Home, Where I Want To Be

After almost eight hours of driving, through Missouri and Illinois, eight hours of distance from a place that I had once called home, the Chicago skyline appeared on the horizon.

"First one to see the Sears Tower gets a kiss from Mom!", and the girls laughed, being similarly motivated to orient themselves one week earlier by spying Royals Stadium on the outskirts of Kansas City.

The music that had been looping through the CD player for hours was now suddenly very clear, the voices from the back seat singing along with Lucy Kaplansky,  "this is home, where I want to be" and I realized; somewhere several hours back we started driving towards, rather than away from, home.

Welcome home Chicago.

Little Red Rent A Car

The line at Hertz was impossibly long and I was in a hurry. Not that I had anywhere I really needed to be at that moment but standing in line at a car rental place in Newark was not my idea of fun getaway. They offered me water and a map as a consolation. They should have offered me a car and a fine fellow to carry my bag.

Hours later I stepped up to the counter.

"That's a fine rate you found, congratulations".

No congratulations necessary, just a signature in exchange for keys and I would happily be on my way and out of this particular congestion.

"Let's see what we have, hmmm, yes, here we are, a super duper fast thingy ma car with wheels and a roof and power windows, would you like that?"

"That will be fine", and it was, for a $20.00 per day upgrade fee. This poor man had no idea who was peering at him from the other side of the counter. My specific request, with regard to a car, is that it actually moves, has windows and doors, and doesn't smell too bad. Beyond that I don't really care. I assured him that my original car would be fine, if he would just kindly hand me the keys I would be happily on my way. I'd had hours to study my free map, I was prepared.

"But this one has so much more room, plenty of space for your luggage". I looked behind me, and then down at my small green duffel bag, "you understand there is only me, right?".

He went back to his computer, and not satisfied with what he saw, moved over to another computer, forcing someone else to wait while he searched, presumably the same data base, for the perfect car for me and my one bag.

"Aha! Just what you need, and only $10.00 more per day!"

The car I drive now is almost ten years old. It has scrapes, bumps and bashes on all sides. Engraved on the passenger door, in very primitive four year old handwriting, is the word "KATE", left there by a rock and a creative child. It makes odd noises and has lights that flash unexpectedly, warning me to check the engine and to please, for the love of God, pull over and stop driving, in the interest of safety. It also has four wheels, two car seats, a number of windows and heat; it suits me perfectly.

I shook my head, no thank you. "But miss, this one is much more comfortable, it has tons of legroom". I rose to my tippy toes and stretched all of my almost five foot two frame above the counter, "thank you but legroom is not really an issue for me. Can you find me a car with wheels?".

Defeated he handed me a set of keys and directed me to the door marked "No Upgrade". Row after row of small cars, the ones they keep all to themselves as renting one is unthinkable, lined up neatly just waiting for the fools not interested in headlights, cup holders, and power windows. The legroom less car in my spot was red and had Texas license plates, my obvious penance for not wanting more out of a three day car relationship.

Two Hours From Home

From the front porch of our apartment, planes that have been routed over the water fly just north of us, on approach to O’Hare. On clear days I can make out the markings on the tail, American and United the most common, but it’s Alitalia, Aer Lingus and Lufthansa that always take me away. To the girls I will say “where do you think that plane has been?” but it’s really a game for me. It’s easy to see myself inside the plane, so eager to be on the ground after seven hours in the air. When asked to prepare for landing I reach under the seat to push my almost finished book back into my once organized bag. Now full of airport magazines, shortbread and a tea cup I’m worried might break, it’s a disheveled mess. I’m ready to be home but full of adventure, and soon will be ready to go again.

When my friends played Barbie, I played flight attendant. On a flight to Florida I found, in my young flyer activity pack, a shiny gold pair of Delta wings. It was as if I had been handed a magic superhero cape, assigned as an apprentice to the brave cabin crew. Certain that I had been singled out from all other able bodied eight year old passengers , and would be called upon to help should an emergency arise, I dutifully studied the evacuation procedures in my seat pocket, and wore my wings on every flight thereafter, until the back fell away and the gold shine fell flat. From then on flying outfits were carefully considered, so as to be flight crew appropriate; always a skirt, best to have a short jacket, for showcasing the wings, and if possible, a coordinating beret. The Pucci designed Braniff uniforms directed my young fashion sense; at ten I ached for turquoise pumps.

My grandparents took me to Europe when I was twelve, first to Vienna followed by a cruise down the Danube, through Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Romania, Russia and finally Turkey. From the roof of our hotel, Istanbul at night was, and remains now, one of the most amazing things I have ever seen. My grandmother took me on an Istanbul city bus, my father on the Mexico City subway, all so very far away from my suburban childhood, and all preparing me for the requisite six week post college Eurail-facilitated sojourn, with not one sense of where I was going. Occasionally lost, and eventually found, I discovered that German food was not my favorite, beaches in Italy are beautiful, and England really did feel like home.

Our first trip together, for many couples a quick weekend excursion, was a hastily planned, and then executed, trip to Italy. Decided upon after finding flights to Rome less expensive than to Denver, our intended destination, my future husband and I took off without one reservation. There was no itinerary, nothing beyond landing in Rome, and leaving from the same spot 12 days later. He was new to this kind of travel, having never before left the states; an emergency passport, one worn copy of Rick Steve’s guide to Italy, and we were as prepared as we wanted to be. Traveling is an interesting way to get to know someone, traveling sans itinerary in a country where your combined knowledge of the language amounts to buon natale, pesto and Prosecco, is an entirely different definition of getting to know you. In ten days we knew, not how the other squeezed the toothpaste, but more importantly, that traveling was something we could do together forever.

