Shirts for spirit day at school. I ventured into a fishing store, left with a $25 fishing pole, some squid for bait, a blue t-shirt with a fish on the back for Jake, and a pink one for Abbey. She wanted yellow, but we bought the two they had.
The story actually begins two years ago. George said he wanted to take them fishing, a strangely delusional request, but probably one intended to linger in my life as a reminder of the lies we tell. I don't know if he had ever been fishing in his life. More likely, he anticipated Jake's need for such a thing. With the Disney fishing rods they got for Easter, they fished in the little lake behind John's house just a month before George's death. He sat in a wheelchair wrapped in a blanket with a hat to keep his warmth in. The wind blew a March breeze through the branches of the live oak by the dock. The bugs swarmed, patience demanded we do something different, and the fishing trip ended.
Since George's death, we live with a dock in our backyard, and Jake asks to fish regularly. So with the new gear and some basic instructions on casting, one evening of practice catching a sting ray with John, Jake and I start our Saturday morning fishing from the dock.
As with all of my adventures, I don't think it through all the way. I figure Jake can cast it and pull it in. He knows how to bait the hook. All I'll have to do is get the hook out and throw the sea life back using the pliers. I saw it done with a sting ray and I didn't freak out.
With smiling anticipation, I find the pliers, the bug spray, a chair, my camera, phone, green tea and incense. Confidence reminds me that Jake visions me a super hero, saving the day, using my powers to twist minds, travel between dimensions and conquer fear. He'll grow up one day and say, my mom makes magic, casts spells, and defeats monsters.
The tidal marsh tempts us to cast half way down the dock. Cutting the frozen squid doesn't make my stomach spin. This pleases Jake. With great caution and attention, he slides the squid on both hooks. A few failed casts cause him to pause and think through the steps. He remembers to let go. He beautifully sends the line into the shallow middle. Soon, too soon, he reels it in, repeat 3 or 4 times. Then he settles and leaves it, leaning the pole on the railing.
After catching a stick and losing a hook, he recasts, landing in the deep reeds of the pluff mud. The weight and hook are stuck. At first we seriously consider Jake adventuring into the crab's domain to untangle the line from the grass. Healthy fear stops Jake. I tug and wiggle the line from this mess. Saving the day - check.
Jake, ready to abandon the bonding, suggests trying just once from the floating dock. Patience and positive energy, I insist. "Baby Jake," I tell him, "we are going to catch something." The dolphins spout agreement as they swim by. Perfection, I assure him. Life doesn't get more pleasant than this. Twisting minds - check.
He casts it for me and invites me to hold the rod. He shows me how to bring the line back a little. He instructs me never to turn the reel the wrong way. He sits on my lap and we wait. Far too quickly, I feel a tug on the line. Twice I reel it in, learning the weight of the line. The third time though, the pull is different. At times I feel the struggle a real contest. Jake wants to try, I hand him the rod. He struggles too, but pulls it in, a gross snake, a heavy, fat, slimy, grayish green sea snake's mouth stuck, bait still on the hook. I feel the swell and drop in my brain as the nerves in my forehead flow and tingle. I focus enough to seek my safe place. I hold the line, trying to gauge the movements of the eel. Jake brings the pliers. I twist and tug, trying to release the hook from his mouth. The dock floats with each passing boat's wake. The eel flops and flails.
Jake calls John, very calmly describes the scene, maybe falsely, but with certainty, declares the eel electric. My mom is holding the line. We don't know what to do he says. He hands me the phone. Recalling my words is like remembering the first time I held a pencil.
Perhaps I said, "will it hurt me? tell me what to do."
The obvious solution was to cut the line, but I didn't know what of the little metal pieces, round beads, a mini carabiner, could afford to be lost. I called John again. This time I know I said, "please come save the day." His frustration of being woken by this haphazard mini crisis traveled through the wire. "Melissa, I never thought you would be good at this," he said. "Put the eel back in the water so it doesn't die." I wanted the eel to die. But now I was sick. I could feel the motion of the still air. Steam formed around my hairline from the temperature drop in my face and neck and the reflection of my face in the water revealed the gray-green of the fish. "I'm going to vomit. I need you to not tell me I suck at this and come save the day."
