We'll call this my first "real" snow at home. It's not the first time snow has fallen where I live, but it is the first snow thick enough to stick around inches deep, to cause that lovely sinking crunch under my shoes and to turn the world uniformly and gloriously luminous white during the daytime and eerie gray when night falls. We've had 3 or 4 flurries this winter, and we had a few light snows last year when we were living a bit east of here, but none of the storms has been as beautiful as this one.
As you may have seen in the news, much of this coast has had a rather unseasonable snow after a somewhat unusual winter. The storm followed a much-needed and record-setting rain that ought to help with drought conditions here. The snow topped off the dampened ground after several days of warm flirtation with springtime, during which the first shoots of daffodil and other bulbed flora poked up vibrant green fingers from the earth. Now those same shoots are under inches of powdery white and I hope they won't be worse for their temporary icy cover when it comes time to bloom.
If I were a bit more adventurous and had more energy (or if Dan had gotten a "snow day" from work so I would have had company), I would have gone to the arboretum a few miles from here to take photos of the ice-blanketed world in a more expansive and natural setting. As it is, I decided to take the pictures I could take from inside (or just a few steps outside) of our dwelling this morning, which gives you a sense of what I see when I simply step to the window to look outside.
I did put the cats on leashes (one at a time, of course) and put them outside to explore a little, since snow is a pretty new experience for our California-transplant cats. I wouldn't say that the kitties "liked" the snow, but they did tolerate a few curious moments of paw freezing and frigid air sniffing before whining, crying and hissing (MooMoo) or looking longingly at the door to the house and darting in as soon as it was cracked open (Monte). Both of them do enjoy the altered view from the safety and warmth of the upstairs windows, so we'll leave their appreciation of the wintery world at that for now.
Truth be told, I could probably enjoy a bit more snow than we get here, but the merely scattered snows are part of the reason we were drawn to this part of the country. Sure, we get to contend with oppressive heat and humidity during part of the summer, but we also get to see the leaves change and fall from the abundant trees in the autumn, we experience the riotous colors of springtime and we revel in the occasional day like today when the world is blanketed in jewels -- with all the giddy excitement of a long-anticipated Christmas morning and without the hassle of weeks upon weeks of icy roads and shoveling walks. In contrast to California's eternal summer or the frozen landscapes of the white North, we central North Carolinians get to taste all four seasons, albeit in a "lite" form.
I love it! I wouldn't have it any other way.
Showing posts with label everyday life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label everyday life. Show all posts
Monday, March 2, 2009
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Exercising Futility
I remember seeing catalog pictures and television images, when I was a child, of other children dressed in puffy coats, knit hats and colorful mittens lying and frolicking in piles of colorful leaves. I didn't really have a context for this in my own life, but I knew that it was part of that phenomenon called "autumn" by people living in a place where it could be marked mark by more than the beginning of another interminable school year and a change in the colors of the clothes on the rack at Hinshaws Department Store.
Nearly three decades later, I have a context... and I have the distinction of having already raked a pile of leaves 14 feet long by 6 feet wide by 3 feet high... and having at least 5 times as many leaves still in need of clearing from other areas of the yard. I think I can safely say that I have never seen so many leaves in my life, and I have certainly never had to actually clear so many of them. Well, I suppose I don't *have* to clear them. Several of our neighbors have simply let the leaves perpetually blanket their lawns. I, however, am among the leaf-pile-makers this year for my own sometimes inscrutable reasons.
The temperatures here have been unseasonably warm. It was 78F yesterday, and the forecast for tomorrow touches 80. It's a nice break, especially when I want to be outside and the cooler temperatures we'd begun to expect brought with them the threat of asthma flares. So, pretty much every day (excepting this weekend, when there was singing to do), I have spent 20 to 40 minutes outside, vigorously sweeping leaves into a pile by the street. It's great exercise, even if it is, more than anything, an exercise in futility. Yesterday, the majority of the 40 minutes I spent out there was devoted to clearing the same third of the front lawn I had cleared last week. Somehow, I don't mind.
I can't explain why, exactly, I have enjoyed moving the leaves around so much. The few times the glossy-topped, fuzzy-bottomed ovular leaves needed raking in our front yard in my youth, I wanted nothing more than to be paid richly for my labor or let off the hook. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that it is just another way I can throw myself into living here, and nobody is telling me I need to do it.
One day last week my job stresses were piling up. I was feeling more than a little burdened, and I needed to expend my mounting energy in a way that wouldn't cause harm to myself or others. The weather was cooler, so I bundled up in my synthetic Ugg-style boots, pants, a scarf and a sweater, grabbed the rake and tore at the lawn with determination. The one thing I had failed to consider was just how strongly the wind was blowing that day. In short order, I found my carefully-corralled leaves scattering themselves across the yard again, spinning aloft like so many earth-toned ballerinas dancing to the music of the wind.
As stressed as I was, my first impulse was to be angry. But at what? At myself for failing to understand physics and the effects of force? At the wind for sweeping through the neighborhood? At the leaves for daring to move from the locations I had assigned for them? At God, for designing a world that I can't control?
I stopped for a moment, looked around, thought a bit, and then began to laugh. Immobilized, I let the wind play in my hair as it undid my work. I actually found myself thinking, "Well, that just means there will be more raking to do tomorrow when I want to melt down under stress and feel the urge to take it out on the leaves." I genuinely didn't care. My stresses had dissipated with the fluttering leaves. I didn't care what the neighbors thought, either. I mean, it is folly to rake on a windy day. Isn't it? And surely it is lunacy to stand there, leaves swirling around me, and laugh.
I guess my raking isn't about the leaves at all. It's about how alive I feel when I see the earth transforming around me. It's about the satisfaction of working with my hands, and letting my all-too-sedentary body feel the burn of exertion. It's about tackling a project that is way too big for me and just working at it, day after day. It's about discovering the beautiful new tender shoots of grass in the freshly-cleared patches that foreshadow the distant spring when the trees will bud and drape themselves anew in lush green robes. It's about letting the burdens of life that don't change -- my job, the endless piles of laundry, dishes needing scrubbing, floors needing sweeping, my favorite persistent worries and obsessions -- give way to a burden, no, an opportunity, that comes only when autumn creeps in with its golden splendor.
Nearly all of the leaves have fallen now. The trees subdivide the lavender-blue sky with their meandering denuded branches. I don't imagine I will be able to rake all of the leaves before I become to busy to rake, ice storms move in or my asthma prevents me from being active outdoors in the cold for more than a few minutes at a stretch. In the meantime, you'll find me here, willing them into piles, laughing at the wind, and relishing the exercise in futility that places me firmly here in this time and place.
Nearly three decades later, I have a context... and I have the distinction of having already raked a pile of leaves 14 feet long by 6 feet wide by 3 feet high... and having at least 5 times as many leaves still in need of clearing from other areas of the yard. I think I can safely say that I have never seen so many leaves in my life, and I have certainly never had to actually clear so many of them. Well, I suppose I don't *have* to clear them. Several of our neighbors have simply let the leaves perpetually blanket their lawns. I, however, am among the leaf-pile-makers this year for my own sometimes inscrutable reasons.
