#becarefulwhatyouprayfor

The summer, for me, officially began on June 8, with the arrival of our first guest. I called Kate our “intern.” Unfortunately, however, she was not actually my intern (though I’ve often thought that I could use one), but rather the daughter of a friend, interning for the summer at a Washington, D.C., publication. The two-hour commute from our house to the D.C. office where she worked was apparently offset by the joys of spending her free hours (which were not many) with our family. On our part, it was easy to agree to her spending the summer in our guest room. We’ve known her family for years, and Johanna has spent more time at their house than you can shake a stick at (though why you would want to, I have no idea). If there is anyone to whom we owe room and board, it is a member of that family. Plus, the logistics junkie in me got a thrill out of figuring out possible routes for her to take to work. Unfortunately, after the first few days, she was fine on her own.
Jacob arrived next. A friend of Luc’s from home (yes, I still think of Cincinnati as home), he came to hang out for a week. In a burst of planning genius, I signed up the boys to help at Vacation Bible School, which meant they had to arise at 7 each morning. That didn’t convince them to go to bed early, but it did keep them from staying up all night. The day after Jacob’s family came to pick him up, we left for Michigan. After a week cluttering up someone else’s house, we picked up our next guests, a teenaged brother and sister from France who were going to spend three weeks with us, practicing their English. Again, we were eager to host Gaspard and Celeste; from almost the moment we set foot on American soil, Johanna had been fretting that she would lose her French. So when a man from church suggested that we connect with his friend in France and work out an exchange, it seemed like an answer to prayer (someone’s prayers, anyway). We sent Luc off to Indiana (forever his consolation prize for missing out on the international trips -- it’s a good thing someone in the family is a good sport). That left us with five teenagers and two adults, which wasn’t great odds, but we had almost all the car keys.
We were driving the gang to Pizza Palace when Eric saw the email from one of our pastors. It was addressed to all Towson residents in the church, and sought accommodations for two university students from Iran who needed a place to stay. Although we live only a mile from Towson University, we decided not to respond to the email right away. Our house was already pretty full, the length of stay by the students was indeterminate, and we only have two showers, which are kept fairly busy by even our own family of five. We told ourselves that someone else probably had a better setup. After a week during which visions of our large finished basement kept popping unbidden into my mind, we sent a tentative email, merely inquiring whether suitable housing had been found. No. Did we have an idea? Well, not really an idea, but a basement . . . . Within a week, the basement was a dorm room. 
The day that Parham and Ali moved in, Drew, Jo, Gaspard, and Celeste left for France. Luc had returned a few days earlier, which gave us two masters-degree students from Iran, one college student from Ohio, our own son, and us. In the quiet of the house with four of the teens gone, I appreciated having Ali and Parham around. They weren’t exactly boisterous, but it was nice to run into them in the kitchen, where they prepared chicken and rice about four times a day. I was impressed with their cooking -- and eating -- skills.
Three weeks later, Ali moved into an apartment, Kate returned to Cincinnati, and Drew and Johanna came home. I think we are now stable for a while at three teens, two parents, and one graduate student. I have been able to use the fact that I’m teaching a few classes this semester as an excuse to sign everyone up to cook a meal each week. We have been eating meals I never would have thought of on my own. Last week, we had shrimp, crab, and pineapple kebabs on Monday (Lucas), potato blinis and sweet crepes on Tuesday (Jo), and a Persian beef and celery stew on Wednesday (Parham). Drew plans to cook mac and cheese tomorrow, which I rubber-stamped because Eric is in New York and I have a dinner meeting. 

And to think that my biggest complaint as I started the summer was loneliness.

The Lake Swim

        Possibly one of the worst sensations I have ever sensed is the sensation of pulling on a wet bathing suit. The sensation is worse if it has to happen right after one rolls out of a warm bed. It is possibly worst of all if the reason for the wet-bathing-suit-in-the-morning sensation is that one is preparing for a swim in a lake. A long swim in a cold lake. The length and temperature of the swim are, of course, a matter of perception. I am no Lynne Cox, swimming the 30-plus miles across the English Channel or the 43-degree waters of the Bering Strait. For your average 43-year old mom, however, what I was planning seemed like more than enough.

The official Douglas Lake Swim is about 2.3 miles, across the narrowest part of the lake from Case’s Point in the South to the big white house on the North side of the lake. This is the official swim because in days gone by Case’s Point housed a camp, and the campers would swim over to the big white house for pancakes. I have recently begun wondering how they returned to camp, but that’s not really germane here. The official swim can also be done from North to South, depending on the wind, but from that direction, it lacks the caché of historical precedent.

I had done the swim twice before, both more than 20 years ago in my pre-married, pre-mom days. I don’t remember the swims in detail, but I do remember that it seemed like a huge accomplishment and required a good deal of buildup. I practiced swimming a mile in the lake each day, I did core workouts, I “bulked up” by eating extra calories the day before the planned swim. This time, the swim came as a bit of a surprise. I think it started with the arrival of my cousin Brad, who had been with me on my second lake swim and then completed a second one of his own with my sister, Cate, a few years later. My son Drew is an excellent swimmer, so he decided that, since we had a quorum of previous swimmers on the island (Cate was there, too), we needed to repeat the swim, with him there to beat all of our times and set the lake swim speed record. That last part wasn’t going to be difficult, as none of us remembered how long the swim had taken us. I guessed a couple of hours, taking into account the waves, natural swimmer drift off course, and stops for snacks. Brad guessed 45 minutes, taking into account the fact that when he had last done the swim, he had been a competitive swimmer and could have done it in that time. 

I was not as enchanted with the idea as Drew was. In fact, none of the previous members of the Pells Island Swim Team were really up for the feat. Cate bowed out immediately, then went for a run to prove that physical fitness wasn’t the issue. Brad said he’d think about it. I, in the name of supportive motherhood, said I was in, but only if the day wasn’t windy. Johanna said she would try, but after swimming to the point of the island with her, I vetoed her participation. She has the worst internal compass I have ever seen; I was trying to swim next to her to keep her headed in the right direction, and she ran into me about 17 times. I had visions of her veering east and ending up at the University of Michigan Biological Station in South Fishtail Bay. Her running fitness is no help, either, because it has made her a compact package of muscle that’s apt to sink to the bottom like a stone. So in the end, the boat held me, Drew, Brad (who had slept well and figured why not), and our 17-year-old French exchange student, who didn’t expect to complete the swim, but thought it would be fun to join us for the beginning. My dad was the driver. I threw some water bottles and snacks in the boat, unsure whether we’d need some sustenance on the way. The lake was calm, and the day was as warm as it had been all week, though not as sunny as we might have wished. When we jumped in at Case’s Point, the water set my teeth on edge. Record snowfalls and a late spring meant that the lake was cooler than normal. We adjusted our goggles, dunked under the water, and set off. The time was 10:02 a.m.

