Aftermath

Aftermath, one word not two. After math is like 3rd period, after math. This is more like Donald J. Drumpf is going to be the next POTUS. Yeah. Bad. Or maybe a little gentler aftermath would be post-NaNoWriMo. That is coming up (maybe today!). I've hit 48,765 words, so today (and tomorrow if necessary) I have to write 1,235 more words. That's less than a single day of normal NaNo. I'm getting really psyched! I have an excellent track record, so far, of ONLY buying a WINNER shirt on years that I win - but I buy them BEFORE I WIN! It's pretty motivating, actually, because they ain't cheap and if I lose I force myself to donate the shirt. Harsh! In the (almost) aftermath of the crazy marathon of writing I (almost) find myself relieved and ready for a break, but also full of inspiration and confidence I didn't have going in.

1. I fucking did it! It's hard. It takes diligence and perseverance, neither of which I actually have. It also takes generating a story that has enough interest to keep my ADHD brain engaged. Not easy.

2. If the story is great, which sometimes it is, I love that I now have a HUGE pile of words to pick through and pull from to create a cohesive arc and build on personable characters. Often the NaNo work itself is kind of chaotic, because that's me. I'm a pantser. But it gives me a ton of material to work with.

3. As disorganized as my pantsed work is, I do work hard to think the story through before I finish. There is generally a beginning middle and end. Occasionally there's a theme or moral. Infrequently (but once it's happened) a long string of pages work really well together and just get plucked from their nest and into a new home, a new document, impressive and whole.

4. Making time for me can be really challenging. It comes with a heaping spoonful of guilt, because I am the caregiver of a child, a dog, a husband, a house, two cars, a potted garden (which is mostly dead, now that's it's the end of November), and a host of volunteer jobs, not to mention my mom/brother, friends, in-law family, and other activities. I don't think I'm unique, or have more on my plate than most - in fact I think I have less. And I have pretty understanding people in my immediate world. But it can STILL be hard. Plus most of the time I can carve out is either giving up one of the aforementioned things (like friendships, laundry/cleaning/shopping/housework, or something even less lovable, like making our end of year cards for everyone we've ever met etc.) or my OTHER me time - binge watching Netflix original series. Tough choices, to be sure.

Anyway, the glow of this aftermath is so close I can feel the brushed cotton of the t'shirt. I hope everyone gets to experience this feeling in some way - whether it's art or programming, finishing a really hard puzzle (I've got one of those on the go now too), sports, or cooking; this feeling of aftermath - as opposed to the OTHER aftermath (i.e.: DJT) is AWESOME!

I forgot

I actually forgot that this exists. Wow. I've been forgetting things lately, but forgetting for THREE YEARS that I have invested at least something into a blog for a while...that's sad. Well, I'm back! And happy to be back. Maybe I needed the break.

So since I am back, I want to mention Pub518. Shannon, Rachel, Lizette and I each chipped in some money and time and we're getting this little publishing business off the ground. It makes us happy! Check out our site (which doesn't have much yet, but there is ANOTHER blog there, all about writing), and try submitting something to our next publication. The launch is closed for submissions now, but we've got the next one in the planning stages already. Check back periodically for more info and dates.

Also done is MY FIRST NOVEL. Lethal Secret is a mystery set in the Albany area. It's sassy and thrilling, full of thought provoking behaviors and, I hope, quirky characters that are easy to love and/or hate. The quick and dirty on it is this:

***

A handwritten note arrives at Nicole’s rural farmhouse - no address, no stamp. “I know what you are doing. If you don’t stop, your family will pay.” In response, Nicole feels she must give up her habit of supplementing her hum-drum sex life with the eccentric sex rites she relishes, performed with other members in the basement of her church. Admitting this will blow her marriage apart. She’s never told her husband Liam about the rites because she believes he wouldn’t approve. Nicole attempts to quit. Lonely and unhappy, she falters after a few weeks. Clandestinely re-entering her sexual alter-ego world, she discovers that she’s been followed. A second note appears. and shortly after, her daughter complains of an upset stomach. As her symptoms soon develop into a fever and full-blown illness, Nicole runs out of time. 

Detective Antonio Petrosino and his partner, Officer Francine Solanski, embark on solving the crime of little Amelia’s poisoning, entering a mad world of sex, jealousy, and brilliant chemistry. Petrosino lives a straight life, full of Sunday dinners with his mom and a well ordered private life. The multi-sexual world that he investigates leaves a foul taste in his mouth, but as lead investigator he has to moderate the attitudes of his own and other cops. Solanski is a street kid who grew up to be a tough, kind hearted cop. She’s young, but street savvy, and on her way to becoming a Detective the Albany NY Police Department. As his new partner, she is learning from one of the best detectives in the Albany PD.

During the hunt to find the perpetrator, Nicole and her husband Liam must decide whether they belong together, if either can change enough to make their marriage work. Petrosino and Solanski find themselves all over the capital district, from Lake George down to the Catskill State Forest, and figure out how to be better as a team than they are alone. As Nicole and Liam fight to reclaim their lives, doctors and researchers search desperately for a cure for their child’s lethal illness, and hope that the police are having more success than they are. Amelia’s survival is in the hands of many competent, well-intentioned people, but in the end, it is her own family who have to pull together to figure out how to save themselves. 