Witnessing the moment, an arms length away, torn between interesting events, the eel flopping or mommy melting down, Jake quietly observed.
John urged, "If Jake wants to fish he'll have to learn how to get the eel off the hook. It's not electric, it's just nasty."
Right, I think, could he learn about getting the nasty eel off the hook when someone else is teaching him because right now, I'm out here on the moving dock with the eel flopping on a sharp hook and I might pass out if that slimy eel touches my baby boy.
"Oh..., oh no, I'm definitely going to vomit." I say.
Dimension travel - Fail. Still in a three dimensional situation, unable to teleport to safety, I say, "Jake, you can do this."
Again I hang up. Jake you can do this. I search my words, which are jumbled and missing right now, as I describe how I want him to use the pliers to unlatch the carabiner, but my words come out sounding more like metal... bead... push... tug.
Jake cut the line, the eel sluggishly left the scene with the hook attached and we found my kryptonite.
Still woozy more than 30 minutes later. I hesitate to recount the last two hours. I write about it to sort it out.
The morning began two days ago, purchasing Guy Harvey T-Shirts for spirit day at school. I ventured into a fishing store, left with a $25 fishing pole, some squid for bait, a blue t-shirt with a fish on the back for Jake, and a pink one for Abbey. She wanted yellow, but we bought the two they had.
The story actually begins two years ago. George said he wanted to take them fishing, a strangely delusional request, but probably one intended to linger in my life as a reminder of the lies we tell. I don't know if he had ever been fishing in his life. More likely, he anticipated Jake's need for such a thing. With the Disney fishing rods they got for Easter, they fished in the little lake behind John's house just a month before George's death. He sat in a wheelchair wrapped in a blanket with a hat to keep his warmth in. The wind blew a March breeze through the branches of the live oak by the dock. The bugs swarmed, patience demanded we do something different, and the fishing trip ended.
Since George's death, we live with a dock in our backyard, and Jake asks to fish regularly. So with the new gear and some basic instructions on casting, one evening of practice catching a sting ray with John, Jake and I start our Saturday morning fishing from the dock.
As with all of my adventures, I don't think it through all the way. I figure Jake can cast it and pull it in. He knows how to bait the hook. All I'll have to do is get the hook out and throw the sea life back using the pliers. I saw it done with a sting ray and I didn't freak out.
With smiling anticipation, I find the pliers, the bug spray, a chair, my camera, phone, green tea and incense. Confidence reminds me that Jake visions me a super hero, saving the day, using my powers to twist minds, travel between dimensions and conquer fear. He'll grow up one day and say, my mom makes magic, casts spells, and defeats monsters.
The tidal marsh tempts us to cast half way down the dock. Cutting the frozen squid doesn't make my stomach spin. This pleases Jake. With great caution and attention, he slides the squid on both hooks. A few failed casts cause him to pause and think through the steps. He remembers to let go. He beautifully sends the line into the shallow middle. Soon, too soon, he reels it in, repeat 3 or 4 times. Then he settles and leaves it, leaning the pole on the railing.
After catching a stick and losing a hook, he recasts, landing in the deep reeds of the pluff mud. The weight and hook are stuck. At first we seriously consider Jake adventuring into the crab's domain to untangle the line from the grass. Healthy fear stops Jake. I tug and wiggle the line from this mess. Saving the day - check.
Jake, ready to abandon the bonding, suggests trying just once from the floating dock. Patience and positive energy, I insist. "Baby Jake," I tell him, "we are going to catch something." The dolphins spout agreement as they swim by. Perfection, I assure him. Life doesn't get more pleasant than this. Twisting minds - check.
He casts it for me and invites me to hold the rod. He shows me how to bring the line back a little. He instructs me never to turn the reel the wrong way. He sits on my lap and we wait. Far too quickly, I feel a tug on the line. Twice I reel it in, learning the weight of the line. The third time though, the pull is different. At times I feel the struggle a real contest. Jake wants to try, I hand him the rod. He struggles too, but pulls it in, a gross snake, a heavy, fat, slimy, grayish green sea snake's mouth stuck, bait still on the hook. I feel the swell and drop in my brain as the nerves in my forehead flow and tingle. I focus enough to seek my safe place. I hold the line, trying to gauge the movements of the eel. Jake brings the pliers. I twist and tug, trying to release the hook from his mouth. The dock floats with each passing boat's wake. The eel flops and flails.