We got married. We amassed frequent flyer miles and spent long romantic dinners planning our next adventure. We went to England, Ireland and Mexico. He got a taste for adventure, I got pregnant. Nine months later there were two babies; we sent American Airlines a birth announcement and waited for their Advantage numbers to arrive in the mail.

Their first flight was at three weeks. Bundled and carried, they slept the entire time. After that, flying was easy. Dallas, Boston, Phoenix, Ireland, Philadelphia, Denver, Puerto Vallarta, for two years, two glorious years, we flew wherever we wanted, with little effort and little discomfort. And then it happened, vomit. Once, twice, three times, every time; one of our frequent flyers had developed a horrid aversion to air travel.

Three years ago we went on hiatus, our flying days over until someone either outgrew this affliction or grew old enough to be heavily medicated for the entire flight. We began searching for getaway options within two hours, by car, from Chicago. For a brief time I explored the idea of moving the entire family to Boston, or London; so much more to see, I believed, in our two hour road window. My husband, with an office in downtown Chicago, protested. Nearby vacation choices were limited; we considered Wisconsin, dismissed Indiana and settled on Michigan.

From the front porch of our small town Michigan beach rental I see kites flying overhead, the nearest airport being over one hour away. My urban children, at home restricted to supervised play at the neighborhood park, are free to run from one end of the yard, around the cottage and back, shrieking wildly as they chase each other through the sprinkler. They kick balls, play hopscotch and lay in the grass creating animals and shapes from the infrequent clouds that float lazily by. We eat fresh blueberry ice cream (not a scoop of gelato to be found in the three block downtown area), grill hamburgers and savor the corn bought on Wednesday morning from the small farmer’s market. We trade in the city bus that takes us about our neighborhood for two wheels, bicycles being the only form of transportation required. Fireflies, s’mores and sand pails define our holiday; passports and guidebooks are left at home.

I never thought I would think that a small town by the beach, only two hours from Chicago, was the perfect vacation destination, but now I do.

The Big Red Barn

"Moo!"
"Moo! Moo!"

It's a bit of a problem, I see a cow from my car window, I moo. And when I moo the girls moo also, or they used to. Over the past year the chorus of moo has shrunk to just one, although Eleanor occasionally utters some noise in response, a sleepy hound growl emitted from the very back of the car. Eleanor knows, cows are enchanting. Mary and Kate now barely look up from their Taro Gomi doodle books.

Given our home base deep in the mid-west, a geography that requires us to spend hours rolling through farmland en route to anywhere, we spend ample time listening to me moo, backed up only by my always faithful beagle. And then I see a barn, a wonderful old red barn set deep into the green countryside, surrounded by acres of corn, nestled amongst the swaying trees; I can smell the freshly cut hay from inside my air conditioned, and farm smell protected, car. "Girls look! A big red barn!", excited as though I didn't just scream the same thing two farms past. I quote from various parts of one of the very best children's books, Margaret Wise Brown's The Big Red Barn, "and there they were all safe and warm, sound asleep in the big red barn". It's a childhood moment they will certainly remember forever, these days spent in the comfort of their family, surrounded with love and moos and heartland.

Recently we drove through downstate Illinois, Missouri and Iowa. Cows aplenty, farms galore, I was in pure farmland heaven. Somewhere in Iowa, after countless unanswered moos and dismissed barn narrative, I tried once more, "oooh! Look at that beautiful old barn girls!".

"Wow mom, that is really pretty", answered Kate.
"Well thank you Kate", gushed her happy mother.
"Mary, I didn't even look" whispered Kate.

I thought I had a few more years.

Golf Lessons

"Bedbugs?".

"Everyone in the neighborhood has them, we can't keep this stuff on the shelf, you're lucky to get a bottle".

Lucky? Not exactly the word I would chose. Mary woke up with red nibbles all over one side of her face, and here we were, receiving a diagnosis from our friendly ACE hardware man. I stocked up on all varieties of horrid looking things to squirt around my children's currently pesticide free, but apparently bug welcoming, bedroom.

The day before, two days after returning from a wonderful 10 day beach vacation, Jack was gone again, back to Michigan for his annual golf trip. They go every year, 8 of them, for four days of non stop golf with little time for frivolous late night activities, I am assured. We didn't do so well on the timing, there were still piles of sand in the kitchen. A large bag of beach toys remained in the back of the car, freshly laundered clothes were piled high on the dining room table, heaps of dirty clothes scattered on the laundry room floor, canvas bags of every size and color stood from one end of the hallway to the other and two thoroughly exhausted children, ones who have never returned well rested and fresh, were left to appear every morning intent on destroying any patience I had left to share. And now, bedbugs.

Beds were stripped, linens washed, scary killer bug stuff squirted in every corner of the room. While away, my daughter's charming bedroom was magically transformed into a creepy fleabag motel, I was determined to get it back. Mary and Kate slept for two nights in sleeping bags, a camping getaway when you are five, not an escape from the $20 per hour motel room of my mind.

The night before he left one, of two, bathrooms decided to take a holiday as well. Not a terrible problem, until the remaining bath, feeling the pressure, called it quits the next day.

Eleanor Roosevelt, sensing my growing frustration with the situation, and missing Jack terribly, decided to relieve her sense of abandonment by relieving herself on the runner in the living room. One of the children, clearly not wanting to leave Eleanor alone in this embarrassing situation, decided to go with the flow and, for the first time ever, announce "Mom! I went in my pants".

The lights in the exterior hallway went out, leaving us in complete darkness at night, and me terrified to take the dog out. The lock on the front door broke. The children, trying to help, sprinkled pet cleaning powder on every exposed surface, effectively removing any odor left behind by Eleanor, and allowing me to imagine, for three days, what it would be like to live in the laundry supply aisle at Target.