Brad offered to swim “cleanup” for the first 15 minutes, keeping an eye on the other swimmers to make sure we were all still afloat. My dad putted off in the boat, leading us on what we hoped was a straight course for the opposite shore. After the first 15 minutes, our French friend decided that he had had enough fun for the day and joined my dad in the boat. Drew switched to clean-up duty. Eric and my mom joined us in the big green boat, armed with cameras to document the event and more towels in case any hypothermic swimmers needed to exit the lake and warm up. After my cleanup turn, we decided that with two boats, we could just all look out for ourselves. Brad is an ex-competitive swimmer and lifeguard. Drew is a current lifeguard, and I -- though I failed my high school lifesaving class -- am in pretty good shape for an old person.

It was at this point, about halfway across the lake, that I started to feel really happy. Water, especially lake water, has always been my most natural element. It feels safe and comfortable, like a benediction. I lined myself up with the boat and settled into a steady crawl. I run for exercise much more than I swim. I like to be a runner. I like the feeling of having run. But swimming, I love. In a lake, with no lane dividers, no walls, no chorine, I felt like I could swim forever. Of course, the disadvantage of a lake is that it’s a little harder to tell where you are going. I found myself wishing that there was a way to maintain the natural beauty of the lake while still painting lane lines on the bottom. Glowing ones that I could see through all the murk and seaweed. Failing that, I had to switch to breast stroke every few minutes to make sure that I was still headed toward the white house. 

It was also about at this point that our swim team started to spread out. Drew, with the fitness of a 17-year-old, pulled ahead. I called to him to wait for us, but he was deep into the zone. Eric and my mom went with him in the green boat. Brad decided that he wanted to float for a while, and enjoy the scenery. My dad said he’d stay with him. I took off after Drew and the green boat, but couldn’t catch them. Drew ended up finishing in around an hour (we weren’t sure, since the official timepiece was in the boat with my dad). Given that Brad finished in 1:08, I am awarding myself a time of 1:03. I have no idea if this is any kind of PR for me, but I will assume -- for the sake of my ego -- that it is.

What did strike me is that this swim felt much easier than I remember from the previous two times. I wasn’t quite ready to turn around and do it the other way, but I didn’t want to spend the rest of the day in bed, either. I can’t decide whether this is good or bad. On the one hand, maybe it means that, at 43, I am fitter than I was at 20. That must be a good thing. On the other hand, there is something a little sad about finding that one of my mountains isn’t as big as I thought it was. Or maybe the takeaway is that as we grow, so should our goals. Chesapeake Bay anyone?

Why Video Games are an Art - Lucas Admiraal

             Hello Everybody! A while back my brother had posted an article on this blog, and since then, ideas for a post have been stewing around in my brain. So when I made this video, I thought of posting the link here. It's too big of a file to post on this blog, so apologies for any inconvenience. If you disagree or don't understand, feel free to shoot me an email. lucasadmiraal@gmail.com. Enjoy :)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rEC6ViOmkbQ

Thoughts From a Red Thumb

Lucas and I learned this year that, on the color wheel, the opposite of green is red. I have therefore reached the conclusion that when it comes to gardening, I have a red thumb. The bean plants in my vegetable garden are half the size of those in my neighbor’s yard -- and I had the advantage of starting them in a greenhouse. See also Exhibit B, below. This was the beautiful hanging basket that Eric bought for Mother’s Day. Give me a week with a plant, and this is what happens.

It used to be a trailing vinca. Maybe it will be again . . . 

       Despite the fact that my calling may not be a horticultural one, I have been enjoying the yard and garden this spring. With Luc's help, I planted a variety of vegetable seeds in the greenhouse (which came with the house in lieu of a garage). We moved the plants outside when the weather became warm enough, and I love weeding, watering, and waiting for things to grow (even if they seem a little slow to me). When I saw, last Tuesday, that some wild creature had been breakfasting on my already undersized bean plants, I cancelled all my morning's plans in favor of a trip to Lowe's for stakes and netting to keep the critter out. That meant that I actually failed to clean one of our bathrooms this week, which is a major deal in my life, because I had written "clean bathroom" in my planner. Clearly, the garden is a priority. 
       I have been learning a lot about gardening. This week, for example, I learned that I had already waited almost too long to prune our azalea bushes, which are numerous and uncontrolled. I have already invested hours clipping (sometimes hacking -- these things are probably 50 years old, and who knows when they were pruned last). I'm only about halfway done. It turns out that inside almost every living bush, there's a dead one. At least no one can say I killed them, as they were already dead when I arrived. Gardening's lessons go beyond the practical, though. The fact that Jesus used gardening in several parables makes perfect sense to me; I'm sure there is a life lesson in the dead azalea -- ideas, anyone? One can ponder the spiritual and psychological applications of such gardening experiences as the persistence of weeds, the fact that a flower in one spot may be a weed elsewhere, and the miracle of an enormous tomato plant coming from a tiny seed. I have had ample time to ponder such things while battling azaleas and digging up dandelions.
      This week, partly due to the fact that I moved some of the last plants out of the greenhouse, my thoughts have turned to transplanting. The term "hothouse flower" kept coming to mind. The online Urban Dictionary defines a hothouse flower as "a flower than isn't hardy enough to grow under natural conditions. It has to be pampered and grown in a greenhouse or hothouse. In regard to people it's used to describe someone who needs pampering or special conditions." The man who built our greenhouse, we are told, raised orchids, which one could definitely classify as hothouse flowers. They are beautiful, but need special care. My vegetables, for the most part, are not of the hothouse variety. If I left them in the greenhouse, I think they might die. There isn't enough soil for them to grow deep roots, and the lack of wind, rain, or cool temperatures mean they aren't becoming strong. For them to grow, I had to move them.
      So first, that made me think of my kids. I have a tendency to want to monitor and control every aspect of their lives, like I can when the plants are in the greenhouse. But just like the plants need to be moved -- and even to have some adverse experiences -- to mature, so do my kids. I noticed, though, that when I transplanted the seedlings, some did better than others. The picture below shows the parsley, basil, and stevia after their move to bigger pots.
      

