Along for the Ride

Patrick is taking us someplace today, but he won’t say where.

So frames my experience of the last twenty-nine years by his side.

He did divulge some details about what to wear (I believe he used the phrase “bundle up”) and I’d like to give my fairly new winter hiking boots some new terrain to cover, so I’m on board. It’s just that wry smile across his lips that gives me pause. I also noticed the winter weather advisory on the app during my morning post-stroll scroll, with that sweet little snowflake icon and “90%” next to it. We’ll see how this goes.

I’m no stranger to such traveling circumstances. As the fourth of five children, I had no say in where we went as a family in one of the many station wagons Dad bought in our lifetime. Families back then weren’t democracies and being near the birth order caboose in our clan, it was a given that I’d share the wagon end of the car with my youngest sister, Jane. We were small enough to fit in the space that remained after the way back (as we called it) was packed with both of our long rectangular coolers, sleeping bags, everyone’s pillows and anything else that could lay flat on top of the pile, including Dad’s fishing rods. If he took a corner too sharply, stuff slid off on top of us and there’d be much hollering and shoving things back up there as best we could while Dad still kept it at a smooth 55 mph. It didn’t help that I was heavily prone to car sickness in those days (and really, if I’m honest, up to the present). Jane was a trooper, I’ll say that.

I remember one trip to Toledo where, from the way back, Jane regaled us all with her six-year-old rendition of “Lydia, the Tattooed Lady”, picked up from one of The Muppet Show episodes she’d watched earlier that week. She belted out the lyrics with enough histrionics to win a full scholarship to Juliard and I couldn’t speak for laughter-soaked tears streaming down my face. It was contagious enough to get us all through what would have been a more tense traffic jam near the turnpike, and to this day, when I noodle around with the words in the privacy of my head, I burst out laughing when I get to the line, “When her muscles start relaxin’/Up the hill comes Andrew Jackson”. I try not to do this in the middle of management meetings at work.

(Weather update: snow is falling sideways in a stiff wind, the front deck has a thin layer getting thicker by the minute. Patrick’s still asleep; he never did say when we’d be leaving.)

In those formative years, I saw slices of the world through the back of a station wagon window, the road slipping beneath the tires and familiar landmarks blurring into other people’s back yards, cows that never moved and farms whose hulking red barns held enough secrets to set off any young one’s imagination. On one income, my parents somehow pulled together the resources to give us all a rich archive of summer memories spent at Marble Lake in Quincy, Michigan. One year, we ventured away from the cottage to tour the Kellogg’s factory in Battle Creek, each of us leaving sporting a paper Tony the Tiger hat and clutching our very own souvenir eight-pack of those single-serving boxes with the perforated fronts so you could pop them open, pour on the milk and eat right from the container. I saved the Frosted Flakes for last.

For most of my youth and young adult life, those bouts of carsickness were troubling enough to keep me from yearning for the open road until well after I’d obtained my own driver’s license at age 22. Sitting in that command seat behind the wheel, I felt a lot less queasy and eventually, the years and miles piled up until I graduated to air travel in the late ‘80’s (Dramamine on board), my first flight chaperoning a group of high school students to Spain during spring break. Three and a half months later, I’d head to Nicaragua with a Witness for Peace delegation to document the war, bumping through the jungle in a bus with a windshield cracked by bullets. As we made our way north from Managua to the Honduran border, I fixed my hungry gaze on the lush landscape and lost count of how many shades of green there were, wondering what violent secrets were hidden beneath the thick leaves on the branches. In the distance of my memory, I could hear Jane singing the last chorus of “Lydia”. How did I get here?

It’s a good question to ask now and then, dear readers, to take a moment and look over our shoulders at the miles behind us. Destinations known or unknown, we’ve been places, seen things and carried home treasured bits of the places our feet touched, different and perhaps better for the experience. Whether we got there under our own steam or someone mysteriously crooked their finger at us and we obeyed, we took the risk, left behind the familiar and trusted we’d arrive somewhere, surprised, delighted or at least educated.