Our Internet connection flickered on and off the entire weekend, because, when left alone for four days with two young children, it's best to have intermittent communication options available. I found the window to email Jack, "bedbugs".

Golf lessons are on my to do list for 2011.

Suit No Tie

Minutes before I had been sound asleep, snuggled next to my grandmother while Bopaw snored loudly in the next bed. The piercing sound woke us all, startled us into sitting positions, and my grandfather, his few remaining hairs disheveled, looked around, mumbled something to my grandmother and went right back to sleep. Calmly she reached over, picked up the phone and dialed the front desk. That she understood him was a clear benefit of almost fifty years of marriage, not a full set of teeth between them, garbled noise was the chosen form of communication when awakened by a screeching horn in the middle of the night.

Patiently she waited while the phone rang, although to be clear, not a chance anyone could have understood a word she had to say had someone stayed behind to answer the phone in the middle of what I was certain was a raging fire. In my yellow and brown Pebbles Flintstone pajamas I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway finding a full floor of guests as without teeth and hair as we were, all in various stages of pajama clad confusion. "It's a fire! Get up! Bopaw get up NOW!", my eight year old self near hysteria, jumping like mad at the foot of his bed. He rolled over, raised his eyebrows and thought about throwing me out the window, to facilitate my escape from the burning building.

Preparing me for this dramatic event in my young life, third grade Anxiety Training. In Mrs. Coit's room, where we were subjected to 30 minutes of intimidation and manipulative terror masquerading as education, it was fire safety week. Fire fighters visited our school, pamphlets were distributed and the responsibility to get the family out of the burning building now assigned solely to the eight year old family member. We were to map our exit routes, draw up a plan and run family fire drills weekly. My father had no interest in this, not once did we practice our escape, no emergency fire ladders were purchased. The Fire Film Scare Series culminated in a horror film staring the family who had no plan, the final shot of the dog, the only survivor, on the front lawn, an errant tear in his eye, as his entire family perished in the blazing inferno behind him. I had trouble sleeping.

"Get up now, please!", and shocking, still no answer at the front desk. Bopaw got up, put on his robe and slippers, and stepped into the bathroom to run a comb through his hairs. He then checked the hallway, muttered something and went in to put in his teeth, "well Mother, she's right, everyone does appear to be leaving. Maybe we should head downstairs". At this point I had gathered Theodore and Baby Kelly, my two always travel companions, and was standing, jumping, at the front door, waving my goodbyes to all the survivors en route to a lower floor. Mimi was up, and working furiously to ready herself, while doing her best to calm the now panicked eight year old, still in the Pebbles pajamas.

My dear grandfather went to the closet and selected a suit, a full on gray wool suit to slip into for his descent into the blazing inferno that I knew would find us on the way down. This he wore over his blue, with navy piping, pajamas, monogrammed on the pocket. Once assembled he realized that slippers would never do and so, while Mimi and I stood waiting, he put on socks and shoes before announcing that yes, now he was ready. We stepped into the hallway, the only ones left, and Bopaw walked to the elevator. "Oh no, no no no, we have to walk down, we have to take the stairs in a fire!", their combined 115 year old bodies not at all pleased with this announcement, they followed me to the exit door. In what was surely the longest time ever spent in a stairwell, we descended 10 stories to the street outside the Kahler Hotel, pausing at every landing for air. At these breaks I would run ahead, and then back, utilizing all my fire preparedness training: checking doors for heat, staying low and breathing into the damp washcloth I had somehow found time to prepare. They begged me to go on, to save myself and I cried out, "NO! Never, I'll never leave without you", or maybe they were discussing last week's golf game, Mimi having left her teeth to broil in our upstairs room.

A short hour or so later we reached the ground floor. Throwing open the door, having saved my grandparents, Theodore and Baby Kelly from certain death, I stepped confidently into the lobby, knowing that my well developed fire safety skills were the real heroes. There was not a firefighter to be seen, only far in the distance could we see the front desk clerk, shouting "hello" impatiently into the phone. "Mother, did you leave the phone off the hook?".

We took the elevator back up to the tenth floor, false alarm.

Defining a Noun

Late at night, long after lights out, hours after we were supposed to be asleep, we'd crawl to the center of the tent and huddle together while someone, usually Sarah, called out "adjective", or "bodily fluid", or "verb". Thinking we had really slipped another one by Mrs. Luck or Mrs. Covington or whoever else was fool enough take thirty 12 year old girls on a weekend camping trip, we would stay up for hours yelling out "booby" and "snot" and certainly words far too unsuitable to rethink here. Of course the most raucous laughter was reserved, not wasted on the words alone, but saved for the retelling of the story we had just composed, a literary feast of adverbs, nouns, and yes, bodily fluids.

Having learned nothing in my previous 43 years with regard to children and their wild delight in shouting out body parts referred to by my grandmother as the unmentionables, I bought a pad of Mad Libs for the thirty hour car trip to Florida. "Noun, who remembers what a noun is?". "BOOGER! A booger is a noun!". Technically yes, that is correct, a booger is a noun. "Adjective, an adjective is a word that describes a noun". Screaming, hysterical screaming, ear drum piercing shrieks, "SLIMY!! A slimy booger!". Wanting to be the parent but completely unable to behave in any sort of parent way, much to the complete disgust of my generally parent'like husband, I roared right along, and then, once composed, waited for calm before asking that we try to use other words, suggesting perhaps that they look outside their windows for inspiration. We tried that but really, tall tree is in no way as funny as slimy booger, it's simply snot.