It's a little difficult to see, but the stevia is wilting. The move was clearly a shock to its system.

      That stevia plant reminded me of myself. Change, may be necessary, but it isn't always easy. I have often, in the past months, felt like that little plant, gasping from the shock of being bounced from place to place. A couple of months ago, while the stevia was a tiny seed in the greenhouse, I rediscovered the Gerard Manley Hopkins poem that begins, "Thou art indeed just Lord, if I contend with thee," in which the author acknowledges that God is good, but wonders why it doesn't always seem that way from our perspective. The last line haunted me for weeks and became my prayer: "Mine, o thou lord of life, send my roots rain."

Three days later.

      It worked for the stevia.

Running in America

         

The Towson High School tent -- site of much socializing.

          For cheap entertainment, it’s difficult to beat a track meet. For the low price of $5 (around here, anyway), a person can be entertained for four, five, even up to eight hours if it’s a championship (more with rain delays!). That averages out to less than a dollar an hour, usually. What else can you do for that price? Of course, for people who may be at the meet solely to see their own children perform, that cost/benefit ratio goes down. I always figured that I have it pretty good, since Jo runs distance events. The 3200 meter, a 4 x 800 relay, plus the open 800 puts me at a good 17 - 18 minutes of viewing time -- more if I care about the other members of her relay team. That’s about 28 cents a minute, which is more expensive than a movie, but less than a trip up the Empire State Building. The parents of sprinters really have it rough. Imagine that your kid runs the 100, the 200 and the 400. That’s likely less than 2 minutes, which makes each minute cost $2.50. To make the experience cost-effective, you’d best enjoy it all.

Some of the crowd at the track meet Saturday.

There’s plenty to enjoy, and the variety is stunning. Kids jump, hurl, run, hurdle, vault. There’s drama -- will today be the day that he breaks the school mile record? Will she beat her arch-rival in the battle to the finish? There’s tragedy -- the hurdler who trips and crashes to the ground on the final jump, the sprinter who misses his last chance to PR in the 200 meter dash. There’s comedy, too, especially in the relays. Johanna tells me that at Towson High School, the track team NEVER practices baton handoffs. This fact could not be more obvious. In one 4 x 800, I saw Johanna fail to let go of the baton when the next runner grabbed it, sending the girl careering into the field, That runner got her revenge by stepping on the foot of the girl to whom she handed off. Then there was the poor boy whose baton slipped like a wet fish out of his sweaty hands -- right in front of the stands. I'm not sure whether the runner who was disqualified for refusing to remove her nose ring counts as comedy, or tragedy. It was certainly drama. 
       When our friends from Switzerland visited, we took them to a track meet. They were fascinated and impressed.

“And they say all American kids do is watch TV!” one exclaimed.

Waiting for the race.

Jo and Luc both ran track in Geneva, although there they called it athletisme -- which I guess would have been a more obvious name to us had we known that in England, track and field is “athletics.” In Geneva, kids found their own way to meets -- with parents or on the bus. Athletes were responsible for checking themselves in. If a runner forgot to check the right box and sign in with the official, too bad. No race for him that day. Coaches sometimes greeted kids as they arrived at the meet, but interaction was minimal. Like so much else in Geneva, running was largely an “on your own” endeavor. I watched Johanna win a 1000 meter run right in front of her coach. I don’t think the woman even said “good job.” I agree 100 percent that we Americans are over the top with praise, cheering our kids on for obeying the law of gravity as they go down the playground slide. Surely, though, there is a middle ground. I don’t think a little, “bonne course, Johanna,” would have gone to her head.

Despite the cheering crowds and doting parents in America, runners remain a fairly humble group of athletes. Towson High School has tried to aid in the effort to promote humility with the Great Uniform Drought of 2014. Simply put, we have more athletes than outfits. Usually, not all runners compete in the same meet, so the problem can be solved by turing in the uniforms after each meet, then redistributing. Sometimes, even that has failed and kids have to share at the same meet. Before each event, athletes are scrambling to find someone from whom to borrow a top or scrounging for a pair of shorts that fits. It’s bad enough to have to wear a shirt drenched with someone else’s sweat, but at one meet, the top male runner had to race in girls’ shorts that were so tight they looked painted on. It doesn’t matter how fast you run, honey, you still don’t get your own pants. 

American track meets are more social than Swiss ones, too.  Or maybe it just seems that way because I know the language. A person can come to know her fellow track parents pretty well after hours in the hot (or maybe icy) bleachers. For the kids, I think the actual competition is incidental to hang-out time under the team tent or on the bus. Ah, the bus. Before this year, we had only done sports at private schools or on club teams. There, while socializing during events is still easier than in Europe, parents still have to transport their own children. But with the start of our family’s public-school adventure, we were introduced to the wonderful invention of the Team Bus. This blessed vehicle means that only the kids, coaches, and one poor bus driver (who is, after all, paid for this) have to wake up at the crack of dawn and arrive at the meet hours before anything interesting happens. I can pay my $5 and mosey on in five minutes before the action begins. Of course, for me, that means 20 minutes before the action begins, since I have a constitutional earliness disorder, but it still beats the alternative.

As I type this, I am sitting in the car in the parking lot of Pikesville High School, waiting out a thunder-delay at the Baltimore County Track Championships. This situation brings into focus one of the major disadvantages of track as a sport: In the spring, anyway, it takes place outdoors. That means that a spectator (not to mention the athletes) might well be frozen, drenched, and sunburned all within the course of a season. Additionally, one rumble of thunder means that everyone has to go inside for at least 20 minutes. If anyone thinks that getting hundreds of athletes, officials, and spectators back on a field after a rain delay is a quick process, think again. But my cost-per-minute is dropping every time the clock ticks.

They finished the race right before the thunder started.