***

I'll let you all know when this gets picked up for publication! Meanwhile, NaNo has rolled around AGAIN, so I've started a new project called Blood of War. This follows the genetic line of a single bloodthirsty man through time, seeing how his gene pool spreads across parts of the world. IT's a historical novel, and is taking a lot of time to research, but it's fun. 

When I get more time, I'll post pics of our trip to England, Scotland, and Wales, which was really amazing. 24 days on the road with the four of us in pretty close quarters nearly the entire time, and we not only survived, we really enjoyed the trip. Some of the pics are amazing!

Ok, back to work, before I forget.

I lost my sweet Maa last week.

I could go on about how wonderful she was (because she was), or how much she meant to me, but I have a terrible headache from crying already.  I wrote this to her actual children, actual as in biological.  I was one of their several adopted children.  I will miss her till my own parting, as I miss her husband and my Paa, Tank.  Rest in Peace my friends.

Dear POD and Sue

I hope the memorial was perfect - in the sense that so many people touched by your Mum were there, able to support each other, laugh together and be glad together for her long and amazing life.  I've spent the last week saying goodbye to Maa in ways that feel meaningful to me, from so far away.

I know that once you wrap up her accounts, it is likely that we will not have comms from that point on, so I wanted to say goodbye to you, too, older brother and sister I never had, or met.  I heard all about you as kids, romping through your home, going to events and on trips.  Your Dad was especially vocal about memories of you both, your friends and fun times.  Joanie was more about your moves, promotions, grandkids, both very proud parents!  It was wonderful getting to know you through them.

Losing first Tank and now Joan has been very hard; it was a lonely grief both times.  Your parents helped to form a part of my life which was very significant and meaningful to me.  They taught me so much about being connected and generosity, they were the first people to ever offer me unconditional love.  My husband met your folks, but he really never got to know them - we stayed at Down Place for a weekend so that they could meet him, and so that I could say goodbye to them on my way back to N. America.  I never did see either of them again.  I can still feel your daddy's giant hug goodbye, and maa's soft kisses.

I wanted to thank you both for sharing your family with me.  Tank was so big, and filled up so much space in my heart, and Joanie filled in every missing piece left burnt and raw by my selfish, crazy mother.  Your parents knew how to pick an orphan!  Lainey too had so much need of them, I am thinking a lot of her, these days, as well.  Tank and Joan both had hearts so big and generous, it's been an honor and a blessing to have been part of their world.  You are both super people, I wish you and both of your families all the very best in your futures.

If indeed you'd like to maintain comms, I'd be very happy to, though I imagine if you tried to maintain all your parents friendships, you'd have no time for your own!  So be well, both of you.

With love,

Andy Lee

A Sporting Chance

A sporting chance.

Holy crap - I just realized that I really REALLY want to win at Naniwrimo this year.  Like a LOT.  I want to write and post and keep up with people.  I want to finish my novel, I want to read it to people, I want to make it GREAT.  So ok, I go onto the website, my homepage website, on Nanowrimo, and realize that THIS blog is attached to THAT page.  Well well.  If that isn't a reason to come up with something interesting to say...

So of interest lately around these parts is: kids sports.

My son is 8.5 and reasonably athletic.  He doesn't get it from his mom, but he can lope, he can dance around a soccer ball and he loves it.  So we moved from rec soccer to travel soccer - mostly to play with other kids who REALLY like to play, and also because he can play more often.  2 times a week would have been sufficient.  But ok, 4 times a week is what this team does.  It's what ALL the not-rec teams do.  True also for baseball.  5 times a week for football (never EVER letting him play football).  We don't play baseball.  Too boring.  So there's this tournament, the kids have to win 3/3 to get to the NEXT stage, which is in the Spring.  The first three games are in the Fall.  They are all over the state.  We got super lucky - the first two games are home games, and the third is 3 hrs away.  Not too bad.  My kid made the "silver" team.  There's also a "gold" team.  He didn't make that.  As it turns out, the "gold" team has 2 games away, and only one home game.  So I'm pttttth'ing the golden children and their parents who will be driving a LOT of hours.  I admit I'm competitive when it comes to how awesome my kid is.  He's a really nice kid - kind and gentle (generally), grateful and remembers his pleases and thank yous.  Usually.  Anyway, their kids are too - that isn't the point - the point is that I LIKE being competitive.  His best bud is a golden child, and his mom and I can JOKE about how my kid didn't make the cut.  There's another family that got moved down (we got moved down too), and they're all pissy and won't discuss (let alone make fun of) what happened.  Shrug.  What can we do, make them feel better?  Explain to their kid that their daddy doesn't coach, so they don't deserve more than a nod to their unbelievable (not) talent and incredible hard work?  Not so much.  We can laugh about it and enjoy the sunshine in our eyes, giving us new eye crinkles, and the fresh air and allergic asthma of all that newly mown grass.