The temperatures here have been unseasonably warm. It was 78F yesterday, and the forecast for tomorrow touches 80. It's a nice break, especially when I want to be outside and the cooler temperatures we'd begun to expect brought with them the threat of asthma flares. So, pretty much every day (excepting this weekend, when there was singing to do), I have spent 20 to 40 minutes outside, vigorously sweeping leaves into a pile by the street. It's great exercise, even if it is, more than anything, an exercise in futility. Yesterday, the majority of the 40 minutes I spent out there was devoted to clearing the same third of the front lawn I had cleared last week. Somehow, I don't mind.
I can't explain why, exactly, I have enjoyed moving the leaves around so much. The few times the glossy-topped, fuzzy-bottomed ovular leaves needed raking in our front yard in my youth, I wanted nothing more than to be paid richly for my labor or let off the hook. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that it is just another way I can throw myself into living here, and nobody is telling me I need to do it.
One day last week my job stresses were piling up. I was feeling more than a little burdened, and I needed to expend my mounting energy in a way that wouldn't cause harm to myself or others. The weather was cooler, so I bundled up in my synthetic Ugg-style boots, pants, a scarf and a sweater, grabbed the rake and tore at the lawn with determination. The one thing I had failed to consider was just how strongly the wind was blowing that day. In short order, I found my carefully-corralled leaves scattering themselves across the yard again, spinning aloft like so many earth-toned ballerinas dancing to the music of the wind.
As stressed as I was, my first impulse was to be angry. But at what? At myself for failing to understand physics and the effects of force? At the wind for sweeping through the neighborhood? At the leaves for daring to move from the locations I had assigned for them? At God, for designing a world that I can't control?
I stopped for a moment, looked around, thought a bit, and then began to laugh. Immobilized, I let the wind play in my hair as it undid my work. I actually found myself thinking, "Well, that just means there will be more raking to do tomorrow when I want to melt down under stress and feel the urge to take it out on the leaves." I genuinely didn't care. My stresses had dissipated with the fluttering leaves. I didn't care what the neighbors thought, either. I mean, it is folly to rake on a windy day. Isn't it? And surely it is lunacy to stand there, leaves swirling around me, and laugh.
I guess my raking isn't about the leaves at all. It's about how alive I feel when I see the earth transforming around me. It's about the satisfaction of working with my hands, and letting my all-too-sedentary body feel the burn of exertion. It's about tackling a project that is way too big for me and just working at it, day after day. It's about discovering the beautiful new tender shoots of grass in the freshly-cleared patches that foreshadow the distant spring when the trees will bud and drape themselves anew in lush green robes. It's about letting the burdens of life that don't change -- my job, the endless piles of laundry, dishes needing scrubbing, floors needing sweeping, my favorite persistent worries and obsessions -- give way to a burden, no, an opportunity, that comes only when autumn creeps in with its golden splendor.
Nearly all of the leaves have fallen now. The trees subdivide the lavender-blue sky with their meandering denuded branches. I don't imagine I will be able to rake all of the leaves before I become to busy to rake, ice storms move in or my asthma prevents me from being active outdoors in the cold for more than a few minutes at a stretch. In the meantime, you'll find me here, willing them into piles, laughing at the wind, and relishing the exercise in futility that places me firmly here in this time and place.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
I'm fine, thank you.
When asked, "How are you?" I am the sort of person that is likely to give an honest answer, and often as not that answer will be somewhat less unflaggingly optimistic (or formality-bound, depending on your perspective) than the culturally mandatory "I'm fine, thank you."
I've tried to explain the weight of this cultural norm to a online friend who is learning English. He consistently answers "I'm okay" when I inquire about his wellbeing via instant messenger. His answer always prompts a "Why just okay?" from me, to which he then replies, "Nothing is wrong; that's just what I say."
That little exchange has become our own ritual. I suppose what I have unsuccessfully tried to convey to him is that until you really know how something will be understood culturally, in the context of the language and of the listener, the default reply is probably the best one. Still, I have this subtle expectation of honesty and accuracy where most of our culture seems to have none, and I have little respect for the prescribed reply once I have any respect for my conversation partner.
The fact is, I can nearly always find something to complain about, repeatedly and at length. I don't think this is a virtue -- it's more of a failing. But it also makes me me somehow. Still, even as curmudgeonly (realistic, pessimistic, depressive, melancholy... ?) as I am, there are moments in life when even I can't help but realize that I am, indeed, fine. One of those moments came last night.
It was about 8:00. Dinner had been consumed, work had been set aside for a few hours. I had soft yarn and slightly chilly knitting needles in my hands and comfy slippers on my feet. The lights were off, except for the hundreds of tiny white bulbs bedecking the newly-acquired Christmas tree and garlands. There was a warm orange glow and gentle crackling in the fireplace that took the bite out of the chill of the room. My husband, healthy except for the obligatory pre-concert sore throat, sat contentedly beside me on the couch, dividing his attention between the small, furry body snoring on his lap and the hockey game on the screen. My own lap was warmed by a larger purring cat who occasionally roused himself from his catnip dreams to take a swipe at my yarn.
I stilled my mind's constant scampering long enough to be in that moment, and I saw that the moment was beautiful. I stopped knitting, looked at Daniel, until he felt my gaze and turned to look back at me, and I told him that I loved being there with him in that moment.
And I did love it, because there, in that moment, it didn't matter what the bank account balance said, what we'd eat for dinner tomorrow, who would attend our concerts this weekend, what I would wear to a wedding next month, whether I would meet my deadline on Monday, what this or that person thought of me, what I said yesterday that I shouldn't have. Not my sins of omission and commission. Not our plans for life in 10 years. Not all of the things I should have done and didn't and did do and shouldn't have. None of it mattered.
In that moment was all of the contentment I long for when I am busy fretting about everything past and everything future.
I wonder how often I let these moments slip by without the slightest notice. Probably depressingly often. Still, I captured this one, and I will treasure it in my heart.
How am I?
I'm fine, thank you.
How are you?
I've tried to explain the weight of this cultural norm to a online friend who is learning English. He consistently answers "I'm okay" when I inquire about his wellbeing via instant messenger. His answer always prompts a "Why just okay?" from me, to which he then replies, "Nothing is wrong; that's just what I say."
That little exchange has become our own ritual. I suppose what I have unsuccessfully tried to convey to him is that until you really know how something will be understood culturally, in the context of the language and of the listener, the default reply is probably the best one. Still, I have this subtle expectation of honesty and accuracy where most of our culture seems to have none, and I have little respect for the prescribed reply once I have any respect for my conversation partner.
The fact is, I can nearly always find something to complain about, repeatedly and at length. I don't think this is a virtue -- it's more of a failing. But it also makes me me somehow. Still, even as curmudgeonly (realistic, pessimistic, depressive, melancholy... ?) as I am, there are moments in life when even I can't help but realize that I am, indeed, fine. One of those moments came last night.