The AFSBCVFFE

           Since we are world travelers and glamorous vacations hold no allure for us, we decided to spend Spring Break enjoying the relaxing sun and sand of Southern Ohio and Northern Indiana. (For my friends unfamiliar with U.S. geography, this sentence is pure irony.) Actually, a combination of a need to start SOMEWHERE with college hunting, coupled with a desire to see people we had known for longer than a few months, spurred us to embark upon the Admiraal Family Spring Break College Visit Friends and Family Extravaganza (AFSBCVFFE). Portions of the schedule are included (is there some kind of career where I can receive a paycheck for being bossy and typing up snarky schedules for people?).

Saturday, April 12 Leave at 8 a.m.

Drive to Cincinnati. We will stay with Uncle Jeff and Aunt Nancy, 

except for those children who wish to work out their own sleeping

                                      arrangements with friends or local homeless shelters. Let me know if         

you need assistance in this endeavor.

Of course, being pathologically early, we left at about 7:50 a.m. This drives Johanna crazy, but she should know what to expect by now. The decisions about what colleges to visit was made by the scientific process of looking for schools close to Cincinnati or Indianapolis that both Drew and the parents could live with. The 8-hour drive from Towson to Cincinnati went surprisingly quickly, helped along by an extra driver (Drew), Hercule Poirot on CD, some preemptive homework, and several naps. Upon arrival in town, we depositing Kid 2 at her home away from home on Weavers Lane, and the rest of us enjoyed dinner with Eric’s cousin’s family, whom we affectionately call “the other Admiraals,” and whom we have known long enough and well enough to use kind of like a hotel. As guilty as I felt about this imposition, I do have to say that there is nothing like a hotel staffed by some of your favorite people, who are family members, no less.

Sunday, April 13 10:30 a.m. Primitive Baptist Church. Again, if you want to work out your 

                               own transportation to another church, knock yourself out. Just remember      
                                  that you also need someone to feed you, as you will miss the best lunch in
                                  town. You will also miss the West Cincinnati Foursquare Playoffs.

                             2:30 p.m. return to Aunt Nancy’s; meet Jacob. Karin will drop Eric and Drew 

                             at Nisbet Park and then drop Jacob and Lucas at the Chumleys. Because she 
                             is a nice wife/mom, she will also return to Nisbet Park to pick up the boys.

                             6:30 p.m. Eric and Karin -- Dinner with Journeys

Drew -- If you don’t find something better to do, the grownups would  
                        love to have you join us! We’re not boring at all. Not even a little bit.

I had the chance to walk on the bike trail at Nisbet Park while I waited for Eric and Drew to finish their 8-mile run. It’s a place laden with memories for us -- bike rides to the Hawaiian Ice shack, dinner at the Works restaurant, SMAC cross country practices, picnics listening to bands (and once watching a belly dancing troupe perform). The PLC started to set in with a vengeance (see earlier post “Moi Quand Je Pleure”).

In case you are curious, Drew found something more interesting to do than eat with the grownups. I think it involved basketball.

Monday, April 14 7 a.m. Karin runs with Tricia

                              10 a.m. Visit Xavier University (Schott Hall, 1496 Dana Ave,

                              Cincinnati). This is a 45-minute informational presentation and a

                 1-hour walking tour of the campus.

I was not surprised that Drew liked Xavier, which feels like a big-city campus, and where he received a free t-shirt and we all got cookies as part of the campus tour given by a bouncy sophomore who seemed to know everyone on campus. I was, however,  surprised how much I liked the school. They are very serious about being Jesuit, which as far as I could tell, involves education and service. I also liked the cookies.

                                3:30 p.m. (ish) leave for Cedarville. Drew and Johanna will spend the

                                 night on uncomfortable floors in drafty, or possibly overheated, dorm

                                rooms where loud music will keep them awake until the wee hours.

                                The rest of us will enjoy the luxury accommodations Chez Admiraal

                                and return in the morning for the tour.

Leaving for Cedarville was delayed by the untimely escape of the Patricks’ dog when we picked Johanna up at their house. Fortunately, a family member with the electric zapper to the dog’s collar arrived, and we merely benefitted from a little extra exercise chasing the dog all over the neighborhood. 

Cedarville is definitely not a big city college. It has cornfields on three sides and a cemetery on the fourth. Eric and I ended up staying in town as well, at the Hearthstone Inn, the only overnight accommodations available. Fortunately, the Inn is very nice, with large, clean rooms and Bible verses on the walls. I think we scandalized the proprietress by asking where we could get a glass of wine. Cedarville, as it turns out, is a dry town. She sent us to Yellow Springs, a nearby town home to Antioch College of Vietnam protest fame. Our waitress was so tattooed that she reminded me of Mystique from X-men. She was very sweet, though, and the food was outstanding.

                              Tuesday, April 15 9 - 4 p.m. Visit Cedarville. 

Drew and Johanna indeed had not slept much (welcome to dorm life), and the weather had turned bitterly cold. We had to scrape the snow off the car to drive the mile or so to campus from the Inn. These were not the most auspicious conditions for a campus visit. Nevertheless, Cedarville did by far the best job of making us feel welcome, with a personal admissions counsellor, free meal tickets for all, and the opportunity to meet professors. The running coach met with the kids and Eric while I watched the de rigeur informational presentation (45-minute commercial). Cedarville, as a friend said, feels like a four-year youth group meeting with some good academics thrown in. I liked it a lot. It looks like a place where student could combine a good education with very clear aids to spiritual growth, and meet some fine friends into the bargain. Drew was less excited (I think it was the cornfields). Johanna said that if her friends went there, she would, too. This is her college search plan, and she’s sticking to it.

                        Wed., April 16 Relax at the Stepping Stones

We were very ready for this day of rest at my parents’ farm in Indiana. They fed us, took us on a walk by the creek to see the spring flowers, and let us sleep a lot.

                        Thursday, April 17 Noonish, leave for Butler. Tour and information session is 2 - 4 p.m.

                                                    Spend the night with Hodges.

Butler, in Indianapolis, is another smallish school in a largish city. It has a very different feel from Xavier though, with a campus of close to 300 acres and a Greek system. Since the school’s 2010 trip to basketball’s NCAA finals, applications have trebled, and the informational presentation was much more about how to get into Butler than about why one might want to go there (doesn’t everyone want to come here?). The campus was lovely, but I did get a whiff of college party atmosphere that set my maternal nerves pinging. Drew loved it (of course), despite the lack of t-shirts, cookies, or commemorative mugs. I’m telling myself it was his Indiana roots calling to him.