Weather update: Patrick’s awake. After taking a look out the living room window at the blur of white coming down fast and blowing in all directions, he’s postponed today’s adventure. “It’ll still be there”, he said, smiling wryly.

Twenty-nine years later, I still trust him. Rightly so.

Distracted

I began by day last Wednesday with my leggings on backwards.

I moved through most of my morning routine registering something was amiss but not able to pinpoint exactly what until one last pitstop in the bathroom before heading to work sorted it out. I was only mildly concerned about the morning commute. Even so, I double-checked side and rearview mirrors, backed down the driveway a bit more carefully than usual and eighteen miles later, pulled into the parking lot intact and smiling wryly. Humans. Aren’t we funny? No raccoon ever put its bandit mask on upside down before tackling its furry to-do list for the day.

Looking back on that morning moment, I wondered what else had captured my attention so fully that my own physical architecture didn’t cry out for a serious recalibration of the clothes it was wearing. I’m not the flighty type; there are certain steps to my morning agenda that happen in precise order (out of necessity) and keep me moving forward. By contrast, Patrick’s “out the door” practice is a masterful and thoroughly entertaining example of organized chaos held together by a consistent element of surprise. He’s Dagwood Bumpstead and a German train schedule combined. I leave him to it, standing at a safe distance, leaning in only for the farewell morning kiss before he takes all that energy and puts it behind the wheel. Add kittens begging for breakfast to the mix, turn up the sound and enjoy (and you wonder why I enjoy the solitude of my morning walks so much…).

The human brain is a marvelous tool and wonder. Though researchers differ on the precise amount, they say we are on the receiving end of more than 34 gigabytes of information each day, give or take a few bytes. This nonstop train of data barrels at us continuously until we get some sleep and then it slows a bit, but don’t we have weird dreams some nights? Leftovers, no doubt, from the info buffet where we pulled up a chair and parked for a good seven to twelve hours that bubble up into some sort of surreal cranial soup involving the face of the person we saw in line at the bank singing the wrong lyrics to “Purple Haze”, kittens mewling at his feed for food (wait—that last part might be real). There’s not enough space nor time here to do this subject justice so I shall encourage you to check out the research on your own. And until a team of scientists takes a much deeper look into my own cerebral functionality, I’m pretty much on my own to figure it out. All I know is that I face each day with endless choices and the wistful regret that I can’t select them all. Is that an aging thing, where I watch the pile of birthdays behind me grow larger and the potential ones on the horizon thin out like the last hairs on a balding head? Perhaps, and most days I can accept that. But I’m also driven by an insatiable curiosity that wants to know, to learn, to experience what crosses my life’s path. It’s as exhilarating as it is disappointing, and walking that line with grace requires effort.

Speaking of walking, I took this data overload research out to the fields this morning and wondered what would happen to my brain’s processing if I closed my eyes for a short section of the path that leads to the northern mouth of the meadow, cutting off the pipeline of visual information that surrounds me with its heartbreaking beauty every time I immerse myself in it. The ground was rock-hard, knotted with molehills and dotted with those ankle-turning black walnuts from a generous stand of trees nearby; I knew what the risks were as I tightened my grip on the two walking sticks I use. From the main diagonal path that connects the fields to that northern opening to the meadow, I slowed my steps and with eyes closed, imagined the place where I make that gentle right turn, remembering the three smaller walnut saplings that frame the entrance. I cleared them with a few inches to spare, not having to use my sticks as extended arms to feel my way through to the place where the path straightened and then hugs the curve of creek too closely for closed-eye walking experiments (I’m curious but not foolish).

I doubt my other senses stepped up to the plate with gusto during those ninety seconds, but it was an eye-opening realization that I can slow down the steady flow of information and focus a bit more closely on what’s in front of me. Sure, the stuff that hollers the loudest with its vivid colors and urgency will always get my attention in a head-snap sort of way, but don’t I control my scrolling time? Aren’t I in charge of what I read, what I listen to, what I watch on Netflix? Life is the Grand Distraction to end all and I’m in it for the long haul (I hope, and so far, so good). Whatever I miss, someone else will pick up and play with, I’m sure.