A week after we returned, the nice young doorman who greets us at the place where I do try and act somewhat civil and mature asked the girls how their car trip went. Of course Kate, not at all soft spoken, took this one, "Well it was great, and Mom got these stories for us to do, these are great stories. You pick all kinds of things and then she puts them in the story and it is hysterical. And you know what Mary and I did? Are you ready? Every time Mom asked for a body part, we said things like BUM and VERGEENYA!". Edwin, who had no idea what stories she was talking about, completely understood the body parts, as did the entire lobby, including a woman who looked quite like my grandmother. She smiled knowingly at the mention of the unmentionables.

Drivin' South

Having spent the last week traversing the south east, an area of the country relatively new to me, my previous experience only being flying over to destination points much warmer than home, I am left with several impressions, generally positive.

As we were promised, the drive through the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee was lovely. Sadly we raced through, ears popping with only mild screaming, on interstate highway, but the view from our windows was really spectacular. Not winding and nauseating like the Rockies can sometimes be, these mountains are somewhat squatty and easy to manage, with abundant trees and greenery, just wonderful to see.

The Gulf of Mexico has, without a doubt, some of the nicest beaches I have ever seen, and while I am not an expert, I am somewhat well beach traveled and was really overwhelmed with the sand and the clear water, simply beautiful. And as a bonus, we saw dolphins frolicking around just off shore on many days, whole families of them just dancing about in the water; the girls, and I, were enchanted.

For years I have lived under the delusion that I hail from the strip mall capital of the world, the Midwest. This is just not true; in four days I found myself trapped no less than four times in parking lots large enough to land planes, possibly an option as there were few cars using the vast space suited specifically for them, ironically in a community that accepts golf carts as a viable means of transportation . Clearly designed to alienate and confuse people, strip malls leave me bewildered and longing to use my feet. A quick trip to Walgreens stretched into a long afternoon when I decided, foolishly, to pick up sandwiches to take back to the beach. From the parking lot I could see the Jersey Mike's sign, only one strip mall over, closer than the distance I walk to the train in the morning. In no time I realized that making this trip on foot would be at great risk to my continued ability to live. Begrudgingly I got back in my car and immediately found myself in the drugstore drive-thru. Waving as I passed the window I turned out, where a no left turn sign sent me into the strip mall on the other side of the strip mall where Jersey Mike was making subs, or did it? There was a nail salon, a shipping place, a liquor store, and...a Subway, wrong chain. Walgreens was now behind me, a beacon offering a point of reference in a land where everything looked exactly the same, and I was lost, or more accurately trapped.

Aside from the beaches, the panhandle of Florida looks just like the suburbs of Chicago, or St. Louis, or Kansas City, with palm trees, convertibles, tan people, and, yes, golf carts.

Most noticeably, I am left to wonder what has happened to all the G's? In one weeks time we saw signs imploring us to go fishin', swimmin', and drinkin'. Flying behind a plane over the beach, a banner invited us to " a foamin' party". We were offered some good eatin' and dancin', and my very favorite, a restaurant whose name was Grillin and Cookin. This place didn't even bother using an apostrophe, to hint that another letter might have once existed at the end of the word, confidently asserting that grillin and cookin are actual words generally accepted in an English speakin' country. What have they done with all the G's?

My mother's mother, from Dallas, spent years begging me to slow down, my speech was too fast and hurried, she couldn't understand me at all, and I spent years trying, while quietly hoping that she could speed up, maybe take less than 7 minutes to describe tuna salad on wheat toast, but it never happened. I should have listened, foreseeing that one day I might like to have a cup of tea somewhere in Alabama.

Me: A cup of tea please, black.
Manager: Whasthat?
Me: Yes, a cup of tea, just black.
Manager: Begpardin?
Me: (slowly) Just a cup of tea please.
Manager: Aaaaahhhh, ti. Sweetin'?
Me: (lost) Right, tea? Sweetin'?
Manager: Mmmmmm, ti. Yew whant that with the sweetin'?
Me: Sweetened? No, no, just plain black tea.
Manager: Yew fram round hair?
Me: Pardon me?
Manager: Hmmm, I kneew that, I did. Evryone fram round hair prefirs sweetin' ti.

This was quite possibly the most patient person I have ever encountered. He made every effort to find me a plain black tea, which was no small task, and then we the tea actually appeared, delivered by another, it was, of course, sweetin'd. He apologized profusely and set off to fix the mistake himself. Black tea, while readily available in Chicago, is not usually delivered with this much personal interest and never with a smile so large.

Beautiful beaches, miles and miles of strip malls, no G's, and some of the kindest people I have ever met. Incredibly friendly, and genuinely interested in our family and curious as to what kind of insanity brought us to drive over 1,000 miles to their alluring corner of the country. We'll be back, and we'll pack our own G's.

The Gate

There were two girls on the other side of the gate who appeared to be about my age. We stood and looked at each other for a few minutes, smiling and waving. My grandmother appeared behind me and suggested that I come back inside, it was time for dinner. Not at all hungry, I wanted to go out and play with these girls. She waved them on but I held firm, I wanted to be on the other side. At five my Spanish was limited to hello, thank you, please, and a few food items. I tried them all, certainly saying something as interesting as "me gusta el taco", the girls giggled, and said something back, which, having no idea what they were saying, made me giggle. Soon enough all three of us were laughing; Mimi went to find the cook.

My grandparents left sometime in mid January. Knowing I wouldn't see them for weeks, I spent the night before they left at their house, helping pack and leaving little notes in their luggage, the black and white patterned Samsonite with the bright orange lining. A week earlier my grandfather had brought them down from the attic so that, even though she took the exact same clothes each year, Mimi could start the packing and organizing required for a month away from home.