The politics of kids sports is ridiculous, but it's part of the game.  Don't get pissed at it, mamas and papas.  Get in the game.  Get your head in the game.  If your kid is a huge risk taker - aggressive and a big mental player - expect that some coaches will not like that.  If you are not coaching your kid, expect him to get placed wherever the coach places him.  And for the love of pete - don't take it out on the sport!  Baseball is just baseball.  A diamond with a hump in the middle and a chain link fence around two sides.  That's it.  Bats and balls are optional.  Bases are optional.  Even the chain link is optional (but recommended, especially with those hard little balls the boys play with).  But a sense of humor (and a cushion for the aluminum bench) is highly recommended.  Bring your camera if you must.  Bring your beer/vodka/wine/whatever it is you need to be mellow and have fun.  Keep your head on and your mouth shut.  I have so enjoyed the seasons on the field, indoor and outside, but it is hard to get too wrapped up in the politics.  I just want my kid to be the best (he can be - politically correct, correct?), and to kick ass out there.  Because it's all about kicking ass.  Someone else's.

Fur Freak

Animals never judge.  They don’t care what jeans I wear, whether I have a nasty pimple, or if my hair is flattering to my face shape.  They care about being warm and loved, and so do I.  They care about being curious and having fun, and so do I.  They care about food and shelter and playing and moving around, and so do I.  As a kid, I felt misunderstood by, well, everybody.  I got those notes sent home, things like “She is clearly not living up to her potential” and “Her squirrely behavior is disruptive and prevents her from focusing on the task at hand”, only to be given punishments and abuse by my parents, who were sure that would cure me of the behavior issues, and then ignored or worse by my siblings, who were pissed because now mom was in a bad mood and cooked crappy food for dinner.  So animals (later animals and music, and even later, animals, music and drugs) became my refuge.  Strays, baby birds, turtles, frogs, ants and crickets that I caught in the yard and kept in jars with twigs and leaves, the family dog, they were all part of my empathic experience.  I admit here that insects were not, in general, part of this empathesystem, as I call this little world of comfort, but there was always room for ants and crickets.  No elaboration. 

So how strange does it seem that the first dog I ever took responsibility for outside of the bounds of childhood, was found at City College of SF, where the cops had her tied up with a thick orange nylon rope, feeding her plates of spaghetti Bolognese.  She was a lovely golden mix, with a soft white stripe down her snout and eyes the color of roasted hazlenuts, about 6 weeks old.  They’d found her on the streets near the campus, and were hoping some softie would bring her home.  I promptly complied.  She rode the MUNI 43 home with me, her black nose and curious eyes poking out of my backpack, as I carried my books.  She had the softest ears of any creature I’d ever met.  Softer than the silk baby blanket I’d sent to my friend Jennifer for her new baby.  Softer than pussywillow buds.  I fell deeply in love with her.  She shat on my carpet for 2 days, until the diarrhea passed, and then I took her to the vet.  They ran cultures on her blood and stool, poked her with thermometers, jabbed her with vaccines, and pronounced her fit for adoption.  She still had no name, I had several favorites that I was trying out - Layla (Clapton fan), Bertha (Deadhead days), and Gertie (Gertrude Stein - big heroine) were the top contenders.  The next morning, before I made it out the door, the phone rang.  The vet, pronouncing that the puppy’s blood showed signs of cocaine.  I swore up and down that it wasn’t me, and they told me what to be aware of (diarrhea, nipping, fever), because she would be going through withdrawal for a few more days.  She was obviously Casey Jones, and like the next decade of life, we got through it together.    She (and I) graduated from Berkeley, enjoyed countless collegiate parties, was known far and wide along Telegraph Ave, throughout the Haight, and most of my of the classrooms by students and professors alike, who all enjoyed her company until they forgot she was even there. We hiked the Long Trail together, and many mountains, shared blankets and burgers.  My dad finally had to put her to sleep when she was diagnosed with terminal cancer, a ripe old lady of 88.5 human years.

I was 30 when my daughter was born, a chattery little creature with curls and sticky-outty ears.  Before she was one, we had decided on a house to buy and a town to live in, but my life still felt, well, there was a hole in it that neither husband nor child could fill.  He was undemanding, yet there were many times that I felt judged, and pronounced lacking, though he would argue that furiously.  She was growing into toddlerhood so quickly, and I wanted for her, as I’d had, that refuge of unconditional love that an animal offers.  I could see it already; though I would never repeat all of my mother’s mistakes, this little daughter of mine was going to rub and push me until we both bled.  We both needed a dog.  The week we moved out of our rental and into our new (to us) home, I went and picked up a dog.  He was a mix breed, marled, tri colored, soft eared and doe eyed.  He and the baby grew up together, but - as I knew he would - he stopped growing after a few months, while she continued to grow and change.  They always had each other, licking, pushing, playing, fighting over balls and squeaky toys for the first few years, later over the window seat and steak.  He was her pal and confidant, and he was mine too.  He never chose, he shared himself equally between all three of us, really, and when our son was born (and the dog was now quite mature), he gave that boy as much of himself as he had to offer.  He nipped his heels to keep him in the yard.  He fetched balls long after running made his arthritis throb.  He chased neighborhood cats out of the backyard sandbox and ate every scrap of food thrown (to him, across the room, didn’t matter).  This dog too accompanied us on river trips and woodland hikes.  He came on boats, road trips, and long neighborhood walks.  His downfall was his instinct to hunt little animals, which consistently broke my heart, as well as the heart of a brave little ten year old girl, whose rabbit he ate while we bunny sat their furbaby.  Not a good situation.  But he also did something profound and powerful with kids we knew.  He brought them out of fear and into love. 