It was about 8:00. Dinner had been consumed, work had been set aside for a few hours. I had soft yarn and slightly chilly knitting needles in my hands and comfy slippers on my feet. The lights were off, except for the hundreds of tiny white bulbs bedecking the newly-acquired Christmas tree and garlands. There was a warm orange glow and gentle crackling in the fireplace that took the bite out of the chill of the room. My husband, healthy except for the obligatory pre-concert sore throat, sat contentedly beside me on the couch, dividing his attention between the small, furry body snoring on his lap and the hockey game on the screen. My own lap was warmed by a larger purring cat who occasionally roused himself from his catnip dreams to take a swipe at my yarn.
I stilled my mind's constant scampering long enough to be in that moment, and I saw that the moment was beautiful. I stopped knitting, looked at Daniel, until he felt my gaze and turned to look back at me, and I told him that I loved being there with him in that moment.
And I did love it, because there, in that moment, it didn't matter what the bank account balance said, what we'd eat for dinner tomorrow, who would attend our concerts this weekend, what I would wear to a wedding next month, whether I would meet my deadline on Monday, what this or that person thought of me, what I said yesterday that I shouldn't have. Not my sins of omission and commission. Not our plans for life in 10 years. Not all of the things I should have done and didn't and did do and shouldn't have. None of it mattered.
In that moment was all of the contentment I long for when I am busy fretting about everything past and everything future.
I wonder how often I let these moments slip by without the slightest notice. Probably depressingly often. Still, I captured this one, and I will treasure it in my heart.
How am I?
I'm fine, thank you.
How are you?
Friday, November 2, 2007
The Major Purchase
I received a rather insistent instant message from Ashleigh several days ago asking that I be less cryptic and more forthcoming about the purchase we made that I alluded to several posts back. She managed to get it out of me, but assuming there were others of you who wished to know... here's the answer: we got a new (second) car.
I think my resolution to find money for a car somewhere has grown out of a few facts:
1. Not that it will ever be an issue, but I would like to think that *if* there were a nuclear disaster at the power plant less than 10 miles from here, I would be able to pack up myself and the cats and attempt to evacuate.
2. The weather is turning cool enough that I don't want to be out walking in it -- in part because the cold, dry air has caused me asthma problems.
3. I have time to do things in the morning before work most days, but without a vehicle, my choices were limited.
4. I had started getting nervous about taking our older car on the driving trips that we have begun to make more regularly.
I'd been researching what to buy for several weeks and running the ideas by Daniel. My greatest goals were to get the safest cheap car on the market, and to get a few features we missed in the Rav-4 we sold when we left California: a manual transmission, a hatchback for hauling purposes and cruise control. We actually went car shopping while Dad was here to go to the dealership with us.
We settled on a Nissan Versa liftback and bought the one car on the lot that had the features we wanted and only the features we wanted, keeping the price within reach. That car just happened to be black. I think it's cute.
We're enjoying making the mileage climb from the initial 7.8 miles the odometer boasted. Dan takes it to work most days, and we cleaned up the Corolla so both of our cars are reasonably spiffy. I have the Corolla most days, which is working just fine.
We celebrated the large purchase (as is the tradition in my family) with a lovely dinner... this time at J Betski's in Raleigh. That was also my birthday dinner. The food was absolutely amazing. All in all, that day (October 27) was quite memorable and fun.
I think my resolution to find money for a car somewhere has grown out of a few facts:
1. Not that it will ever be an issue, but I would like to think that *if* there were a nuclear disaster at the power plant less than 10 miles from here, I would be able to pack up myself and the cats and attempt to evacuate.
2. The weather is turning cool enough that I don't want to be out walking in it -- in part because the cold, dry air has caused me asthma problems.
3. I have time to do things in the morning before work most days, but without a vehicle, my choices were limited.
4. I had started getting nervous about taking our older car on the driving trips that we have begun to make more regularly.
I'd been researching what to buy for several weeks and running the ideas by Daniel. My greatest goals were to get the safest cheap car on the market, and to get a few features we missed in the Rav-4 we sold when we left California: a manual transmission, a hatchback for hauling purposes and cruise control. We actually went car shopping while Dad was here to go to the dealership with us.
We settled on a Nissan Versa liftback and bought the one car on the lot that had the features we wanted and only the features we wanted, keeping the price within reach. That car just happened to be black. I think it's cute.
We're enjoying making the mileage climb from the initial 7.8 miles the odometer boasted. Dan takes it to work most days, and we cleaned up the Corolla so both of our cars are reasonably spiffy. I have the Corolla most days, which is working just fine.
We celebrated the large purchase (as is the tradition in my family) with a lovely dinner... this time at J Betski's in Raleigh. That was also my birthday dinner. The food was absolutely amazing. All in all, that day (October 27) was quite memorable and fun.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Just a note
So... the last 12 days have brought 3 just here for the evening dinner guests, 3 family-member-live-in guests, a dress rehearsal, our first major concert here, a trip to the Carolina coast, final process on an issue of the magazine I edit (the completed magazine MUST be at the printer tomorrow and you know I have worked overtime this week...), a major purchase, several meals out, 2 large family gatherings in the area with more than just the people in our house, a fabulous birthday dinner out with Mom and Dad and, to sum up, quite a lot of fun, stress and sleep deprivation. I promise to blog and post pictures (I was the only one with a camera) when I get the magazine out and I dig out from under the two weeks of fatigue and my remaining responsibilities. In the meantime, I invite you to visit the Ibexscribe blog at right to find out about the portion of the last several days that she shared with us. In particular, I recommend the entry entitled "The Land of Cotton." I'm too lazy to add the actual link now. Maybe I will fix it later. :)
On my to do list today is to triage the house and finances, clean the Corolla, and read through the entire completed magazine at least twice. Piece of cake.
On my to do list today is to triage the house and finances, clean the Corolla, and read through the entire completed magazine at least twice. Piece of cake.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Meltdown
I was sitting here trying my hand at writing some short fiction when my ears picked up on a distant low growl, which soon developed into a full-blown siren. A three-minute long siren. Let me tell you, three minutes is an awfully long time when you are not sure whether to panic, send a final love-note to your husband via the wonder of the internet and settle your eternal accounts with your Maker before watching your flesh melt like the wax dummies in Raiders of the Lost Ark, or just yawn lazily and get back to your typing.
I know enough to realize that disasters at nuclear power plants are very rare and usually very well contained. So well contained, in fact, that the number of deaths related to plant accidents is much smaller than the popular imagination would have it. I am sure the chances of dying from a nuclear accident are probably about as great as the odds that I will be bit by a shark while being struck by lightning in an airplane full of snakes before plummeting to my death by impalement on the spike of an Eigentumshelm... but still, the sound of a nuclear siren when you live in the 10-mile radius known technically as the "oh crap!" zone, when you didn't know it was coming, causes a more than a few heart palpitations and a jolt of hot adrenalin.
Um, so, to backtrack. I'm typing, the nuclear siren sounds, and I send a frantic little message to Dan via Google talk saying something like "Oh crap" "Nuclear siren". I'm a rather capable person, and I was prepared for just such a moment. Tests are run regularly on the siren system so that in the event that they are needed, they will work. I have read emergency information for just such a moment. I have found local radio stations. I have found local TV. I know where to find the website about the Harris Plant. Or I did until that blasted siren sounded. Suddenly none of my links can be found.