Three weeks later Dad and I went to the grocery store for milk, eggs, bacon, bread and these truly sweet sticky buns my grandfather liked, stocking the refrigerator for their return. The next morning we were on a plane, to be greeted in sunshine by my grandfather, relaxed and tan, driving the old orange Volkswagen thing that I thought was the most exciting car ever made. Dad took over and drove us home, Bopaw in the front seat smoking a cigarette and filling us in on what had happened in the year that we had been away. Mom and I rode in the back, my hair flying, her screams muffled by the roar of the open air car as it raced along the malecon.

Mona was still alive, and still horribly unpleasant. She patrolled the beautiful jardin, never beyond the fence for fear that she would bite someone. Only Paulino went in, to feed her, and take care of the flowers. The roosters next door had not made it to a stockpot yet and were still the very early morning wake up call for the entire block. Julia was making pork roast tonight, in honor of Dad's arrival, and papas fritas for me. The Testerman's were coming tomorrow for dinner, Mimi was having a party for their Kansas City friends on Saturday.

We bounced along the cobblestones and up the steep hills in town, Mom alternating between screeching in terror and joy as we passed her favorite shops: cute pink sandals outside Letty's competing for attention with a burro who wandered into our path. When we rounded the corner and stopped at the end of the road I could smell the papas fritas; Mimi's face inside the gate settled it, I was home, at least for a short time.

One week to sleep in the mosquito netting, to bury myself in the sand at El Dorado, to drink fresh squeezed orange juice every morning and to beg my Dad to carry me back up the hill after a post dinner trip down to Bing's for pineapple ice cream. One week to spend with the four people I loved the most in the world, in the place I waited all year to be, Mexico.

And then, at the end, as I knew would happen each year, I said goodbye to my parents and got on a plane with my grandparents for the trip home. Mom and Dad just at the start of their Mexican time, a month of friends and parties and sunburns in front of them, while I was headed to snow and school and heartache, leaving my parents never easy, and my leaving was never easy for Dad. Waking the next morning to the sticky rolls we bought just a week earlier made him closer, even though I knew he was very far away.

Julia came to the gate, talked to the girls for a minute and then turned to Mimi and me. In the end she allowed me outside, but only for a few minutes, long enough to take a picture and let me run to the end of the street and back. At five I had not yet learned that I wasn't supposed to be friends with the people who stood on the other side of the gate.

Who Wants to be a Millionaire?

When faced with two hours alone with my husband in a somewhat quiet yet very public space, a man I have had but three intelligent conversations with in five years, it seemed, to both of us, that the very best use of this precious time was to select our lifelines should we ever be chosen as contestants on "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?". The fact that neither of us has any idea if this show is still on television is completely irrelevant.

In my case it was an audition. Jack is very specific, and knows exactly what his shortcomings might be, should he be called upon. Pop culture, he is certain that he would need some help in that category. Until I admitted that I thought Lady GaGa might be the RuPaul of 2010, a comment that apparently disqualified me immediately, I thought I was the perfect pick. For this he chose my cousin Trey, a man with an amazing amount of knowledge on a bizarre and far reaching assortment of subjects. Trey knows Lady GaGa, although I have no idea if he likes her, or him.

Jack confidently allows that he can handle science, math, and finance without backup. He would add my aunt Lynda to his list but is concerned that her great wisdom could become buried under what might best be called the inability to hear the clock ticking; while she quite likely knows the capital of Yemen, she could chose this time to discuss the chicken she is roasting. As I imagine this phone call:

Regis: Well hello Lynda, you are on Who Wants to be a Millionaire!
Lynda: Hello! Who is this? Regis!
Regis: Lynda, your nephew in law needs some help today; Jack, can you ask her the question?
Jack: Lynda, what is the capital of Yemen? A, Sporto, B, Tubadi, C, Sanaa, or D, Toledo?
Lynda: Jack! How are you? How are the girls?
Jack: All good Lynda, what is the capital of Yemen?
Lynda: Hmmm? Let's see, it certainly is...oh, there's the timer, I've got a chicken in the oven!
Jack: Lynda, Yemen?
Lynda: Don't you love a good roasted chicken on a cold day?
Jack: Love it. Lynda, Yemen?
Regis: Tick Tick Tick
Jack: Lynda, time is almost up...
Lynda: Did you say Yemen? Isn't that funny? I was just reading a book about the treatment of women in Yemen, in the capital city of Sanaa...

She's in, clearly the benefit outweighs the risk. Should the questioning turn to history or cooking, I'm on the short list. And possibly politics, he thinks he could turn to me if faced with the name of John Kennedy's press secretary (Pierre Salinger), but there remains one great problem, we'll call him Erik. We have crossover knowledge, but he can also cover sports, law, philosophy, Tibetan umbrella etiquette, and ladies fashion. On these I am lost, and my ability to list the components of a classic Bearnaise sauce is sadly trumped by his insight into post World War II hosiery trends, not to mention a 2 second turn around time on the winner of the 1972 Superbowl, an event that happened before he was born.

Preliminary auditions are held annually on Christmas night. After a round, or two, of limoncello someone pulls out the Trivial Pursuit. Immediately we divide, Erik, Lynda and Trey forbidden from the same team. Never chosen in the first round, reliving the agony of going late in the Dodgeball picks of sixth grade, I am none the less armed and ready to play. I jump in on the yellow questions but oddly enough, occasionally find the answer to things completely out of my repertoire. A few years ago I actually knew what MP3 stood for; right now, on the train, my best guess would be Magic Player the Third, and I would suspect that to be not exactly right. It's the magic of Christmas, or possibly the limoncello.

"Pardon me nice flight attendant, might I have a shot or two of limoncello and your latest copy of the Tibet Daily?"