We were part of a babysitting coop, a brilliant idea wherein we dropped our kid(s) off at someone’s house, prearranged, and traded them beads for their time.  It also meant that the same happened at our house.  One day, a fat baby girl of about nine months and her big brother, about five years old, came over to ‘play’.  It was a beautiful Summer day, warm and bright.  The bigger kids were outside in the backyard, playing on the tire swing, and my friend left, her baby snug in my arms, bag full of baby accoutrements over my shoulder, and a kiss for her well-occupied son, to return newly coiffed in an hour.  Scratch scratch at the screen door told me that the dog wanted in on the action. I brought the baby up on the deck, plopped her bag onto a chair, and opened the door for the dog.  As Zami ran out, I brought the baby inside and laid her on a blanket on the floor with baby toys to explore.  Suddenly, from outside, I heard a high pitched scream, the kind of scream that all mothers dread and respond to, regardless of the child of emanation, the kind that indicates evisceration, appendicitis, or possible missile attack.  I ran back outside, slamming through the door, my bare feet hardly touching the floor.  Into the yard, across the field of acorns (many of them broken open by squirrels), leaving blood in my wake as the acorn shards cut my feet to ribbons.  There, under the old Oak, was my daughter, looking at the boy she had just been happily playing with, who stood stock still, screaming as if staring into a nightmare.  And there sat the dog, directly in front of him.  The dog raised with kids, soft black ears pricked, gentle eyes waiting for this he child to do something smart with that ball, and stop all the racket.  I picked up the boy, who squirmed as high up on my shoulder as he could get, and talked him back into the relative calm that comes with hiccups and heaves.  

I pointed out the ball.  I pointed to the dog.  I asked my daughter to bring the ball to me.  I handed it up to the boy.  And here, just before he chucked it like Cy Young, something profound happened.  This boy loved balls, and so did this dog.  Around this concept, the two bonded so firmly that within a few months, they had a dog of their own.  Once the two boys were happily throwing and fetching, I went back inside to the baby, who was gurgling happily, collected her and her toys, and went back outside to call Mom and fill her in. “Oh,” she said when I’d told her what happened.  “Yeah, I might’ve forgotten to mention he’s deadly afraid of dogs.  His daddy’s family live in an area with ferrel dogs, so the fear of the devil is put into all the kids there to stay away from dogs.”  Ah.  Right.  “Well, he’s enjoying the dog play now, so just be prepared for whatever fall out may occur, no need to rush back.” 

This happened with other kids too.  Zami (short for Zamboni) was so kind, and enjoyed playing so much, that he broke down barriers for kids who were truly afraid of dogs.  And then he got sick.  His arthritis got so bad he could hardly walk.  Every winter, we assumed it would be his last.  That lasted for 5 winters.  At some point, we put him on meds that helped control inflamation and pain.  Another newer med at some point, and added another later on.  By the end, he was over 100 human years, deaf, mostly blind, and could hardly walk, stand, sit, or play.  It was time.  Losing him, for me, has meant losing a friend, a child, and a therapist, all in one swoop of death.  For my kids, it means losing a brother, pal, and confidante.  All the trite sayings apply - he is missed, he is remembered with every tennis ball, each time we walk in, or out, of the kitchen, see the empty little two-seater couch we bought for him from a garage sale (to save our own couch), or go for a ride to the river, knowing he will not swim out to fetch sticks.  It’s disarming, crying for what seems like no reason.  Except that my daughter, now a teenager, is also crying tears that means she was in love, that her friend meant more to her than her own happiness, and that she will surely, one day, open her heart again to the love of a furry friend.  Thank god.

What's Fair?

What IS fair? It is such a confusing, complicated world. I can't find answers, sometimes, things just don't seem to add up. Firstly, in talking with Mary Eglow, there is WAY too much parental involvement in college students' lives. Parents writing applications, essays, calling professors to adjust grades. How can kids who write their own essays, earn their own grades, compete with that? NOT fair.

Second, how can someone be happy with their life, and yet so miserably unhappy? How can I work so hard at this one thing that I can never succeed at? How can this be fair?

Third, How can I be an embarrassment to my daughter, when I work so hard at not embarrassing her? Just being me, evidently. Is that fair?

A war about us, about freedom, or a war about not changing, about spending it all, about never having to work harder. Tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of people dying in a country where life is already hard. Do we have the right to change their world, and not take responsibility for changing ours? Is that fair?

I have such conflicting feelings about all these, and so many more, issues. Switching from B'nai Sholom to Beth Emmet is conflicting, and I really hope that it will help me figure out some of these conflicts. How much, and when, do I trust in the Universe? When do I try harder?