Dan suggests radio and TV. I start with the TV What do I take with me if I have to evacuate? and press the power button. I scramble for the remote and flip to channel 98 to find out which channel is most likely to be broadcasting local information. Of course, once I get there, the guide list has just passed the local channels and is scrolling through the 70 other channels and the pay-per-view options at a leisurely pace before pausing for a commercial break. I pick a local-ish station and turn the volume up. On drones a heartbreaking story of 9-11 disaster begets disaster as I run back to my computer, thinking maybe radio or internet will be the better option.
Rather than turning on the radio in the bedroom I knew we should have purchased a battery-powered emergency radio light... I decided that sound in two rooms would be plenty. I managed to find a local station with streaming audio, so I turned the internet radio on and heard the strange commentator with a raspy voice who is always on this time of the morning was interviewing someone, not about the tragedy that was unfolding in my office Siren sounds do NOT always indicate a need to evacuate, but about some other subject of great global import.
The phone rings. It's my dad. He's asking about car rentals for their visit in October. He's talking calmly into the ear piece while the TV shouts from the living room and the streaming radio swims around my free ear. The cats, they haven't even had breakfast... I had been trying to surf to the power plant site when the phone rang, but instead the browser froze, and the computer refused to budge. Time to reboot, while I dug up the phone book to look for local car rental places.
Are the neighbors leaving? I wandered over to the window, hiked up the mini-blinds and looked out at a woman driving by in her maroon minivan No, she's not in a hurry, is she? still discussing the relative merits of car rental companies with my dad. There was no other movement up and down the street. This neighborhood is mostly deserted already. I'm not glowing, and nobody seems to care enough to broadcast it on the news, so I am pretty sure that was a test. Still looking out the window, I noticed a city works truck slowly picking up green waste from the curbside. Either we're both dying here, or there's nothing worth worrying about.
Dad and I said our goodbyes, just as I found the "information desk" number for the town. "That was a test. They usually send out postcards, but this time they didn't. As soon as I heard the siren I called dispatch because I knew my phone would be lighting up. They told me they just found out about 10 seconds before the siren sounded." I sighed. Um, isn't there some place, online maybe, where people can find warnings about this sort of thing? "I don't know... that's a good question." So, if it had been an emergency, how do I evacuate without a car? "I don't know, honey. Talk to your neighbors. It's not like we can send a van around." Of course not. "You know, honey, if something happens, we're all gonna get real skinny real quick. I figure it's not worth worrying about." She has a point.
I eventually contacted the company running the power plant and suggested to a very nice woman that perhaps, just perhaps, for the benefit of the people who move into town between the informational mailings that come out every three months (just before we moved in, as it happens), they could put a ticker up on the website that scrolls Siren Test Today at 10. "What a great idea! I'll suggest that to IT. Thanks so much for calling." I sighed as she added, "Oh, and welcome to town!"
Meltdown averted. Narrowly.
I know enough to realize that disasters at nuclear power plants are very rare and usually very well contained. So well contained, in fact, that the number of deaths related to plant accidents is much smaller than the popular imagination would have it. I am sure the chances of dying from a nuclear accident are probably about as great as the odds that I will be bit by a shark while being struck by lightning in an airplane full of snakes before plummeting to my death by impalement on the spike of an Eigentumshelm... but still, the sound of a nuclear siren when you live in the 10-mile radius known technically as the "oh crap!" zone, when you didn't know it was coming, causes a more than a few heart palpitations and a jolt of hot adrenalin.
Um, so, to backtrack. I'm typing, the nuclear siren sounds, and I send a frantic little message to Dan via Google talk saying something like "Oh crap" "Nuclear siren". I'm a rather capable person, and I was prepared for just such a moment. Tests are run regularly on the siren system so that in the event that they are needed, they will work. I have read emergency information for just such a moment. I have found local radio stations. I have found local TV. I know where to find the website about the Harris Plant. Or I did until that blasted siren sounded. Suddenly none of my links can be found.
Dan suggests radio and TV. I start with the TV What do I take with me if I have to evacuate? and press the power button. I scramble for the remote and flip to channel 98 to find out which channel is most likely to be broadcasting local information. Of course, once I get there, the guide list has just passed the local channels and is scrolling through the 70 other channels and the pay-per-view options at a leisurely pace before pausing for a commercial break. I pick a local-ish station and turn the volume up. On drones a heartbreaking story of 9-11 disaster begets disaster as I run back to my computer, thinking maybe radio or internet will be the better option.
Rather than turning on the radio in the bedroom I knew we should have purchased a battery-powered emergency radio light... I decided that sound in two rooms would be plenty. I managed to find a local station with streaming audio, so I turned the internet radio on and heard the strange commentator with a raspy voice who is always on this time of the morning was interviewing someone, not about the tragedy that was unfolding in my office Siren sounds do NOT always indicate a need to evacuate, but about some other subject of great global import.
The phone rings. It's my dad. He's asking about car rentals for their visit in October. He's talking calmly into the ear piece while the TV shouts from the living room and the streaming radio swims around my free ear. The cats, they haven't even had breakfast... I had been trying to surf to the power plant site when the phone rang, but instead the browser froze, and the computer refused to budge. Time to reboot, while I dug up the phone book to look for local car rental places.
Are the neighbors leaving? I wandered over to the window, hiked up the mini-blinds and looked out at a woman driving by in her maroon minivan No, she's not in a hurry, is she? still discussing the relative merits of car rental companies with my dad. There was no other movement up and down the street. This neighborhood is mostly deserted already. I'm not glowing, and nobody seems to care enough to broadcast it on the news, so I am pretty sure that was a test. Still looking out the window, I noticed a city works truck slowly picking up green waste from the curbside. Either we're both dying here, or there's nothing worth worrying about.
Dad and I said our goodbyes, just as I found the "information desk" number for the town. "That was a test. They usually send out postcards, but this time they didn't. As soon as I heard the siren I called dispatch because I knew my phone would be lighting up. They told me they just found out about 10 seconds before the siren sounded." I sighed. Um, isn't there some place, online maybe, where people can find warnings about this sort of thing? "I don't know... that's a good question." So, if it had been an emergency, how do I evacuate without a car? "I don't know, honey. Talk to your neighbors. It's not like we can send a van around." Of course not. "You know, honey, if something happens, we're all gonna get real skinny real quick. I figure it's not worth worrying about." She has a point.
I eventually contacted the company running the power plant and suggested to a very nice woman that perhaps, just perhaps, for the benefit of the people who move into town between the informational mailings that come out every three months (just before we moved in, as it happens), they could put a ticker up on the website that scrolls Siren Test Today at 10. "What a great idea! I'll suggest that to IT. Thanks so much for calling." I sighed as she added, "Oh, and welcome to town!"
Meltdown averted. Narrowly.
Monday, August 6, 2007
White and Nerdy
In case there was any doubt, I am white and nerdy. What may not have been so clear is that "Weird Al" is my Homeboy. No really, my shirt says so.