Two and a Half Days in New York

"Allyson, it's two days".
"TWO days and a little bit more".

He could not be swayed, I was going along, like it or not. Ripped from the very source of my being, my husband was taking me to New York, without children, for two days, and a little bit more. Owed, like everything else, to a deep and buried neurosis, only to be revealed in years of intense therapy (or a glass of wine and a few runs of Mommy Dearest), I am terrified at the idea of leaving the girls. Not that I worry, I'm quite certain that my sister is fully capable of preparing three meals per day, dressing and bathing children and setting them off for school, I simply miss them when I am away. Of course I am not terribly familiar with the idea, in five years I have been apart from them twice, once dragged along to California on a business trips with Jack and once I was sent, kicking and screaming, to a truly delightful fortieth birthday party for my friend Heather who quite rudely held her party in Denver, where she lives. That I absolutely enjoyed myself both times is completely beside the point. This latest wild romp to New York makes three angst ridden occasions where I have been separated from the very ones who make me crazy.

Despite all my best effort, the idea began to grow on me. I began to compile my list: the Frick collection, the Biography Bookstore, Fishs Eddy, Books of Wonder, the Eloise shop at the Plaza, Bemelman's at the Carlyle, Bryant Park, Murray's. My interest grew with each addition and as luck would have it, it was Restaurant Week in New York. New Yorkers, I've been told, eat out more than anyone else on earth, and so it follows that when visiting New York you should do as the natives do and eat from every corner. That I have never seen an Applebee's in Manhattan makes it even more enticing (although please note that TGIFridays seems to have cornered the market on mass produced tourist friendly fare; I believe it possible to find fried zucchini on every corner in Midtown). Reservations were made, plans were outlined.

The dear old friend with whom I was to have dinner with Monday night called in sick. It rained, and rained, and was 57 degrees. A nice change if you are dressed appropriately but not welcomed when you decide to walk across a small island in wool pants, a turtleneck, boots, and a long coat, carrying a ridiculous amount of children's books, in search of Eleanor Roosevelt's Greenwich Village apartment. Jack's meeting ran three hours late, and when he finally returned he brought with him a headache so severe that he spent the next two hours on his back unable to move his head. My own appetite had been left in Chicago having spent the days prior holding a now recovered flu ridden child. All that Manhattan had to offer, culinarily, was lost on us. At 11 pm we walked to the corner market, bought microwave popcorn, and returned to our charming hotel.

It was a lovely trip. I love New York, I love my husband for, among other things, forcing me to go, and I love corner markets, open at all hours, that offer fresh flowers, baklava, curried chick peas and microwave popcorn.

Although I did miss my girls, they would really love the Madeline tea at Bemelman's.

Alfresco

For two little girls whose idea of outside time is a walk down the street to the park situated directly under the el tracks, who never wander outside the watchful eye of their mother, or father, this relative unrestricted access to the outdoors must be pure heaven.

Within minutes Mary and Kate had figured out how to open both the back and front doors, and discovered that a lovely loop could be made by running out the front door, across the porch and round the side of the house to the back patio where one could meet their sister who had gone round the other side. The timing was perfect, doors equidistant so as to meet each other having covered just about the same amount of yard. And the yard, landscaped as if it was a hide and go seek playing field, just the right nooks and out of the ways to allow for decent hiding but nothing too frightening, never having been left and not found.

Apparently there is some innate inner child sense, when faced with a door and a back yard one must run and spend as much time outdoors as possible. From my perch in the kitchen, peering out from the beautiful window over the sink, a place I have long dreamed of, I could see a flash go by, often a wet bathing suit covered flash, racing to the front yard to find a lacrosse ball, or a slower trot chasing a small butterfly. Mary appeared one day with a small green caterpillar on her hand, Kate following behind with a bug jar, soon to be full of fireflies, leaves, sticks and ants. They serenaded the neighborhood from the front porch, a perfect stage for two melodic voices who just happen to know all the words to every song from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

And one afternoon, the beautiful yard became the perfect place to stretch out and have an nap, something I dream of, but certainly resisted had it been offered at four.

Not this one, a lazy stretch and she was back running, refreshed.

Time Off

It used to be that vacation meant a week away from work, a week to escape and relax, to read and regroup, an opportunity to clear my head of the madness of the daily office. Things have changed. There are two books packed, and a stack of unread magazines, although I have no aspirations whatsoever of actually reading anything; I'm a foolishly optimistic realist. There is no office to flee, and in every sense, the work just comes along with me. I wouldn't have it any other way.

We take a week every summer to escape to our favorite small town and pretend, just for a few days, that we live this slowly addictive life. The girls play in the
backyard, the screen door banging as they run from house to yard and back again, dragging in sand with every step. They chase butterflies, run from bees and marvel at spiders building webs on the back deck. We spend our days at the beach and our evenings in the backyard, making s'mores and catching fireflies. Mary and Kate eat ice cream every day and believe, for just a week, that this is the most magical place on earth.

Vacations used to mean far away places, and someday they surely will again, but for now I can imagine nothing I like better than spending a week in our little town in Michigan. Perhaps if you don't want to escape you don't have to go as far.

Let's Go Fly a Kite

My friend Megan, at beachbungalow8, reminds me to slow down, pointing out that summer is already half gone. What? Where? We were slow in June, crawling into our summer cautiously, one trip to the beach, a festival here and there, plenty of sunblock, and then July hit. First it was the uncles, regular Independence Day guests, whose visits we love, and then two days later the grandparents, and the girls delighted in several days with people they just don't see often enough. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday we were off, Jack on his annual golf trip, a male only excursion to places unknown, and the ladies and me to Kansas City, an 18 hour 2 day round trip that exhausts me to the bone to consider.