Springing on by

It sure feels like life is in fast forward right now. Orin ploughing through Kindergarten - writing books and reading, figuring out adding and multiplication, learning about artists, geography, and managing friendships. And Beckey - her Bat Mitzvah is fast approaching (6.5 weeks now!), and it is feeling both invigorating and frightening. All the mistakes will become glaringly obvious, but she will be the shining star (that she really is), she's got 2 parsha pieces left to learn, and some practice on the big prayers (v'ahafta, for example), but lots of work is done, and she's awesome. It feels like Jerry is getting old quickly now, which is NOT ok. He's stressed out, and work is hard. I'm feeling a little scared for him. I'm aging too, clearly - hbp, A1C over 7, thyroid out of wack, period slightly wonky. But I don't feel old, too much, yet. I'm walking 12+ miles every week, and doing some writing. I have my amazing kids, and I'm still grooving along better than the (very old) dog. :D We're working on summer plans - including Cape Cod and camps (thank goodness for tax returns!). So forward we march!


Easter! My birthday. Passover, Spring Equinox, we LOVE our holidays! We actually did nothing for Passover this year - we were at Bob and Mary's, but ate pizza and weird 2112 food. It was a good visit, Harry Potter was a hit, as were the wanderings through mid town that we took, just me and the kids. It was fun. Easter was with James, Alex, and Hannah - a fun hunt and lots of candy, followed by baskets galore and a nice easy hang out day. YAY!

My birthday was fun, easy, and lovely. We had a kind of rainy day, so we all did shopping together (including suit for Jerry, dress for Beckey, and odds and ends for the house), and hung out big time - games and food and familia love. Spring sprang with little celebration this year - it's very on/off for Spring - 50 and rainy one day, 80 and hot the next. Weird weather for sure. Orin has now had his 2nd sleepover! He had Kyle over last month, and Ryan came last weekend. Susan said Ryan had fun, and we really enjoyed having him. My boy grows older and better and sweeter every day.

Ok, JAC is out of town, working and driving and working, and it is time for flying solo mama to get the kids off to bed. It will be good to have everyone back together for the weekend, which is full of soccer and (Mah jongg!) Sunday School.

Right, or Left

Orin and I have been reading Roald Dahl's BFG lately, and I love that he laughs while snuggled in bed, listening to my funny voices. I love the goofy time we spend, warm and solid together. One of his favorite lines is oft repeated - the BFG asks Sophie "Right? or left?" when he really means "isn't that right!". Orin laughs and I giggle and we snuggle a little closer and keep reading.

Beckey and I, on the other hand, started reading Gone with the Wind, which is NOT funny, or not VERY funny. There are lots of very descriptive sections which she really struggles to stay focused through, in addition to it being the very end of the day/night. She is not loving it, but I think once we get through this beginning section and into a part with more action, she will see the payoffs for understanding these characters so well. Right, or Left?

The past 8 weeks, I have made it to 3 of the 4 Albany Written Art Studio meetings. I am getting a thicker skin, appreciating their time and love and effort, and - I think - making some progress! I have made it about 80% through chapter 2, and feel like chapter 1 is in good shape, though not finished. It's a pleasure to feel progress! It feels so, so ... progressive! So NOT cleaning bathrooms or making shopping lists or cutting coupons or listening to my kid practice something. again. So it's been wonderful getting this far, and I am really appreciative and looking forward to more!

Moving forward getting a 504 plan for Beckey, now, as we are seeing some deficiencies in her work skills. Studying for tests, planning through larger projects, staying organized, keeping track of assignments and papers. She for sure is not the only 12 year old to confront this hurdle, and I know that the school is making room for all the kids to get up to speed, but there is no lack of work, and there is an increasing gap in her comfort about the quality and quantity of work she is able to produce right now. Hopefully this is a smooth process, and one that she can really benefit from. I get that there are kids out there with bigger challenges, more issues, and deeper concerns, but that doesn't discount her own needs, challenges, or concerns. Right, or Left?



Gratuitous pic of kidding enjoying a bit of technology and some yummy choc chip flax cookies.

3 R's vs 3 I's

In consideration of recent crap happening at B and O's school, I've been thinking about what the drawbacks of public school in general - and our schools here in Bethlehem in particular - would be. Their over-emphasis on standardization of learning is a bummer. This inherently reduces the importance of art, language, imagination, and inquiry. Which got me thinking that there really are three subjects that are of utmost importance for us to help our kids learn, but they are NOT reading, writing (not an R) or 'rithmatic (also not an R). They are imagination, inquiry, and inventiveness. These are skills that take creativity and initiative and are the most likely to lead to actual contribution - not high level of spatial relations or even high vocabulary. It isn't about 'getting it' (algebra, grammar, literature), it's about putting something out there that makes new connections (mirror neurons), measures things in a way that is completely new and useful, or bringing understanding to the dark places of human inquiry. Time to go - more later.

Smilebox for Poppy - happy Chanukah!

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What make me bad?