We spent the night with my cousin and his family, and stayed up way too late playing games and laughing with my cousin, his wife, and their four children. In the morning, they introduced us to Big Dave’s, a local deli where we ate breakfast sandwiches of eggs, bacon, ham, and hash browns (anyone want a carrot?). Luc and Jo got to climb with Hayden, their oldest cousin, who conveniently works in a rock gym in Indianapolis. 

                          Friday, April 18 Return to Stepping Stones to do laundry.

                         We also took another walk in the woods and watched Hoosiers (of course).

                          Saturday, April 19 Back to Baltimore!

The East Coast Literary Club Baltimore Tour

I don’t know what most people think of Baltimore, but before we moved here, my main association was with the T.V. show Homicide: Life on the Street, which ran from 1993-1999. In the good old days when we had kids who went to bed before us, watching Homicide was something Eric and I looked forward to. Now there’s this other show filmed in Baltimore called  The Wire. Apparently, the two programs are based on the same book. These shows may be part of the reason Baltimore has kind of a seedy reputation. The other part, of course, may be that Baltimore is (according to some sources, anyway) the 8th most dangerous city in the U.S. (that’s down from a few years ago). The shows are, I guess, not all fiction.

As good Baltimorians will attest, however, there’s a lot more to the city than crime. Baltimore actually has a pretty significant literary history. Since most members of my family cannot think of anything more boring than searching around to see where famous authors once sat (or slept, or walked, or died), I had to wait for some friends to visit before taking the Baltimore Literary Tour. Fittingly, my friends are part of a venerable Ohio book club, so we (I -- it was unilateral) decided to make this the East Coast branch.

The Literary tour began with a visit to La Paix in Towson, which is where F. Scott Fitzgerald lived for a bit in the 1930s while his wife, Zelda, was being treated at Sheppard Pratt psychiatric hospital. The actual house burned down while Fitzgerald was living there, but there is still a street called La Paix, so we felt very close to F. Scott while walking on it. The other advantage of La Paix is that it is only about a mile from our house. The evening continued with a visit from two mice, whom the warm weather had apparently awaked from hibernation (do mice hibernate?). The mice scampered unrepentantly around the living room while Eric chased them with a broom (He broke the broom, but the mice escaped). I imagined a giant mouse nest in the walls, and experienced deep thankfulness that neither of my guests was suriphobic. To tie them in with the literary theme of this post, we will call them Edgar and Allen.

The next day was drizzly, but, undaunted, we set off for Fitzgerald site #2, in Bolton Hill, a charming, 19th-century neighborhood north of the Inner Harbor. We saw Fitzgerald’s house (where he wrote Tender Is the Night while poor Zelda was at Johns Hopkins), and we learned that he was only one of several luminaries who made Bolton Hill home. Others include former president Woodrow Wilson, Alice Hamilton (Harvard’s first female professor), and author Edith Hamilton. I understand why they would all want to live in the neat row houses on the quiet, tree-lined streets.

F. Scott Fitzgerald slept here.

After that, we parked at the train station. We planned to take Baltimore’s free bus, the Charm City Circulator, which has three routes in the city’s most popular tourist areas. It turns out weekend parking at Penn Station is only $2 a day -- I highly recommend this option. The only slight drawback was that the drizzle was developing into a steady drip, complete with wind. If you know me, though, you know I would rather walk miles in the rain than navigate city traffic and parking. And if my fellow travelers didn’t feel the same way? I could always apologize later. The Purple Line took us to Mount Vernon (Baltimore version), where we found the Washington Monument (Baltimore version). The latter, like the “real” monument in D.C., was encased in scaffolding, so we couldn’t climb its 200-plus steps for a panoramic view of Baltimore. With the grey skies, it was unlikely the panoramic view would be very impressive, anyway. We saw the location where Star-Spangled Banner lyricist Francis Scott Key died. A church now stands on the site, which used to hold the house of Key’s son-in-law. 

Francis Scott Key died here.

     In Mount Vernon, we also saw the Stafford Hotel, another placed where Fitzgerald stayed (apparently, he had itchy feet). We saw H.L. Menken’s house and ate Greek food at a local cafe. The highlight of this part of this stop, though, was the Peabody Library. I had read that it was “the most beautiful room in Baltimore,” but that it was closed on Saturdays. Providentially, the library was open. I haven’t seen every room in Baltimore, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this is the most beautiful room in the world. Apparently anyone can use it, and not very many people do. I’m going to take my kids there on a field trip so that they can see what a real card catalog looks like. 

It is difficult for a cell-phone camera to capture the beauty of the Peabody Library.

Even the card catalogs are works of art.

We walked then to the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Clearly we, along with anyone else who wants to accomplish anything besides saying church names, are going to call it the Baltimore Basilica. The basilica isn’t literary, but is historical. (I figured we could expand the tour). The church was designed by Benjamin Latrobe, the same man who designed the U.S. Capitol building. The relationship is obvious. The Basilica has columns and domes, and a white, light interior, just like the Capitol. It was the first cathedral in America, and while it may be disappointing to fans of the gothic, it is, fittingly, very American-looking.

The rain intensified. The wind picked up. We walked past Lexington Market (of Wire fame), trying not to see any drug dealers. The weather was perfect for Westminster Burying Ground -- final resting place of that restless soul, Edgar Allen Poe. 

Poe's gravesite, and the whole Westminster Hall and Burying Grounds, are appropriately creepy.

     We didn’t linger long at Poe's grave, though. Wet feet and the time -- around 2:30 -- made it imperative that we find a coffee shop. So we boarded the Orange Line and headed for Fells Point. On the way to The Daily Grind (a large coffee shop which seems to double as an office for several young entrepreneurs), we passed the building where Homicide was filmed (okay, now it is a literary, historical, and pop culture tour). We also caught a glimpse of The Horse You Came in On -- the bar where Poe was last seen alive. 