Speeding ticket excluded the trip down was uneventful. And then we arrived, Mary and Kate to spend a few days reveling in the non stop attention of their uncles who live to feed them ice cream and keep them up past bedtime, and me, to a tiring four day odyssey of my mother. I wasn't alone, her wonderful sister Diane, and Diane's friend Charles, met me there, all of us coming together, hoping to convince my mother that it was time to move out of the house that is falling down around her. She was not convinced, and she was not kind. At the end of the day, worn from all that was lobbed at me, I ran back to Uncle Kenny's house for a hug from my two sticky and exhausted children, and a promise to myself to never forget that they are my choice, my responsibility and mine to treat with respect.

Nine hours later we are home, to slow down and breathe, and enjoy all the good that comes our way, and all the good that we must find. Summer is baseball and the beach and warm days spent doing absolutely nothing more than flying a kite, and holding tightly to the hands of those you love.

It's My Turn

Remember this?
That was Jack, this is me, 80 mph in a 65 mph zone somewhere downstate, near Springfield as Officer Slow Down pulled out right in the middle of a conversation about the former Governor. A conversation about what happens when adults break the rules and how it is quite likely that Mr. Blagojevich is on his way to jail as he was not honest and did not follow the law.

Nor did their mother who thought she was clipping along at about 70 mph but was corrected when the flashing lights appeared in the rear view mirror. A very brief explanation to the children and the Illinois State Patrolman appeared at my window, not at all friendly, unhappy really, which is a difficult state to be in when Bert and Ernie are singing "Rubber Ducky". Mary began to cry, certainly assuming I would be whisked away to jail, leaving her with her sister on the side of the road.

We were all left on the side of the road after I fished out $75, which included 12 quarters, as highway patrol men in Illinois do not make change, nor do they take kindly to being offered $80 when you only must pay $75. Also to note, they do not seem to have a keen sense of humor as I pointed out that I had just two weeks ago received my Safe Driver Certificate from Secretary of State Jesse White, and he did not break a grin, obviously disagreeing completely with Jesse White's assessment of my driving skills.

And we were off, only seven and a half more hours, all driven at or very near the speed limit. It was a very long trip.

Home, Where I Want to Be

Chicago to Kansas City, Kansas City to Oklahoma City, Oklahoma City to Dallas, Dallas to San Antonio, San Antonio to Austin, Austin to Dallas, Dallas to Kansas City, Kansas City to Hannibal, Hannibal to Chicago. Home.

On the Road Again

Their first flight was at three weeks, they slept the entire time. After that, flying was easy. Dallas, Boston, Phoenix, Ireland, Philadelphia, Denver, Puerto Vallarta, for two years, two glorious years we flew wherever we wanted, with little effort and little discomfort. And then it happened, vomit. Once, twice, three times, every time, one of our frequent flyers had developed a horrid aversion to air travel.

Last February we went on hiatus, our flying days over until someone either outgrew this affliction or grew old enough to be heavily medicated for the entire flight. It's been one year, with medication not a possibility for another 19 months, and a real need to feel something other than 23 degrees when we step outside, we are driving to Dallas. My husband is convinced I have lost my mind, and possibly I have, but my 96 year old grandmother is there, and not doing well, so I find it a necessity to get down there and see her, before we regret not making the drive.

For the first 525 miles it's just me and the girls; Jack having a must attend event in New York next week, and so Mary and Kate and I head off, through Iowa, to find Uncle Kenny and Uncle Ed nine hours later, greeting us with open arms, adult conversation, and perhaps a glass of wine. For the past week I've been stocking the car activity box: sticker books, coloring books, actual reading books, doodle pads, paper dolls, lacing cards, more than any four year old could plow through in nine hours of absolute sitting still time. They actually do very well, we sing, we talk, we moo through Iowa, one sleeps, the other stares out the window, and a short full day later, we arrive in Kansas City, exhausted, but ready for a few days of wild Uncle fun.

And then we pack up and head off for another day long car adventure, this time with Jack, to find warmth and sun and grandmother love. At four, they are old enough to remember her, my own great grandmother died when I was four and I have bits and pieces of her in my memory, sitting in her red chair on the front porch listening to baseball on the radio, running to her room through the secret closet, her clunky old lady shoes with the laces, and then quite clearly, the day she died. And while Mary and Kate have not spent the time with their great grandmother that I did with mine, they too will have fragments of her in their memories, and many pictures to keep forever, to make those memories even more real than perhaps they ever were.

But first, 18 hours of the Mary Poppins soundtrack, 1,000 miles of highway bingo, and two full days of public restrooms. We are 19 months from flying, but only a few days from Dallas, and a reminder that life is short, even if you are lucky enough to make it last for 96 years.

Autumnal

Autumnal. It's my favorite word, hopelessly overused, used way before and beyond appropriate times, completely perfect. This past weekend we went to Michigan for our now annual autumnal getaway, apple picking, foliage admiring, breath watching, and we were not disappointed.This tree does not exist in Chicago, not where we live. I forget how much I miss the space and the yard and the trees, and then I quickly remember when faced with these amazing autumnal images.

Once again we stayed in our little camping cottage, fool me once, and this time, no heat. None. And without warning so I did not pack accordingly, we had only pajamas for sleeping, not pajamas for igloo camping. Do they make pajamas you can plug in? Sherpa lined PJs? Foolishly we brought just one coat each when clearly we needed at least two. I considered warming the bedding with a blow dryer and then realized I had not packed a blow dryer, nor a bed warmer. We even left Eleanor Roosevelt, the best bed warmer around, in Chicago with her very best friend Amanda. We were cold.