The world is full of strangeness, and Weird Al Yankovic accounts for plenty of it himself. He was born in Downey, CA, (where I appeared in "Oklahoma" at the civic center) and grew up in Lynwood, which is a whole 15 miles from Whittier, where I grew up. The first music video I ever saw was "I'm Fat",
his parody of then-cool Michael Jackson's "I'm Bad." The year was approximately 1988. I must say, I have never been much of an MTV aficionado, but that video remains among my favorites.
While I loved "I'm Fat" from the first viewing, and became aware of Al's existence back in the late 80's, and really enjoyed pretty much everything Al was written since, and lived in Southern California... I never managed to see Al until I moved to the Raleigh area and caught him on his current to
ur. Dan similarly has known of Al for years -- he recalls a classmate singing "Another one Rides the Bus" ages ago -- and never managed to see him perform.
The crowd, on the whole, was, well... white and nerdy. As Dan put it, there seemed to be a sub-set of the audience for whom Al was salvation and a justification for being. Al is quite a showman, and somehow even his old material still works. With the exception, perhaps, of "All about the Pentiums," which was still fun to watch, his parodies are timeless even where the originals are dated. "My new computer's got the clocks, it rocks
But it was obsolete before I opened the box
You say you've had your desktop for over a week?
Throw that junk away, man, it's an antique."
Dan appreciated different things about the concert itself than I did.
He remarked on the number of strings on the Banjo Jim West played, and he identified all of the basses Steve Jay played. I just giggled over the lyrics and the way Al wooed the crown. Both of us admired the 
musicianship of the band -- playing every genre from polka to grunge to rap convincingly -- and the amazing way that Al manages to enthrall a crowd ranging in age from 6 to 60. Far from being a has-been, he has attracted a whole new generation of white and nerdy followers. Al and Steve Jay, the band bassist, were both gracious enough to meet and greet several of us after the show, and they signed my T-shirt.
I had a lot of fun. Dan remarked after the show that I was a "such a good wife" for buying him tickets. So, I think it was a winner!
For the record, we also ate dinner at Abyssinia, the Ethiopian restaurant in Raleigh. It's a bit of a hole in the wall, but the food was excellent, and the minimalistic decor featured several lovely Ethiopian Orthodox icons. We'll definitely be back there again... even if we are rather white and nerdy.
The world is full of strangeness, and Weird Al Yankovic accounts for plenty of it himself. He was born in Downey, CA, (where I appeared in "Oklahoma" at the civic center) and grew up in Lynwood, which is a whole 15 miles from Whittier, where I grew up. The first music video I ever saw was "I'm Fat",
his parody of then-cool Michael Jackson's "I'm Bad." The year was approximately 1988. I must say, I have never been much of an MTV aficionado, but that video remains among my favorites.While I loved "I'm Fat" from the first viewing, and became aware of Al's existence back in the late 80's, and really enjoyed pretty much everything Al was written since, and lived in Southern California... I never managed to see Al until I moved to the Raleigh area and caught him on his current to
ur. Dan similarly has known of Al for years -- he recalls a classmate singing "Another one Rides the Bus" ages ago -- and never managed to see him perform.
The crowd, on the whole, was, well... white and nerdy. As Dan put it, there seemed to be a sub-set of the audience for whom Al was salvation and a justification for being. Al is quite a showman, and somehow even his old material still works. With the exception, perhaps, of "All about the Pentiums," which was still fun to watch, his parodies are timeless even where the originals are dated. "My new computer's got the clocks, it rocksBut it was obsolete before I opened the box
You say you've had your desktop for over a week?
Throw that junk away, man, it's an antique."
Dan appreciated different things about the concert itself than I did.
He remarked on the number of strings on the Banjo Jim West played, and he identified all of the basses Steve Jay played. I just giggled over the lyrics and the way Al wooed the crown. Both of us admired the 
musicianship of the band -- playing every genre from polka to grunge to rap convincingly -- and the amazing way that Al manages to enthrall a crowd ranging in age from 6 to 60. Far from being a has-been, he has attracted a whole new generation of white and nerdy followers. Al and Steve Jay, the band bassist, were both gracious enough to meet and greet several of us after the show, and they signed my T-shirt.I had a lot of fun. Dan remarked after the show that I was a "such a good wife" for buying him tickets. So, I think it was a winner!
For the record, we also ate dinner at Abyssinia, the Ethiopian restaurant in Raleigh. It's a bit of a hole in the wall, but the food was excellent, and the minimalistic decor featured several lovely Ethiopian Orthodox icons. We'll definitely be back there again... even if we are rather white and nerdy.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Reading Between the Lines
Dan and I have both been busy with all sorts of things, but we have both managed to find time to read. It is sometimes hard for me to get excited about reading given how much of it I have to do for work, but I have discovered that if I can stand a few insect bites, time spent in the swing under the (mercifully non-whomping)
willow tree in our yard is time very well spent indeed. I prefer not to go out there during the heat of the day, but the morning and evening hours are usually comfortable enough for a little quality time with some paper, ink and glue.
Of course, we both read the new Harry Potter
book. Without offering any spoilers, I liked book 7 best, with the exception of the final chapter exploring future things in the lives of the surviving characters. Frankly, I thought Rowling tied a few of those things up just a little too tidily. That said, the book was a good read and provided fitting closure to the series. I waited a bit longer to read it than most of the population of the Harry-reading world, but it proved very worth the wait.
I'm also working my way through three or four other books, each of a different ilk. Two of them came from the library -- namely Freddy and Fredericka, by Mark Helprin, and Talk to the Hand, by Lynn Truss. The fictional British royals in Freddy were put aside in favor of Harry, but I look forward to visiting them again soon. Talk to the Hand I just picked up last night. I needed some sleep so I forced myself to stop reading when midnight crept up on me, but I am very much looking forward to the opportunity to pick up where I left off at my earliest convenience. Truss has the sort of biting wit and rather charmingly curmudgeonly character that I find delightful. She laughs at herself as she tackles the rather distinct lack of manners in today's world. My third work in progress is slow going. It's the rather ponderous and hulking tome entitled Le Ton Beau De Marot: In Praise of the Music of Language, written by the brilliant Douglas Hofstadter. That book is a mental workout and something of an emotional ride, and I am barely through the first chapters! It is, in many ways, one man's grief over the loss of his wife in the form of the exploration of one French poem and the many tangentially relevant ways it intersects life. I am also working my way through a tattered old volume of O. Henry stories when I get into a particular reading mood.
Dan is still working on the amazing On Food and Cooking: The Science and Lore of the Kitchen, by Harold McGee. It's not the sort of book that most people read cover to cover, but Dan's not most people. It is the sort of book that ties together science, culture and human experience in a rather unforgettable way... not to mention that it is a great source of the foodie trivia that so fascinates Dan. He's also reading The Sorrows of Empire, by Chalmers Johnson, an Old Church Slavonic Grammar, the occasional programming book and would be in the middle of Landscape Painted with Tea, by Milorad Pavic, if we could find it.