The coffee gave us enough energy to make it to the Purple Line and back to Penn Station, where we picked up the car. We had wanted to see the gravesite of J. Gresham Machen, who was buried in Green Mount Cemetery, close to the train station. The unabating rain and the passing time made us decide to end the tour at this point. I realized later that we had also neglected the birthplace of Upton Sinclair on North Charles. The house is no longer there, but we could have driven past. I guess that will be on the next tour. Am I the only one nerdy enough to think it might be exciting to drive past the place where the childhood home of a famous author once stood? 
        As a footnote, Edgar and Allen, like their namesake, met their demise party as a result of their appetites. The peanut butter in our traps proved too alluring for the poor little guys. Poe the mouse either doesn't exist, or he has a peanut allergy.

O For a Muse of Fire (or just a fire would be fine, actually)

Eric’s dream is to be warm. When we were dating, I said I wanted to live in Alaska. He said he wanted to live in Florida. I think most of our moves have been in his favor (seeing that we started in Michigan and have been -- mostly -- hovering right around the Mason-Dixon line). We haven’t made it to the land of summer-in-January, though, and this winter has been downright frigid. It doesn’t help that our house is old, with lovely, but single-glazed, windows. They are dripping with character, and on cold mornings, solid with frost on the inside panes. 

Charming? Oh, yes.

Double-glazed? Oh, no. Someone did just tell us that living with drafty windows keeps a person healthier, because the germs can get out. Maybe that's true; we haven't been sick once this winter.

         Also in keeping with the old East-coast charm of our home, the “boiler” (which is what they call the heater in these parts) runs on oil. Have you checked the price of oil lately? Especially when a person is heating all out-of-doors through those adorable bay windows. So we’ve been keeping the thermostats pretty low. Low like the tip of my nose is an icicle when I wake up, and the most painful moment of the day is when I throw the covers off and venture into the wintry air of our bedroom. We had a salesman over the other day to give us an estimate on replacement windows. He had one of those cool infra-red thermometer things that, when he pointed it at something, registered the temperature of that thing. The windows in our bedroom? 47 degrees. Fahrenheit.

All of this is not nearly so bad for me as for Eric. Remember, I’m the one who wants to live in Alaska. Our house is about as good a simulation of Alaska as a person can get in Maryland, so I should be happy. And as long as I have my fuzzy socks, I am, pretty much. Our house is nothing like Florida, however. That’s why, this winter, Eric bought himself a present: a pellet stove. 

For those who are not familiar with this brand of heating apparatus, a pellet stove is a closed-in fireplace that burns little wood pellets. Ours can apparently also burn corn husks and pinecones, which earned us a tax credit for being environmentally friendly. Pellet Stove Mike, who will return to this story shortly, counsels against burning such alternative fuel, however. He counsels against, in fact, all fuels except for the most expensive premium pellets available (the darker in color, the better, he says). At some outlets, though, just saying that you know Pellet Stove Mike will get you a substantial discount on pellets, so it’s worth listening to his advice. In general, I have experienced the pellet stove as a good thing. It is attractive, cozy, cleaner than a wood stove, and has probably saved us at least $1,000 on heating oil.  But, like any other appliance, the stove has brought with it its own batch of issues. Mostly two.

Who wouldn't want to curl up next to one of these?

The first issue is the pellets. This is really not such a big deal. In most winters, anyway, it would not be not such a big deal. Up until about February, we (meaning Eric and Lucas, usually), just had to make a trip to Lowe’s to restock on 40-pound bags of pellets every few weeks. Father-son bonding, weightlifting, no problem. As the Winter of the Snowpacolypse wore on, however, we encountered problems. First, Lowe’s ran out of the good pellets, and was receiving deliveries only of pellets that looked like white sawdust. They were still called “premium,” and the price did not change, but the quality (along with the heat output) was wildly reduced. Then Lowe’s ran out of even the crummy pellets. So Pellet Stove Mike sent me to 84 Lumber, where I bought pellets at the Mike discount. Two weeks later, that store was out. Farm and Home had some, Mike said, so I drove to Sykesville (which is a really cute town, for any Marylanders out there who want to take a drive some nice day). Farm and Home was rationing -- the long, cold winter had severely depleted their stash as well -- but they sold me 10 bags of pellets. That brings us to today. We poured in the last bag of pellets last night, and Farm and Home said maybe they’ll get some pellets in this week. Maybe. They put me on their list of people to call, which I am picturing as looking a little like Santa’s “nice” list. Right now, it’s 60 degrees outside, but Thursday is supposed to be 23. The stove sits, cold and black.

The second issue with the stove is that it is a machine, and not an entirely simple one. Its hopper and pellet distribution system mean we only need to fill it twice a day. Its agitator means we only have to clean out the ash once a week. Those moving parts, however, mean that the pellet stove is much more likely than a wood stove to experience technical difficulties. Of course, all pellet stove salespeople will swear that these difficulties are extraordinarily rare, that you can close the door of your pellet stove, not open it for a year, and it will burn just fine. We, of course, are the exception to this unbreakable rule. Which is why Pellet Stove Mike has been a visitor at our house several times this winter. Now, I like Mike. He reminds me of my dad’s Indiana country friends. He reads Chuck Colson books, listens to classical music on the radio, wears a John Deere cap, and grumbles about the government. I don’t, however, really want him to come over quite as often as our touchy stove seems to require. I don’t think he really wants to make the 45-minute drive, either, but he is the sales and service department at his stove business (as well as management), so he doesn’t have much choice. The only thing that would keep him from coming to fix a problem with the stove is if the problem was something he couldn’t fix. Which is what happened this week. So tomorrow I get to meet Pellet Stove Randy, who apparently does nothing all day but fix pellet stoves. You know, the ones that never break.