I have, in my brief sojourn, been bad. I have been bad ass, a bad kid, a bad mom, a bad Jew, a bad person, and a bad ballplayer. I have also had bad breath occasionally, played badly at Mah Jongg, been a bad driver, and - on very rare occasions, had bad taste. But mostly, I think I'm a pretty good person. I haven't killed anyone - yet - or broken an oath in court, though that opportunity has not yet arisen. I have broken laws, commandments, rules, and expectations with some measure of abandon, and yet I STILL feel like I'm a pretty good person. I try to be respectful of people, though I fail from time to time. I try not to burn down anyone's house, to feel for the injustice and injury done to people around the world through neglect, intentional injustice, and historical accident. I guess I understand why we have rules, legal and social, but what I don't understand is how some people can call rules ideas, and the next person calls them commandments. Which is it, because those are fundamentally two different things to me. Time for me to go make dinner, which is a law around here, and one that I have found when broken, makes me a bad mother, wife, and person - my own peckishness can be an issue. So hopefully, as I grow up (taller, more beautiful, driving a bmw and zonkered into my iPad), I will come to more fully appreciate what things are out there that make me bad. Cause sometimes being bad is what differentiates me from the Abercrombie wearing, Prius driving norm, out there. And I'm tired of them saying that I'm bad for not being one of them.

Season 3

Soccer season 3 - 3 cool new coaches, new friends like Alex S., rediscovering his talents (goofing around during practice) and improving his skills (like striking). Orin has really enjoyed all the running around, scoring, flying like an eagle after a hard won score, playing a bit of defense (really, this boy is not a big D kind of kid). Jerry and I enjoyed sitting on the sidelines (yelling PASS, PASS THE BALL!), and had fun with the other parents on the team (Robin, Nancy, Maryanne, all great gals). But one kid who didn't befriend Orin especially, and who's parent's didn't especially become part of a core of moms and dads doling out snacks, sharing waters, or picking up the kids (often out of the mud) was Molly, for sure the one kid on this team who really impressed me. She's little, smaller than anyone else on the K team (except Charlie, who is REALLY tiny), wears her coke bottle 4" thick glasses strapped to her head, and runs sort of helter skelter, like even with these binocular telescopes on her head, she can barely see a thing. Born at 1lb 6oz, she has struggled since before her own birth to live, to be strong, and to be a part of this world. She is tenacious on the field, sweeter than syrup on the sidelines, cheers for her team on her breaks, sucks down oranges during half time, and thrills at the touch of the ball on her pink cleats. She is amazing, truly spirited, and brings to bear the whole point of this game - to bring each other up, along for the ride, and into the ecstasy of hard won success. Thank you Molly, for your amazing spirit and thanks to the coaches and the team for all their wonderful cheer and hard work.

Where I'm From by Beckey

I am from Canada,
I am from Vancouver,
Where Olympics are held,
That is where I'm from.

I am from the farms all over the world,
That grow and sell the food I buy,
That pick and sell my snacks.

I am from my mom,
Who gave birth to me,
who raised me so well.

I am from
Everywhere.

Rebecca Carlson-Lee
October 2010.

Ten pictures in ten steps.

These are sitting in the hall closet - I pulled the bottom one (which has fish lips glued to it) for hat day last year - Orin's preschool. Fun hats we bought in Ohio, on an island. Yup - there's an island in Ohio!

My grandma made this - my dad's mom. She was good, huh?



The Joy of cooking. Sits, alone, on top of the wave. It's marked for pancakes/johnny cakes, plain or with fruit.

This is one panel of a 12 panel tapestry made by a women's cooperative in rural Zimbabwe. This panel is telling about how the woman carried a heavy load on her head for a long way, before getting home. Other panels tell about how her husband was drunk and beat her, then how sorry he was, and how she let him come back home in the end. Sigh.



Max. Short for Maxine. She's huge. We aren't REALLY sure she's a she, but she felt like a she, to me. In a box, with a fox.



Plants. I like them, but I also kill them indoors. These are Jerry's responsibility. Beckey get that spider plant 7 years ago from Verstanding's halloween celebration. Still going strong!


Yeah. So? We have a giant snowflake in the corner. So? What's it to ya?

These are on the wall right by my desk. I love being a mom!

Fresh picked apples from ILF. Galas. Best applesauce, pies, and eating around!


Candy in the candy bowl. This is crap the kids won at the Scottish Games in Altamont. Yeah, thanks guys. Still got this hanging around.

Is death the enemy?

I was checking out causes of death today, kind of random I know, because there's this article on CNN or somewhere talking about how prostate cancer is a huge threat to men today, and how cancer is a huge death factor for men over fifty, but - it says - heart disease is still (and always?) our number one enemy.

Now I'm sure this is true for a lot of people, people who think death is bad, scary, evil. I am not so sure. I think having a crappy quality of life, of being a burden on everyone around you, of not having the life you want to have because you are feeble of mind and/or body, is WAY worse than death.