For the family-types who have noted that Dan has a birthday coming up soon, I submit the list of links that currently comprise his birthday wish-list.
willow tree in our yard is time very well spent indeed. I prefer not to go out there during the heat of the day, but the morning and evening hours are usually comfortable enough for a little quality time with some paper, ink and glue.Of course, we both read the new Harry Potter
book. Without offering any spoilers, I liked book 7 best, with the exception of the final chapter exploring future things in the lives of the surviving characters. Frankly, I thought Rowling tied a few of those things up just a little too tidily. That said, the book was a good read and provided fitting closure to the series. I waited a bit longer to read it than most of the population of the Harry-reading world, but it proved very worth the wait.I'm also working my way through three or four other books, each of a different ilk. Two of them came from the library -- namely Freddy and Fredericka, by Mark Helprin, and Talk to the Hand, by Lynn Truss. The fictional British royals in Freddy were put aside in favor of Harry, but I look forward to visiting them again soon. Talk to the Hand I just picked up last night. I needed some sleep so I forced myself to stop reading when midnight crept up on me, but I am very much looking forward to the opportunity to pick up where I left off at my earliest convenience. Truss has the sort of biting wit and rather charmingly curmudgeonly character that I find delightful. She laughs at herself as she tackles the rather distinct lack of manners in today's world. My third work in progress is slow going. It's the rather ponderous and hulking tome entitled Le Ton Beau De Marot: In Praise of the Music of Language, written by the brilliant Douglas Hofstadter. That book is a mental workout and something of an emotional ride, and I am barely through the first chapters! It is, in many ways, one man's grief over the loss of his wife in the form of the exploration of one French poem and the many tangentially relevant ways it intersects life. I am also working my way through a tattered old volume of O. Henry stories when I get into a particular reading mood.
Dan is still working on the amazing On Food and Cooking: The Science and Lore of the Kitchen, by Harold McGee. It's not the sort of book that most people read cover to cover, but Dan's not most people. It is the sort of book that ties together science, culture and human experience in a rather unforgettable way... not to mention that it is a great source of the foodie trivia that so fascinates Dan. He's also reading The Sorrows of Empire, by Chalmers Johnson, an Old Church Slavonic Grammar, the occasional programming book and would be in the middle of Landscape Painted with Tea, by Milorad Pavic, if we could find it.
For the family-types who have noted that Dan has a birthday coming up soon, I submit the list of links that currently comprise his birthday wish-list.
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00000DTEW/
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00000DR75/
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00005JLR8/
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0001EFTXI/
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000007R1O/
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00005UQ7T/
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000026FQM/
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0152017968/I think we both are enjoying our books... though I also think it is fairly obvious who is the more ambitious reader.Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Change is good.
My supervisor at work has a pretty simple philosophy about change: "Change is good." "Embrace change." To be fair, I embraced a change he wasn't terribly excited about (namely moving to NC), but whenever I am asked to step out of my usual way of doing things at work and accept that things not only can but probably should be done differently, I hear the same things come out of his mouth: "I love change." "Change is great!" For my part, I usually say something like, "Yes, and I am trying to be open to it. I believe you, it will just take me a while to adjust."
This weekend was busy in a fun sort of way, but it also represented some change.
Dan and I got considerably more of the house sorted, and we had some good heart-to-heart talks. But it wasn't all work. We also went shopping. (Okay, so Dan will tell you that shopping is drudgery, but he's misguided--I am convinced of that.) In fact, we bought ourselves early anniversary gifts.
Given our one-car status and the lack of effective public transit in this area, I've had at least two friends suggest that I get a motor scooter of some stripe, but I am afraid that's not in the budget right about now. We could, however, justify the purchase of good old fashioned muscle-propelled bikes. Dan had been wanting one himself, since riding a bike is the sort of fitness-inducing activity he enjoys. I gave it some thought and decided that the utility of a bike had its charms, so we decided we would each look for one.
I confess that I was rather scared when I walked into the bike shop. I can't remember the last time I rode a bike, but strangely enough I remembered all too well the many spills I took on bikes as a kid, including the time I ran smack into the back of Mr. Perry's old pick-up truck. Brake failure? Misjudged distance? I don't remember how it happened; I only know that it did and that blood and scars ensued. I found myself nervously joking about banana seats with the salesman, before settling on a "starter" mountain-ish bike to try. He offered me a helmet and the chance to ride the bike around the parking lot.
At that point I felt I had a serious choice to make: take a chance on falling and looking like an idiot, refuse the test-ride and get to the relative safety of our driveway before attempting to ride, or just conclude that the bike thing wasn't for me after all. Perhaps the deciding factor was my equally vivid recollection of the burn in my legs and the sweat-bath I endured walking to the post office in 90 degrees of heat and 60% humidity. A bike equaled some relief from that, and even the prospect of falling down in the parking lot wasn't enough to match my desire to have another option. So, I hopped on the narrow seat and wobbled back and forth a bit as I made those first uneven turns of the pedals.
I was gripping the handlebars for dear life and my heart was racing, but before I knew it I felt the warm wind on my face and realized that I had done it! I made a few lazy circles, occasionally daring to pedal a little bit more quickly, and then, with a bit of a smile, I headed back to the shop. Dan had been watching from a bench, his bike selected and going through its "tune-up," and he greeted me with a smile and a question about how well I liked the bike. You know... I think I liked it. I felt distinct relief when I had both feet on solid ground again, but I also had the feeling that somehow this whole bike business would be okay.
We're still collecting all of the various things we need to keep the bikes road-worthy and ourselves intact (helmets, pumps, water bottles, gauges...), but we took the bikes out for a little ride in the neighborhood last night after dinner and an episode of CSI. I discovered that biking is work as soon as there is a bit of an incline, and Dan had to slow up for me a couple of times... but I made it home again with another very tangible sense of accomplishment.
The move has brought several challenges, and I seem to be pleasantly surprised when I have what it takes to meet them. So, to echo the sentiment I hear so often at work. Change is good. Change is great. I love change. Well, anyway, I'm embracing it as best I can!
This weekend was busy in a fun sort of way, but it also represented some change.
Dan and I got considerably more of the house sorted, and we had some good heart-to-heart talks. But it wasn't all work. We also went shopping. (Okay, so Dan will tell you that shopping is drudgery, but he's misguided--I am convinced of that.) In fact, we bought ourselves early anniversary gifts.
Given our one-car status and the lack of effective public transit in this area, I've had at least two friends suggest that I get a motor scooter of some stripe, but I am afraid that's not in the budget right about now. We could, however, justify the purchase of good old fashioned muscle-propelled bikes. Dan had been wanting one himself, since riding a bike is the sort of fitness-inducing activity he enjoys. I gave it some thought and decided that the utility of a bike had its charms, so we decided we would each look for one.
I confess that I was rather scared when I walked into the bike shop. I can't remember the last time I rode a bike, but strangely enough I remembered all too well the many spills I took on bikes as a kid, including the time I ran smack into the back of Mr. Perry's old pick-up truck. Brake failure? Misjudged distance? I don't remember how it happened; I only know that it did and that blood and scars ensued. I found myself nervously joking about banana seats with the salesman, before settling on a "starter" mountain-ish bike to try. He offered me a helmet and the chance to ride the bike around the parking lot.