 

Moi Quand Je Pleure

      It started at about, "There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact that it wasn't true." I strove on determinedly, pausing to take a deep breath at "probably it was some final guest who had been away at the ends of the earth and didn't know that the party was over." I dug my nails into my palms at "that huge incoherent failure of a house," hoping the minor pain would distract me so I could continue. I came completely undone, however, at "Gatsby believed in the green light." It was at this point that I had to hand the Kindle to Lucas so he could finish the book's final paragraphs while tears rolled down my face and my nose turned an unattractive, mottled red.
       The Great Gatsby is a sad book. Really. It's beautifully written, moving, and its depiction of the emptiness of the American Dream is heartbreaking. That, however, is not why I was crying. Frankly, I have no idea why I was crying. I always cry when I read aloud. I can barely make it through Winnie the Pooh without my voice cracking. The final pages of The Great Gatsby was my Waterloo, but Lucas helpfully informs me that there were at least ten other times during the book when he could tell I was fighting back tears. I also cried the other night when explaining to my kids the history behind the Liberty Mutual commercial that features Olympian Kerri Strugg and her heroic vault. I cry in church almost every Sunday; sometimes it is the words to a song, sometimes part of the sermon or a Bible passage. I used to cry at swim meets when kids I didn't even know swam really well. I have cried at funerals of people I hardly know. The one place I didn't cry was at my Grandma Emy's memorial service, and I am sure I have never been sadder in my life.
       I can partially explain this abnormality genetically. I have often seen my mom cry in church, and my dad cries when he is moved or nostalgic. I never remember them crying when they read aloud to me, though, so the disorder must intensify from generation to generation. I have known other criers, too. We had a pastor years ago who used to cry during almost every sermon. We thought it was maybe because he needed to practice his sermon more, so he could get through the emotional bits tear-free. I'm not sure anymore, though. I know the last paragraphs of Gatsby almost by heart, and it did me no good. In fact, it is very often books that I know well that set me off the quickest.
      After Lucas finished "borne back ceaselessly into the past" (typing the words even now makes the back of my eyes sting), I told him that I probably have some kind of wire loose that switches on my faucets at bizarre times. That gave me an idea. I googled, "Why do I cry when I'm not sad," and happened upon a post by another crier, who said that she (or he) sometimes couldn't get through a telephone conversation about home maintenance without the sobs starting. Dozens of others commented, sharing about crying in school when they don't understand the homework, or crying if they feel stressed or overwhelmed. I was glad to find the company, but reading doesn't make me frustrated, stressed, or overwhelmed, so though our symptoms were similar, it didn't seem like I shared exactly the same problem. When I tried "Why do I cry for no reason," most of the websites had to do with depression. Reading doesn't depress me, either. So then I typed, "Why do I cry when I read a book," and got many helpful suggestions for books that would make me cry. Not necessary, thank you. I can pick up Pippi Longstocking and a be a puddle.
       Then I happened on an article about a disorder called PLC, "pathological laughing and crying." It's defined as "relatively uncontrollable episodes of laughter, crying, or both" (Parvizi). Basically, it is when a person laughs or cries for no reason, or for a reason that would not normally make a person laugh or cry. It is due to some kind of brain lesion (the article was challenging the conventional wisdom about what kind, but that didn't really seem important to me, so I didn't bother to try to understand it). The whole thing sounded a little loony, but I read on. The man in the case study had had a stroke, and would uncontrollably laugh or cry for 30 seconds to 2 minutes following neutral stimuli. He was "acutely aware of this abnormal behavior and embarrassed by it." Apparently they gave him some medicine, which controlled the symptoms of PLC. Interesting. Maybe I have lesions in my brain. I don't think my crying is as unpredictable as the man's in this article, though, and I don't think I've suffered a stroke. So I rejected that hypothesis.
       Then I started thinking about Eric, who rarely cries, but whose hands often sweat. They are not just clammy, they are drenched. When he was young, his piano teacher finally told him to find something else to do because he was getting her keys all wet. He once talked to a doctor about the problem. The doctor told him that it was basically wiring, and he could rearrange some things so that Eric would no longer have sweaty hands. But he warned that the sweat was the body's way of dealing with stress, and if that way was blocked, the stress was going to find some other outlet. Eric decided to stick with the sweaty palms. So I wonder if my crying is like that -- just a little pressure release. Brooke Siler, who writes for the Huffington Pos,t (and is a celebrity pilates instructor, so she ought to know), says that crying is good for just that reason: "It's the steam valve on the tea kettle." Maybe. I know that when I have been very stressed (as during some recent transatlantic moves), the crying has become more frequent. But that still doesn't explain the book trigger. The fact that certain passages in books reduce me to a soggy mess is not totally random, but it doesn't make complete sense either. Any ideas?

Sources

Siler, Brooke. "Stress Relief: Why Crying Supports Emotional Wellness." Huffington Post. Posted 4/7/10. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/brooke-siler/stress-relief-why-crying_b_629309.html.

Parvizi, Josef. "Pathological Laughter and Crying: A Link to the Cerebellum." Brain: A Journal of Neurology. 5/9/2001. http://brain.oxfordjournals.org/content/124/9/1708.full

The Best Laid Plans

        This was going to be the week. After endless weather-related school delays and closings, holidays, cold so severe it caused me to miss my morning swim in order to drive kids to school, and unusual orthodontist appointments, this was finally going to be a normal week. I couldn’t wait. Monday went pretty well, with a normal day of running errands while Luc was at co-op interrupted only by an unexpected visit to Pellet Stove Mike. (Our stove had popped its chain the previous night, and we didn’t trust ourselves to fix it.) I packed my swim bag Monday night, eagerly looking forward to the next morning’s pool workout, followed by a productive day of cleaning and homeschooling, followed by a pleasant evening of running kids around and Bible Study. 

I woke up Tuesday with a splitting headache. I took Ibuprofin, drank a few sips of coffee, and the headache was joined by nausea. I debated trying the pool anyway, but was sent back to bed by my husband. Strike one. I finally rose at 8:30 (shocking Lucas, who I think has never before woken up earlier than me), in time to call Pellet Stove Mike, who spent the morning unable to repair our stove. He likes to chat, and occasionally needs help lifting something, so I couldn’t leave the family room. The bathrooms remained uncleaned. Strike Two. Now we sit waiting for the snowpocalypse. The entire State of Maryland declared a state of emergency before a flake even fell: Strike Three. Clearly, school, swimming, and ALL MY PLANS will be cancelled tomorrow. So much for my normal week.

The radio station I listen to has a daily question. A few weeks ago, it was, “If there was an Olympic Team for something you excel at, what would it be?” I didn’t call in, but I knew right away: I would be the captain of the Olympic Planning Team. I plan vacations. I am planning college visits. I plan my week like a puzzle, fitting in times to shuttle kids, make dinner, prepare lessons, exercise, call friends, and clean. Those who know me won’t be surprised by this peek at my day planner. 