I don't believe in heaven or hell. I don't think Hitler ever did get punished for what he did. I don't think his victims were rewarded for their selflessness or for the years they lost, the lives unborn, cut down in, or before, their prime. Or Attila the hun and his victims, or Lenin and his. It's not like that for me, there's a HUGE - bigger than the hugest huge - amount of energy in the multiverse, and when we die, we go into it, become part of it. This, what the Hindus call incarnation, this lifetime is our time to shine (which is why so many people, especially children, love love love to be the center of attention), alone in the universe. This is our time to love and be loved for who we are - separate from the rest of that amazing energy out there. And when we die and go back into that tremendous energy - the energy of a billion billion suns - we ARE that energy.

So what's so bad about that? Nothing! There's nothing wrong w/dying. Nothing at all. You don't get to see your sister-in-law very often, or eat marshmallows around the fire, but to me, it's a new amazing experience that is worthy of being looked FORWARD to, not escaped from (which doesn't give me a death wish, just a different perspective). You will never get to see the very end of the play, all except a small handful of the total number of people in the world who ever have or will live. But we will all become part of something amazing once again - for we do not create or destroy the energy that is god, we become it.

Baby steps

Gratuitous pickie of my boykie.

I spoke with a gal tonight, at back to school night at the kids' school, who has been looking for a job (part time) for 7 years. Yup - since her 7th grader went to school full time, since she moved to the area, since she knew what she was ready for. She got one, started yesterday - CONGRATS Susan! Meanwhile, it reminds me that needing a job NOW is so ME, but not very realistic. Baby steps. Ineed to start somewhere, anywhere, but I don't need to start with anyTHING. Adding "would you like fries with that" to the end of every other sentance is probably not the kind of job I need to be taking on right now. But doing something that makes me feel useful would be good! So I think the first thing to do is figure out WHAT I want to do, and then what I need to do to do it. And maybe figure out, in the meantime, what the hell it is I can do in the meantime!

I saw this blog today, and I think I will try to do this tomorrow - 10 steps. I think that's an excellent idea! Before my eyeglass appointment at 10:30, I will take my camera into town and do a walk, give myself 45 min or so to get 10 interesting things, 10 steps (or less) apart each. And finish laundry. Cause w/or w/out a job, the job of running this home is still mine. :D

Shhh - it's too quiet!

My kids are back in school. Actually, Beckey is at a leadership/team building experience at a Y-camp, but she's back this afternoon, and then, back to school. We managed to afford all the binders and calculators, new shoes, trip fees, and new bags, though the stew pot is thin this week. But now, well, it feels just a little TOO quiet! I know, I was complaining, it was too LOUD here just last week - my kids, their kids, neighbor kids, dogs, puppies (not ours!), parties, and the start of everything - it felt overwhelming. And now it's so darned quiet I have no excuses for not hearing the dang buzzer on the dryer in the basement. Well, some things may never change - like the piles of laundry all sorted out and ready for washing on the basement floor - but some things do. Beckey is in middle school, with lots of expectations and a whole new sense of belonging. Orin is on the bus and in kindergarten. He started writing a book yesterday, and drew two calender pictures - one of camels and the other he couldn't remember because then he drew a lot of other pictures, but they weren't calendar pictures, but he couldn't remember which were which. He's a rather happy boy! Soccer started last weekend, and he got stung twice by a wasp and fell once, on his tailbone, and it hurt. Not a great start to the season, but at practice on Monday he took some real tumbles w/out shedding a tear, ran his little heart out, and really enjoyed it! He was very charged up (making bedtime in time for book club impossible, but he was kind and sweet, and very cute in his matching purple footie pajamas - matching Beckey's of course!).

It's so quiet I can hear the lawn mower down the block. I can hear the wind in the oak tree outside, it's leaves still holding fast. I can hear the creaks of my own fingers on the keyboard, and in the house where it settles and sighs in the sun.

I will someday grow up and get a job and leave all this quiet behind, but for now, I am loving these moments, until the children return and in a flourish of kisses and lunch boxes, dirty socks and backpacks filled with the fruit of their day's labor, the quiet is gone, and my life is back. Sudden as it appeared, the quiet that became oppressive is once more elusive, and sacred.

Sweltering stovepipes, batgirl!

It hasn't been lower than 90 anytime between 10am and 8pm for over a week. It sure makes me wonder whether there is reason to believe that global warming a) exists b) would affect us here in the NE c) would affect us like this.

a) Do I believe in global warming? I believe in change, and I believe that Earth's weather will cycle and cycle and cycle, never staying in one cycle for over-long. Like a baby, once we get used to their vicissitudes, they go and change on us. So - after 150 years of getting to know this NE landscape, more in some places, less in others, after spending millions and so very long understanding the soils and seasons, it is changing. Is it changing faster, because of emissions and industrial pollution? Is it less able to recover from a normal heat wave? Is ther eless resiliency because there is less fresh water, fewer trees and forests, more cement, and overall less green space? I say it's a definite maybe.

b) Predictability is probably not the strong suit of this science, but there are some facts we can look at: 1. there is more forest here than there was 300 years ago. 2. there is cleaner water, more parks, and lower emissions than there were 100 years ago. 3. there are better laws, more follow up, and more media coverage of problem areas (dump sites, rivers, spill sites) than there were 50 years ago. 4. The problems are bigger, but fewer. Bigger problems are problematic, of course, because they take longer for recovery, seriously tax the ability of reclamation science, and possibly cause irreparable damage. Certainly there is loss of life (animal, plant) and this in itself is disgusting. But there is no reason to believe that the two are absolutely related - global warming and environmental disasters. Could be - but no guarantees.