So we made a fire in the backyard, because you can do that in Michigan, huddled around and warmed our hands, made s'mores, and then dashed inside to find it quite cooler than outside. Kate pointed out that if we only had a house with a fireplace, well things would be much better. I considered setting fire to the entire place but was talked back to reason by the ever sane Jack, wearing a sweater and a fleece, a towel wrapped around his ears and bundled under a really ugly comforter. We made microwave popcorn for the warmth.

The temperature on our autumnal getaway weekend last year was a record 90 degrees. We spent the first day at the beach, in the water. Our pictures from apple picking are of very red faced children in shorts and t-shirts, which was actually a nice picture with the red apples, but that is not the point. Who knows? Next year it might snow, which will ruin the vibrant color and chase all the leaves from the trees but we'll love it.There are over 60 pounds of apples in my kitchen. Monday's breakfast was scrambled eggs with apples and cheddar. For dinner I made scallops, couscous and carrots with a curry sauce, and apples. Tonight? I'll be incorporating apples into pasta, maybe pumpkin ravioli. Very autumnal.

Nose Knows

One of my least favorite things about returning home from a weekend away is the overstuffed bag of dirty laundry we bring with us. And it's not really about washing it all, I would have to do that anyway, it's that a dirty bag of laundry smells. Nothing specific, nothing terribly offensive, just a stale Wash Me kind of smell that moves me quickly into the laundry room.

I have a very keen nose. This drives my husband crazy, he knows I can always sniff him out. Eleanor and I share this trait and we see it in Mary from time to time. We are smellers (not smellees I hope) and while dirty laundry reminds me of the downside of this glorious gift, wonderful smells serve as reminders of many a happy time. My husband believes that I think everything smells either like Aspen or Puerto Vallarta, not true, although both are very nice places to smell (save the horrid exhaust problem on the malecon). Here is my list of things that smell so good, things that keep me from cutting off my nose when I am downwind of a bag of dirty laundry.

1. Fire, contained and woody fire, best smelled while outside in the very crispy cold air. Also acceptable, burning peat in Ireland.
2. Cut grass, specifically cut grass outside my sixth grade classroom. Golf courses are also very nice.
3. Mimi's kitchen, usually cooking lamb (yuck) but also apple pie, roast chicken, or cheeseballs. I would take any of those smells, including the lamb, anyday.
4. Baby lotion. Not all babies but babies wearing the pink lotion, wonderful smell.
5. Burgers on the grill. This one is an Aspen smell, coming up the lift to the Merry Go Round restaurant, you can also get some fire mixed in, smell euphoria.
6. Stepping off the plane in a tropical location in February.
7. Corn tortillas, fresh cooked, wonderful, but a quick sniff of a decent bag will do.
8. Little kid running around smell, best on cold days, warm happy children required.
9. Christmas trees, real balsam fir air, freshly cut, heavenly scent.
10. Cigars, not in a closed space mind you, but open air cigars.
11. The ocean, and sometimes a large body of water, but the ocean smell, and all that goes with it, just so refreshing.

When I find one of these on my smell radar I move around quickly, trying to strategically place my nose in the most accesible smell spot. Surely I would laugh if I saw someone doing the same thing, I'm kind that way.

Perhaps this year I should put a Christmas tree in our laundry room.

Hit the Road Jack

My mantra, for the past two years of siren awareness, has been, "oh, here comes a firetruck/police car/ambulance to help someone". We hear our share of sirens, and yours, and your neighbors, and my explanation has always been that they are helpers, off to aid someone who has been hurt or treated poorly or lost. And so when Mary and Kate see the flashing lights and hear the screaming siren they wave and thank the firetruck/police car/ambulance that is racing by.

Last night, at about mile 908 out of roughly the 1,000 we had to cover, Jack clipped along past a Illinois State Trooper going about 77mph in a 55mph stretch of highway just outside of Naperville. All the way to Nebraska and back, my race across Iowa at 85mph, and he needs help this close to home. And there it was, the flashing red light in the rear view mirror and my sudden realization that I had to explain to Mary and Kate what was about to happen. "Now, we have rules at home, right, like we don't throw balls inside. And there are rules outside also, for everyone to follow, and some of those rules have to do with how we drive our cars. Who knows what a red light means?" STOP!! "Right, and there are rules that tell us how fast we can drive our car, to help keep us all safe, and Daddy (did Daddy break the rules? What are the consequences for a Dad who breaks the rules? Time out?) was going a little faster than the rules say and this police officer decided to stop us and remind Dad to slow down a bit".

Mary: why did Dad break the rules? Why are we going so fast?
Me: sometimes, especially after a long trip, when we are excited to get home, we go a little too fast and the police man stops to help us remember to be safe and slow down.

Continued jabbering from me while I hope, really hope, that this guy is a nice and friendly police man who doesn't scare my children, scaring them for life, creating horrid fear of authority, sending them into the certain world of sneakery and sly'ness.

He flashed his little light into the backseat, finding two very tired children, strapped correctly into their carseats, surrounded by books and stuffed animals and then stepped up to Jack's window.

Mary: Daddy was going too fast!
Officer (very) Friendly: license and registration please sir.

He moved back to his car as I continued on with my lesson on civil obedience: rules are made to help everyone get along, to make our lives easier and to keep us all safe. Sometimes people don't follow the rules and they get into trouble, just like at home.

Kate: who makes these rules?
Me: Dick Durbin and Barack Obama

From Officer Friendly Speedy Jack received a warning, a very kind warning to slow down, follow the rules and keep his family safe. From Mary Jack received a request, "ok, now we can slow down?".

Over eighteen hours of car time in four days and for the last 30 minutes we followed the rules, as we should have done from the very beginning. Rules are there to keep us all safe, and to help us get along, right?