As long as my pants are on the right way ‘round, I’ll be fine.

Soup is Life

Patrick roasted a 24-pound turkey last Sunday (a Kroger substitution for the 11lb one we originally ordered) and…I think you know where this is going.

While we ate the inaugural dinner of tender breast slices and meaty legs accompanied by mashed potatoes and salad, the bones and roasting pan vegetables were bubbling into broth on the stove (he managed to put up six quarts, now bagged and resting in flat stacks in the freezer). We chatted casually about what else we might do with the remaining 23 pounds. The gravy he made was sublime and plentiful, so that became the base for a turkey and vegetable melange poured over baked potatoes Monday night, and pasta Tuesday night (ask me what I had for lunch at work Monday and Tuesday).

I chunked up a hefty portion of white meat and made turkey salad (let me just say, when you add some mayonnaise, a dollop or two of plain Greek yogurt, thinly sliced red onions, a spoonful of horseradish and a few shots of cayenne sauce, that’s pretty darn good sammich filling) and eyed a full container of dark meat sitting on the bottom shelf in the fridge with a measure of poultry fatigue. Wednesday’s meals were a blur of turkey swimming in something poured over something else, with a salad’s bright greens doing their best to liven up the monotony. I got good news on Thursday and decided to celebrate with a cauliflower pizza. Patrick good-naturedly muscled through the last of the turkey vegetable potpie.

Just curious—how much tryptophan is too much tryptophan? I’ve felt uncharacteristically mellow and relaxed all week.

When I got up yesterday, I made good on plans to try a new cranberry orange pecan granola (turned out a winner and will join the sellable lineup at the farmer’s market when we resume in February) and found a recipe for vegan lemony red lentil soup while scrolling through my morning breakfast. We had most of the ingredients on hand, so I dove in as the granola was cooling. If you’ve ever made soup, you know about the importance of layering the flavors. It’s not simply a “dump it all in the pot and hope for the best” proposition (just last Friday, someone gifted me with the wisdom, “hope is not a plan”, and I’m sharing that with everyone I know. You’re welcome). Onions and celery, maybe some diced carrots, sauteed in oil until transparent and slightly soft, fill the house with a lovely aroma and promise until it’s time to put the other elements in with the right amount of stock. I was obedient to the recipe until it came to the broth and that’s where it went off the rails. Not in a bad way, mind you, but more in a creative and unfolding sort of way. You know, like life.

While the red lentils and diced potatoes were coming to a gentle simmer (I even peeled the potatoes), I zested and juiced three plump lemons and cut up the last of the turkey, crouching down and reaching all the way into the back of the bottom shelf in case any of it had tried to hide. The crowning glory would be a heaping bowlful of rough-chopped kale to add just before taking it off the heat and pouring in the lemon juice, giving it a stir and serving. An hour later, I had four quarts cooling in mason jars on the counter, lids resting like derby hats while the soup’s escaping steam rose lazily into the warm kitchen air. All I really wanted to make was granola and now we have soup for the week. I expect some will find its way to the freezer and we’ll be glad of it when neither of us really wants to cook dinner on a snowy weeknight in February. When it’s just the two of you and Kroger practically gives you thirteen more pounds of turkey than you originally planned for, you do your best not to waste it. I feel like a champion at the end of a marathon, and the fridge looks lighter than it did a week ago.

I understand the importance of disaster preparedness (we have “go-kits” in our cars and know two ways out of most rooms in our house should the need arise), but I’m not sure we’re as equipped to cope with abundance when it presents itself. Creativity is the common thread in both situations, but I think we lean toward expecting the worst instead of the best. When a good amount of good stuff does come around, it’s like quenching our thirst by drinking from a firehose. That’ll take your lips clean off if you’re not careful. After a week of nonstop turkey transformations, I’m more inclined to rethink my preparedness mindset toward the positive. Am I ready for when we’ve got this pandemic under control? What would I really do if we won the lottery? Suppose we receive enough viable volunteer applications to meet and exceed our hospice patients’ needs? Remember, hope is not a plan.

I’m gonna give this some serious thought…over a bowl of lemony turkey kale red lentil soup.