c) So if it IS related, if there IS some connection between these two kinds of events, it should be more evident in areas where disasters have occurred, or areas surrounding them. Around here, there are the nuclear disasters of Love Canal and Three Mile Island, and loss of speciesation and vast quantities of fish from the oceans, plus garbage, pollution, and medicated waterways. Pretty gross, come to think of it. I am not sure what the number of military, industrial pollution and mistakes have been over the centuries here, but it's only been in the past 75 yrs. or so that the kinds o fmistakes we've made have made the kind of impact we are talking about here

There are also far more people in this corridor, there is more pollution, garbage, energy consumed, and a lot more in the way of ongoing need than in many (most) areas, certainly here in the US. So I suppose, if there was some place IN the US where it is felt, it doesn't surprise me that it is felt here. If this is what we are feeling at all. So - convinced or no, it is making sense to me that we are feeling the heat.

making movies

Holy hollywood! I have been trying to make a couple of movies recently - notably one from the Shakespeare production the kids did in school, and one from Orin's soccer season. WOAH. I guess there are tons of production software options out there for the PC's that are simple and option filled, but NOT so for the MACs. Geesh! I settled on iMovie, though I looked at some online options as well as using the stuff in iPhoto, but alas, they sucked for this purpose. Sigh.

Here's the result of the soccer production - it is FAR from perfect, but it came out close to what I was looking for.

Never mind. The darned thing never uploaded. Tried twice. Thrice. Bupkiss. Disappointment abounds, at the moment, though I was able to put it onto CD's and distribute at the last game of the season. Grrr to the Mac for my frustration - but YAY for the kids, who had a GREAT season!

Moving up

I can clearly remember watching the Jeffersons, the striped carpet beneath my then firm and trim butt, as my brothers shared the couch and my dad did work in his big chair. It was a concession, he found the mildly bigoted humor somewhat entertaining, and it kept us, usually, from bickering in quite as shrill a voice as we sometimes used. The theme song, "Moving on Up" echoes in my imagination - not sure I'd call what's left up there a mind, but that's a different story - along with my younger brother belting it out over the top of the tele. My older brother hitting him. My younger brother singing louder. You get the visual.

Yesterday was a bitter sweet moment for us, as a family. Orin, who came to us a bit late in life (Beckey was 6.5, I was 37, and Jerry was 52) has finished the part time education portion of his childhood. He put in one year of 3 short days a week as a 3-4 year old, and one year of 5 short days a week (actually 2 of those days weren't so short - 9-2:30) as a 4-5 year old, including 11 hrs. per week of Hebrew Immersion with Elinur, whose energy and investment is phenomenal. Orin can speak and listen in Hebrew. He can sing in Hebrew. He knows Hebrew prayers, and can recite them w/out even thinking about it. The program, all full of flouncy tutus and oil pastels, has been awesome for him. He loved the English class, with Micki and Vicki, and the Hebrew class, with Elinur and Vicki, but mostly he just loved Vicki. He came home with me one Friday, after their nifty little Shabbat ceremony in class, and he sat very quietly in the backseat. We carpooled on T-W-Th, so our Monday and Friday drives together were usually special. We'd talk, sing, be silly. Today he was morose, which for a four year old with a pretty charmed life seemed odd. So I asked, and he quite willing told me what the matter was. He proposed to Vicki, and she turned him down. His eyes filled with tears. "She said she's already married!" he whispered. The tears spilled down his soft cheeks. "Oh honey!" I gasped. I knew he loved her, I knew he liked her, I didn't realize he knew that loving someone meant you marry them, I was thinking more along the lines of making them a lovely picture with washable markers. He fell hard for poor Vicki, who wiped his snotty nose for picture day and resolved disputes over legos and trucks with all the charm and love a nursery school teacher SHOULD have. When everybody grows up, they should want to be Vicki. In my world, everybody would be moving up, along with my little graduate, who continues to say that he is making this volcano spewing lava blood for his Vicki (even if he just stuffs them into his drawer for 'that time when we see Vicki' and doesn't ever actually pass them on).

In other news, he made $1.50 selling fresh squeezed lemonade, which he split even-steven with Maia who helped squeeze, stir, and entertain the neighborhood with their incredible antics. I think people were much more willing to pay up for the entertainment than the lemonade, though it was good.

Beckey has been at Nature's Classroom, which has been a lonely thing for me, I do miss my girl!

(gratuitous pic of Beckey)

But I'm sure she's had a brilliant time, she loves just about everything they do there! Two disposable cameras later, I'm sure we'll see the pillow fight and the tail end of someone's tuchas climbing a tree-ladder to walk the high ropes, and possibly an eft found along the nature trail. It's all good there, and she comes home so charged up and full of spirit (and attitude) that it's hard to find fault in her missing an entire week of Aikido. Or two, since last week there were 4 softball games and a concert that filled every SINGLE night of the week. Exhausting.

Life is good, we're movin' on up!