Jake calls John, very calmly describes the scene, maybe falsely, but with certainty, declares the eel electric. My mom is holding the line. We don't know what to do he says. He hands me the phone. Recalling my words is like remembering the first time I held a pencil.
Perhaps I said, "will it hurt me? tell me what to do."
The obvious solution was to cut the line, but I didn't know what of the little metal pieces, round beads, a mini carabiner, could afford to be lost. I called John again. This time I know I said, "please come save the day." His frustration of being woken by this haphazard mini crisis traveled through the wire. "Melissa, I never thought you would be good at this," he said. "Put the eel back in the water so it doesn't die." I wanted the eel to die. But now I was sick. I could feel the motion of the still air. Steam formed around my hairline from the temperature drop in my face and neck and the reflection of my face in the water revealed the gray-green of the fish. "I'm going to vomit. I need you to not tell me I suck at this and come save the day."
Witnessing the moment, an arms length away, torn between interesting events, the eel flopping or mommy melting down, Jake quietly observed.
John urged, "If Jake wants to fish he'll have to learn how to get the eel off the hook. It's not electric, it's just nasty."
Right, I think, could he learn about getting the nasty eel off the hook when someone else is teaching him because right now, I'm out here on the moving dock with the eel flopping on a sharp hook and I might pass out if that slimy eel touches my baby boy.
"Oh..., oh no, I'm definitely going to vomit." I say.
Dimension travel - Fail. Still in a three dimensional situation, unable to teleport to safety, I say, "Jake, you can do this."
Again I hang up. Jake you can do this. I search my words, which are jumbled and missing right now, as I describe how I want him to use the pliers to unlatch the carabiner, but my words come out sounding more like metal... bead... push... tug.
Jake cut the line, the eel sluggishly left the scene with the hook attached and we found my kryptonite.
07 September 2010
Biking Day 7 et al
I almost missed my 7th day of biking. I needed achy, stuffy head, fever, chest cough, medicine today but didn't have any. After school I came home, declared every man for himself night, and went to bed (5 pm). Occasionally tossing and turning, I thought about the bike ride I didn't take today. At 9 pm, my sweet babies came in to kiss me goodnight; if I don't ride my bike now, the 30 day challenge ends I told myself. After Jake fell asleep, I drug myself down to the garage, jumped on my faithful cruiser and set out for my starlit spin. First I noticed the smell of the marsh, fresh and cool, not the mucky odor of the hot day. Then I noticed the sky, the reflection on water, and the light on in a lone dining room up the street. The breeze was better than any cold medicine money could buy. I shivered, either from fever or exhilaration. Nevertheless, I rode my bike, watered my banana peppers and remain committed to the challenge.
Last night when we got home from the mountains, Abbey, Jake and I cruised the neighborhood. It felt good to be home. The mountain bike experience this weekend clarified one very important thing for me - I'm a beach cruiser kind of girl. While I am certainly capable of an adventure on the Trek - I am not in shape for it. The two bike rides in the mountains went like this: I stayed in a cabin 2 hundred yards up a 90 degree hill from John's family cabin. I rode my bike down the hill, past John's cabin and back up the other side (in a U shape), then back down and back up the 200 yards to my cabin. My legs hurt, I struggled to breathe through my already belabored lungs (allergies) and I parked the bike next to the porch.
I hope the next 23 days of biking bring a little more distance for me.
Last night when we got home from the mountains, Abbey, Jake and I cruised the neighborhood. It felt good to be home. The mountain bike experience this weekend clarified one very important thing for me - I'm a beach cruiser kind of girl. While I am certainly capable of an adventure on the Trek - I am not in shape for it. The two bike rides in the mountains went like this: I stayed in a cabin 2 hundred yards up a 90 degree hill from John's family cabin. I rode my bike down the hill, past John's cabin and back up the other side (in a U shape), then back down and back up the 200 yards to my cabin. My legs hurt, I struggled to breathe through my already belabored lungs (allergies) and I parked the bike next to the porch.
I hope the next 23 days of biking bring a little more distance for me.
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