   

The good thing about being a planning kind of girl is that, if things go well, I get a lot done. Once I wrote something on a day, it’s rare that I can’t cross it off. The bad thing is that if I’m struck with something unexpected that throws off my schedule, I accomplish nothing. I’m not great at thinking on the fly. (That’s why I’m a planner, duh!) It’s probably just a teeny bit self-centered to think that the entire purpose of this winter’s Polar Vortex is to teach me that, despite my ambitious calendar and devotion to foresight, my illusion of control is just that -- an illusion. Nevertheless, as a part of whatever else is going on with the weather, I do think that this winter holds an important lesson for me. One that I am not particularly enjoying learning.

Most people are familiar with the poem “Invictus,” by William Ernest Henley. On first reading, this poem is inspiring: “My head is bloody, but unbowed” . . . “I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.” Gives you the chills, doesn’t it? I ran into this poem in college, and after the initial frisson, it actually scared me. It seemed so defiant, such a risky, fist-to-the-sky challenge to God. I thought, “that can’t be the right way to think.” Nearly a quarter-century later, the poem strikes me not so much as dangerously defiant as patently ridiculous. The Master of My Fate? Who am I kidding; I can’t even remember to switch the laundry from the washer to the drier if my schedule is thrown off. The Captain of My Soul? A little headache and nausea (which I did not have any part in causing) keeps me in bed hours longer than I want to be there. Henley was certainly made of tougher stuff than I, but I’m willing to bet that if he were honest, he’d admit to being hit with some flying snowballs that he couldn’t handle. And of course, no matter how in control a person is, the moment comes when life ends (what Henley calls “the horror of the shade”) -- and that’s not really in our hands. Nor is what follows.

Despite the fact that I don’t particularly enjoy being reminded of my finiteness and fallibility, I am actually thankful. If it’s true that I am not really in control, the best thing is to know it. After all, “the truth shall set you free.” And if the truth is that I’m not in control, it’s good news that Someone is. And the best news of all is that the Someone who is, is better, wiser, and more benevolent to me than I could ever be to myself. 

The Old Dog

I have started swimming backstroke voluntarily. For years, I have avoided this stroke out of fear of ramming my head into the concrete pool wall. I remained convinced, however, that if I ever did overcome my fear of cranial injury, the stroke would otherwise be pretty easy. After all, it’s basically upside-down freestyle, with the added bonus that my mouth would be out of the water the whole time, allowing unlimited breathing. As it turns out, I could not have been wronger about backstroke. 
I found this out when I decided to sign up for a “Masters Swim Team” at our local Y (the name of which has recently changed from the delightfully descriptive “Towson YMCA” to the impenatrable “Orokawa YMCA”).The name of the class sounds like it’s an actual competitive team for extra-talented swimmers. It’s really just swim practice for old people. It was advertised as a swim-team-like workout for people aged 18 - 99, taking place at 6:30 a.m. As a fairly fit recreational swimmer, I was a little worried that it would be lame. I showed up the first morning with my day-at-the-beach tankini, wearing a swim cap that compressed my forehead into extra wrinkles. Clearly, the cap was not designed with after-40 beauty in mind. I do like swim caps, though; they make me feel like my head is floating. The next person to arrive was a very young woman in a very competitive looking red swimsuit. She told me she was 22, a professional dancer, and had been on the swim team at this very Y, just a few years ago when she was in high school. Then another young woman entered, and she said that she had just started swimming. That made me feel better. Other students came in, a few of whom seemed to be more my age, then the “coach,” Ryan. He was definitely young enough to be my son. And I wouldn’t have been a teenaged mom, either.
The workout was far from lame. When I swim for exercise, I am usually the fastest swimmer in the pool. This is largely because I usually swim at the time when the octogenarians show up. I was not the fastest swimmer in the class. I also had trouble converting yard to laps in my head, and could never figure out whether I had swum far enough. I watched the real swimmer in the red suit for cues, only she was always a few laps ahead of me. Then, about halfway through the workout, Ryan suggested that we do an I.M. Having been a swim parent for a few summers (and an enthusiastic fan of the summer Olympics), I know what an I.M. is. For anyone who doesn’t, it is an Individual Medley (of strokes), including backstroke, breaststroke, butterfly, and freestyle. I figured my only problems would be 1. Bumping my head; and 2. Butterfly. I made myself into one of those whining students who flaps her hand in the air and says,
“But teacher, teacher, what if I don’t know how to swim butterfly?”
Ryan was patient: “You can just swim freestyle,” he assured me. After a moment’s thought, “Or I can teach you if you want.” 
Hmmm. Do I want to learn butterfly? I think I have mentioned before in this blog that, as an independent adult, I can protect myself from having to do anything I don’t know how to do. I don’t have to learn things like a new swimming stroke. And really, why should I? In the course of my life, I’ve learned to read and I’ve learned to walk. I’ve leaned the Nicene Creed, how to bake bread, and how to multiply polynomials. I’ve learned how to play the guitar, speak French, and find my way through an airport. The chances that I will need this most difficult stroke are infinitesimal. The chances that I will ever be proficient at it are smaller. But, well,
“Yeah,” I find myself saying. “I’ve always wanted to learn butterfly.”
Which is why I could be seen foundering gracelessly across the pool, arms and legs flapping wildly. I went home and watched several youtube videos on the stroke in an effort to improve. I still look ridiculous -- and I don’t look like I am swimming anything resembling the same stroke made famous by Michael Phelps -- but I think it must burn a lot of calories, so I persevere.
Butterfly, however, was not my only problem. It turns out that backstroke is really hard. I was so busy trying not to swallow water while keeping my arms close to my head and my chin up that I lost track of where I was and . . . bumped my head on the side of the pool. It didn’t actually hurt that badly. What did hurt was my shoulders and quads the next day. Apparently, in addition to being much more respirationally challenging than I had imagined, backstroke requires some muscle groups that are rarely used, in my body, anyway. I decided that this was a good thing, apologized in advance to my lane partner for my inevitable swerves into her lane, and swam backstroke with a will -- even choosing it sometimes for those laps variously termed “choice” or “stroke.”

I have found out that not only do my backstroke and butterfly lack finesse, but my freestyle, of which I have always been proud, stinks, too, from a technical standpoint. Also I do breaststroke wrong and my flip turns are too close to the wall. Nonetheless, the class is the highlight of my week. Sometimes I feel foolish taking instruction from someone less than half my age, but I think being willing to learn something new is actually the opposite of foolish. And the exercise-induced endorphin buzz from my new tricks is worth every humbling lap.