At that point I felt I had a serious choice to make: take a chance on falling and looking like an idiot, refuse the test-ride and get to the relative safety of our driveway before attempting to ride, or just conclude that the bike thing wasn't for me after all. Perhaps the deciding factor was my equally vivid recollection of the burn in my legs and the sweat-bath I endured walking to the post office in 90 degrees of heat and 60% humidity. A bike equaled some relief from that, and even the prospect of falling down in the parking lot wasn't enough to match my desire to have another option. So, I hopped on the narrow seat and wobbled back and forth a bit as I made those first uneven turns of the pedals.
I was gripping the handlebars for dear life and my heart was racing, but before I knew it I felt the warm wind on my face and realized that I had done it! I made a few lazy circles, occasionally daring to pedal a little bit more quickly, and then, with a bit of a smile, I headed back to the shop. Dan had been watching from a bench, his bike selected and going through its "tune-up," and he greeted me with a smile and a question about how well I liked the bike. You know... I think I liked it. I felt distinct relief when I had both feet on solid ground again, but I also had the feeling that somehow this whole bike business would be okay.
We're still collecting all of the various things we need to keep the bikes road-worthy and ourselves intact (helmets, pumps, water bottles, gauges...), but we took the bikes out for a little ride in the neighborhood last night after dinner and an episode of CSI. I discovered that biking is work as soon as there is a bit of an incline, and Dan had to slow up for me a couple of times... but I made it home again with another very tangible sense of accomplishment.
The move has brought several challenges, and I seem to be pleasantly surprised when I have what it takes to meet them. So, to echo the sentiment I hear so often at work. Change is good. Change is great. I love change. Well, anyway, I'm embracing it as best I can!
Friday, July 27, 2007
Have Shoes Will Walk
Those of you who know me well know that I am not, as Jane Austen may have put it, " a great walker." Sure, I can walk if I must, but it is not my first choice... well, pretty much ever. That's the beautiful thing about choices--when you don't have them, you do not need to rely on free will. I have been pretty much carless during the week. We shipped one of our cars and sold the other. Dan takes the car we have to work in Raleigh. That leaves me at home with the option of going by foot or by foot if I want to leave the house. Yes, you guessed it--I go by foot. It's painful, it's hot, and it's not my preference... but it is also pretty great!
The fun part about living close to the heart of a small town is that you can walk places. We are not so deeply embedded in suburbia that we can't reach town without a car. I have needed to get out of the house some, so necessity has mothered the opportunity to discover that plenty of places are within a 20-minutes leisurely walk. Among other destinations, I can easily reach a coffee shop, town hall, the police station, the post office, two drugstores, a wonderfully authentic Mexican Restaurant, an antique shop, the Saturday Farmer's Market, a couple of beauty parlors and the library.
Aside from a cat call from a passing motorist (yes, I think he meant me, as there was nobody else in sight...) and a few nervous moments when trying to cross main street without a crosswalk (the town isn't big enough to need them, I suppose), walking even felt safe. I have now outfitted myself with a travel pouch (that I can hide under my clothing) containing a house key, my inhaler, my library card, and anything else I think I may need when I set out. Strangely enough, I have yet to need the inhaler. That, and the fact that my clothes are fitting a bit more comfortably lead me to believe that this lack of options has been one of the better things that could have happened to me.
However, I am making one choice for myself that isn't a result of a lack of other choices. I have an appointment with a woman at the local Curves. I'm planning to join, which should give me opportunities to meet other local women and to do something positive for my health. They have already told me that they will start calling me if I haven't come in as planned, so I figure the accountability won't hurt either. Dan and I are thinking about investing in bikes. A bike may allow me to get a bit further or just get places faster. Either way, it will help me get around.
Wish me luck!
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Flying Cats, Unsweet Tea and Other Improbabilities
July 4 has come and gone... though I imagine it will remain a memorable day for all of the members of our family--two- and four-footed. Most of the day was spent in dread of the coming ordeal made a bit less ominous by the busy-making packing up of what remained of our stuff--the keeper items that had escaped the *real* packing--so that my parents could ship it to us via UPS. (Thanks to Jeff from church for the brilliant idea... and to Mom and Dad for actually making it happen!)
The then coming ordeal, namely a flight to Raleigh via JFK in New York--with two cats as carry-on luggage, was not on our list of things to look forward to. (No, the routing through NY made no sense to us either.) In fact, the getting to Raleigh was the bit none of us wanted to do. The cats knew something was up, but never having flown before, they really could not have imagined what they were in for. I have since consulted with them and they have indicated a preference for never doing it again.
Among the improbabilities referenced in the title of this post is genuine human decency exhibited by airline employees. Delta made big points in my book. You see, we went to the wrong kiosk to check in, and with over a hundred pounds of luggage and 2 cats (one of whom had managed to work his head out of his carrier and was looking for the nearest hiding place should he manage to effect an escape), moving to a new counter was no small matter. We moved to the counter suggested by a Delta employee, only to be told that we were, once again, in the wrong spot.
The nice man at the counter must have read the desperation in my eyes, because he looked at his non-existent line and declared that he could help us afterall. And help he did. He managed to put us and all of our luggage on a *direct* flight to Raleigh with no additional charges for the flight transfer or the over-weight luggage. So, we ended up on a flight that took much less time and got us into the area about 4 hours early. We had to share the flight with a rabbit (which may explain my huge allergy attack that lasted the whole flight), and the cats, albeit sedated, cried like there was no tomorrow for the duration. But we all made it.
There's plenty to tell about the actual move-in process, but I will save that for later. I'm stuck on the improbabilities. Next in my list is genuine human decency in a U-haul employee. It turns out that we, unaccustomed to the ways of the South, may have made a bit of a blunder when it came time to decide that a 28-foot truck really would not fit on our little street. I have since been told that we can park anything that moves in our street and nobody will say boo. (I'll keep that in mind when I need a combine...). Anyhow, we decided to take a reasonably-sized U-haul that would fit in our driveway to Durham load our stuff from the terminal. This meant hiring some muscle to help us, because we had only a few hours in which to accomplish 2 truckloads.
Well, we managed to get a truck from a local self-storage place. The woman who helped us genuinely tried to HELP us--figuring out how she could make everything cost as little as possible and work as conveniently as possible. We left with some keys, recommendations of moving help, and the feeling that we had made a friend.
When we arrived we had no stove and we still have no refrigerator. That has made domesticity a bit more of a challenge. I'm keeping a few perishables on ice and making frequent small grocery purchases... much like people used to do. This lends an air of quaintness to the whole small town life we have moved into. Somehow it's okay here... even though the same arrangement in CA would have driven me crazy. I made dinner for two nights yesterday, and I even baked a cake. I plan to make bread this morning to go with the slow-cooked supper I started yesterday.