Mending

I’ve had the little glazed ceramic trinket box for years. I bought it from the Hartville Hardware store as Jackie and I browsed the home decor aisles while our husbands wandered through the actual hardware section of the six-acre store. The box caught my eye with its sweet little bird perched atop the oval lid, its flat tail upright and perky. I was sure I’d have a few trinkets back home still homeless, in need of a decorative hiding place like this. Sometime last year, the finial bird’s tail broke (cats: why we can’t have nice things). I tucked the piece inside the box with a vow to glue it back on Later.

Last year also saw the shattering demise of two vintage 7-Up water glasses, one of our unbreakable Corelle cereal bowls, a rust-glazed vase made by Patrick’s aunt Ann, the lid to our Q-tips holder in the medicine cabinet, a brandy snifter we kept on top of the fridge with an unmatched collection of shot glasses, a ceramic ice cream bowl with a fish painted on the inside (the fish had legs, which was the feature that caught our eye, Patrick’s nickname being Running Fish. Long story. Will tell it Later) and a large hand painted planter from Italy that I plucked from a pile of discarded belongings left behind by a migrant family in Fostoria, Ohio back in the late ‘60’s (knocked over by two of the cats during a pre-dinner hangry chase through the living room).

Some pieces were beyond repair, swept carefully into the dustbin and moved onto that place where broken things go, but I held onto the ice cream bowl, Q-tips holder lid (the entire holder a gift from our late friend, Jeannie), Aunt Ann’s vase, the planter from Italy and the bird-adorned box, promising to set aside time on a breezy summer afternoon to restore them to partially functioning glory. Summer came and went, so did fall and here we are, standing on the fresh edge of a new winter, a new calendar year, broken shards still sitting on the hutch in my studio where the glue lives. I’m not a big new year’s resolution person but in a flush of impulsive inspiration, decided to begin the next twelve months by putting the tail back on the bird. It felt portentous, prophetic and productive. Next up, the ice cream bowl. It won’t be able to hold food again, but with adhesive carefully dabbed in all the right places, I’ve just doubled my options for corralling other stray trinkets. From their place on the hutch, the remaining broken items rustled hopefully; their turn would come.

At our hospice’s annual kids’ grief camp (on pandemic hold for the past two years), we take them on a “grief hike” to explore the different emotional aspects of coping with loss: sadness, anxiety, anger and healing. When they get to “worried woods”, they sift through a large wading pool filled with sand in which we bury colorful little ceramic hearts. They get to keep the one they find, a portable symbol of their courage for the days ahead. One year, a young camper was running back to the main building after the hike and dropped her courage heart on the concrete walkway where it split in half. Tears welling up in her eyes, she approached the camp chaplain, showed him the pieces and asked (as only a child could do), “Can you fix my broken heart?” He said he’d try and took her five-year-old trust home with him, the rough-edged heart pieces in his pocket. When he found her at camp the next morning, he gave her back the heart, now repaired with a thick line of dried adhesive running along the break line. “I couldn’t fix your broken heart”, he told her, “but I mended it. What do you think?” Her smile wide and grateful, she tucked the heart in her pocket and promised to take good care of it.

The past year left a lot of us in pieces, broken bits and large chunks of our hearts and lives scattered on the shifting floor beneath our feet. We salvaged what we could and swept the rest into the day’s trash, learning the harsh lesson of letting go over and over until it was part of our skin. Whatever we decided to hold onto, whatever might be fixable, still waits patiently for the right adhesive to put it back together. My money is on love, forgiveness, grace and humor. Those are my words for the year ahead and the promises I make to my heart with its mended places still healing, still holding fast to whatever repair work I’ve done. When I struggle with anxiety about what’s to come, I lean heavily on the salvific glue of the present moment to fill in any cracks where worry might seep through. So far, it’s working.

When I woke up this morning to check on the pieces I’d repaired, the ice cream bowl was still holding together, and the bird’s tail was pointing upward again. I’ve cleared a space on the studio worktable for the vase, the planter and the Q-tip lid.

One piece at a time.