However, before domesticity became practical, we did a little bit of eating out. Here's where the third improbability arises. One night we found ourselves at Sonic, "America's Drive-in," and what appears to be the local teen hangout after polite hours. They have a menu full of burgers and dogs and cold treats, and you order from your car or from a speaker system near your outdoor table. I ordered Iced Tea. However, I ordered the very unorthodox "unsweet" variety and was very specific when ordering. When my drink was delivered, it was sweet. I told the nice young man that while it was delicious, I did, in fact, want the unsweet tea. He looked at me like I had 17 eyes. He then rather reluctantly and suspiciously suggested that if I *really* wanted he could bring me some unsweet tea. I apologized and insisted that I really *did* want the unsweet variety. So he repeated that he could take my cup and bring it back with unsweet tea, and then he waited for encouragement. I encouraged him, and he walked away with my cup, shaking his head all the while. He returned, handed me my cup, and waited while I sipped on the fresh drink. He then said, "I can bring you sugar packets so you can sweeten that up..." I thanked him for his offer and insisted that although I realized it was crazy, I actually like my tea that way. Again, he walked away with a look of total bewilderment. I think I may have scarred him for life.
Ah well... life here is different. It's gentler somehow, and I have already found myself slowing down a bit. Waiting in a long grocery line seems less of a crime. Looking at a stranger and smiling is a good thing. Sitting outdoors on the porch in the evening is the norm... and it won't get you shot. The improbable has become possible, and it is providing a much-needed change in perspective. I think I'll pour myself another glass of unsweet tea...
Monday, July 2, 2007
And Miles to Go Before We Sleep...
The last several days have been a whirlwind of activity. We've managed to mostly pack up the contents of our house, load most of the important bits onto a truck (well... onto a truck and then into a trailer--long story... I won't miss Orange County laws.) and take up residence on the floor of the master bedroom with odds and ends (mostly trash) surrounding our borrowed air mattress.
I am reminded that I really hate moving all of our earthly possessions... and I am also reminded that we have far too many of them! The good part is that we will have significantly fewer when we arrive on the right coast. Knowing we will not have a garage makes it easier to decide to throw some things away. Throwing, in general, is something I am loathe to do, since, as mom and I were discussing over box #38, I am sentimental about people and things. I have managed to amass quite an assortment of scraps of paper and nick-nacks that illustrate my history. (You know, I really should get rid of some of those old journals!)
The cats are definitely beginning to become suspicious. They are no longer allowed on their "prison yard walks," as cat behavior dictates that when the people are acting strangely, the kitties should consider finding a good hiding place--preferably somewhere in the neighborhood that is inaccessible to the humans. Monte has illustrated this principle twice when he has managed to sneak out. I'm in no humor to look for him again!
We went to church this morning. Daniel went early to chant matins. I came later with Khouria Ann and Stephanie. It may have been the last service for the foreseeable future that will be sung in 4 parts, because I sang tenor and Daniel sang bass. The service was quite lovely, if a bit long, since we had a few "add-ons." The first of the additions was an service of the removal of the wedding crowns for Dave and Lisa, a lovely couple whose wedding was held after church two weeks ago. The second addition was a beautiful prayer for the journey that Father prayed over us. The last was a Trisagion memorial service for a priest in Northern California who has passed away during the week. Any one of those things would have been enough to make me sniffle a bit. Any two would have been enough to make me shed a few tears. All three... well, I was little more than a puddle.
After the service, Father Andrew talked for a few minutes about his love for us and about Daniel's investment and sacrifice over the years for our little mission parish. He became choked up, and I couldn't help but cry some more. He made an appeal to the small congregation to make the small spiritual vineyard Daniel had helped to plant bear rich fruit--for Daniel. Father presented us with a card signed by all of the parishioners that contained an immensely generous love gift collected by our spiritual family there. After church we talked and hugged and ate an amazing cake Linda made that featured the full, detailed sheet music to "God Grant You Many Years" on the top.
I'd like to take a moment to thank all of the wonderful people at St. John, and, further back, at St. Michael in Whitter, who have embraced us and been such blessings in our lives. I couldn't begin to name the ways we have been enriched by knowing all of the living saints we have met over the past 15 years--both as individuals and together as a couple. We pray that God will grant you many, many years... and that we'll see lots more of you somehow!
Once we left church, we did a bit more move business before going over to Father Andrew's house for a delicious homey dinner and plenty of wine and laughter. All told, it was a very emotional and very special day. These are the moments I treasure in my heart and hope to always remember. We've been very blessed until now, and it is exciting to think that we will be blessed in new ways in a new place.
Still... there is so much to do.
...I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
I am reminded that I really hate moving all of our earthly possessions... and I am also reminded that we have far too many of them! The good part is that we will have significantly fewer when we arrive on the right coast. Knowing we will not have a garage makes it easier to decide to throw some things away. Throwing, in general, is something I am loathe to do, since, as mom and I were discussing over box #38, I am sentimental about people and things. I have managed to amass quite an assortment of scraps of paper and nick-nacks that illustrate my history. (You know, I really should get rid of some of those old journals!)
The cats are definitely beginning to become suspicious. They are no longer allowed on their "prison yard walks," as cat behavior dictates that when the people are acting strangely, the kitties should consider finding a good hiding place--preferably somewhere in the neighborhood that is inaccessible to the humans. Monte has illustrated this principle twice when he has managed to sneak out. I'm in no humor to look for him again!
We went to church this morning. Daniel went early to chant matins. I came later with Khouria Ann and Stephanie. It may have been the last service for the foreseeable future that will be sung in 4 parts, because I sang tenor and Daniel sang bass. The service was quite lovely, if a bit long, since we had a few "add-ons." The first of the additions was an service of the removal of the wedding crowns for Dave and Lisa, a lovely couple whose wedding was held after church two weeks ago. The second addition was a beautiful prayer for the journey that Father prayed over us. The last was a Trisagion memorial service for a priest in Northern California who has passed away during the week. Any one of those things would have been enough to make me sniffle a bit. Any two would have been enough to make me shed a few tears. All three... well, I was little more than a puddle.
After the service, Father Andrew talked for a few minutes about his love for us and about Daniel's investment and sacrifice over the years for our little mission parish. He became choked up, and I couldn't help but cry some more. He made an appeal to the small congregation to make the small spiritual vineyard Daniel had helped to plant bear rich fruit--for Daniel. Father presented us with a card signed by all of the parishioners that contained an immensely generous love gift collected by our spiritual family there. After church we talked and hugged and ate an amazing cake Linda made that featured the full, detailed sheet music to "God Grant You Many Years" on the top.
I'd like to take a moment to thank all of the wonderful people at St. John, and, further back, at St. Michael in Whitter, who have embraced us and been such blessings in our lives. I couldn't begin to name the ways we have been enriched by knowing all of the living saints we have met over the past 15 years--both as individuals and together as a couple. We pray that God will grant you many, many years... and that we'll see lots more of you somehow!
Once we left church, we did a bit more move business before going over to Father Andrew's house for a delicious homey dinner and plenty of wine and laughter. All told, it was a very emotional and very special day. These are the moments I treasure in my heart and hope to always remember. We've been very blessed until now, and it is exciting to think that we will be blessed in new ways in a new place.
Still... there is so much to do.
...I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
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