Welcome Generosity

It was a windy day, the sun flashing brilliantly from behind intermittent clouds that raced across the sky. Up on the Gap, day trippers roamed over the short-cropped grass, heaving themselves step over step up the slope, between scrubby shrubbery that clung to the steep hillside.



And ponies! There were ponies up on the ridge. The appreciated the occasional carrot or apple.

Our packs, a familiar heft, rode on bruised hips. After several days on the trail, they fit into the hollows and over the bones as if molded to us. We had made it down the rock pile of a trail from the higher peak, treacherous for the unaware foot or ankle.



Easing our way down over the gap, we took the familiar gravel fork towards the parking lot, down down to the fence line, and through the gate. The gate swung closed behind us. No ponies allowed near the road.

The green lawn spread out before us, the picnic area dotted with fantastically twisted branches mottled white and gray. We found a likely pause and eased off the packs. We swigged water and looked about us. People scattered across the park at various states of leisure or strolling progress. We hadn't planned to come out at this spot, as pretty as it was, but it was convenient, the closest outlet within a couple days hike for an emergency stop.



Who should we ask? Someone who looked friendly. Someone with a larger car. One couple nodded to us as they passed us on the way to their SUV still breathing hard from their hike. We'd passed them further up the trail. Them, I thought. I paused, letting them settle in. They took some time stowing their gear. I approached, looking as winsome and non threatening as possible.

"Excuse me, ma'am. I was wondering if you all could possibly give us a ride into Damascus. We've been on the trail all week, and our stove just broke! We need to get into town so we can get another stove at the outfitters. I was wondering if you all could you possibly help us out? We just need a ride."

The woman closed her face, unwilling to say yes or no. "Don!" She called to her husband. "What do you think? This lady says she needs a ride."

"Me and my husband, both." My husband nodded and tried to look non-threatening.

"Where are you all going?" The man squinted at me.

"Damascus," I told him. "Me and my husband" (here I nodded in DH's direction) "started from there last week. We had the bad luck of our camp stove breaking, so we need to get to the outfitters to have it fixed, but we're stuck out here without a ride. Would you happen to be heading in that direction?" I was giving him an easy out.

The man looked at us for a moment. "I think we could go that way." He eyed our packs. "Those should fit in back."

"Oh, thank you so much! We really appreciate it! I thought we'd be stuck here forever." I am miss light and easy. No pressure, no other requests. DH nods and says, "Thanks a lot." "No problem," the man says, but the woman looks as if she regrets giving her husband the final say.

We stowed the packs in silence.

"Where are you folks from? You don't sound like you are from hereabouts."
"Oh, we're from ____, North Carolina."
"North Carolina, huh?"
"Yup. We enjoy coming up here every year. Some years we just hike and camp. This year, we were more ambitious and are hiking a loop around the area."

I was still trying to be friendly. No, we are not weird people. We're just like you. Too late; we already look alien. Boots! Packs! Slightly stinky layers. And what sane person carried twenty five to forty pounds all over tarnation for the fun of it?

The drive takes a good thirty minutes on the twisty roads, the same distance it's taken us more than three days to cover on the trail. It's strange to be moving so quickly over the ground. It's a unsettled jarring of time and place. Why did we just cover all that ground on foot?

We chat about the metal roofs we see on houses, the state of the weather this Summer, our jobs. I am still trying to convince them that we are ordinary folks. But backpacking along a trail is already too strange.

"Do you all need to stop for any supplies?"
"No, we're pretty well set. We just need to get our stove fixed."
"You have everything you need in those packs, huh?"
"Yup, pretty much."

The woman picks up a Wendy's cup from the cup holder. She shakes the ice in the cup and slurps loudly. She shakes the ice again even more vigorously as if scolding us. I almost snort at her disapproving expression. Ma'am, you can keep your ice. We are not your social inferiors. Except somehow we are. Having to ask for help makes us inferior to the people who are always within easy reach of their cars.

They let us out half a block away from the outdoor outfitters store. "Do you need any help with that?" This time barely sincere. "No thanks, I've got it!" We swing the weight of the packs out easily. Once more, the packs are slung over our backs, this time for just a short jaunt up the street. We don't have any small bills to offer the couple in thanks, so I settle for a little philosophizing. "We really appreciate the ride. Thank you. It was a big help. I'll pass along the favor to someone else next time I get a chance." The woman's face is twisted into something almost a sneer. Ahh, screw it, lady. We nod at them and head straight for the store, relieved to be on the ground again.

At the outfitters, they tell us that a new part would take a week to come in, but that, amazingly, the camp stove is still under some kind of "forever" manufacturers warranty. They suggest that they give us another one just like it from their stock, and they'll return ours and get reimbursed. For the second time in one day, we are grateful of a stranger's generosity, but this time, it feels welcoming.

We are punchy with tiredness - it is now late afternoon. We devour a large pizza for dinner and head back over to our favorite backpackers haven. They'll shuttle us back to the gap later. But for now, we crash. The rooms are small cinderblock rooms with thin carpet, but they seem like luxury to us. A hot shower and we fall into bed, to return to the trail the next day.


--

A Cold Night in Hooverville

It's Veteran's Day here in the US, November eleventh.

I don't know that I have anything profound to add. I've never served. I do know a few veterans, some with combat experience. My cousins, two uncles, a friend or several, one of my mother-in-law's grandsons, and men I see on the streets in desperate condition. Most of them don't talk about it much.

From a distance, I wonder about how the armed services seem to take great satisfaction in running the expensive high tech gear while maintaining their forces and their families on a shoestring. I don't know - maybe that is considered good budget management. And then after the people doing the fighting come home, they have senators voting against their benefits. Why?!? That just boggles my mind.

Okay, now I have to rant a little.

If we have young people serving some of the best years of their life for our country - going where they are told, doing what they are told, living an impossibly stressful life, surviving or not surviving or somewhat surviving (which may be worse) - then how can we not pony up their benefits and promised education?

Apparently, this denial of benefits is not new, though. Who was it - Hoover? who denied promised pay to a host of veterans, then when they and their families camped out in protest, in desperation, had them slashed down by calvary and burned out of their camp? Tell me I didn't just imagine that one. Maybe I read it in a book. ...No, sadly, the Bonus March was real. Hoover had a different opinion about how it went down and why, natcherly.

Currently, we have a young person (or old person) putting their life and sanity on the line for years, and then we as a country are miserly in compensating them? It speaks of a disrespect for the job they are asked to do. What does that make us? Ungrateful users. Never mind all the slogans. Even I, as a sorta peacenik, think we need to do better.

Where is the care and respect for treating their dire wounds of body and soul? Some veterans are near-literally kicked to the curb to beg for assistance. I see some of them on street corners every day. Who is going to salute them instead of pointedly looking the other way? I am too chicken-sh!t to talk to them, but it doesn't keep me from grinding my teeth when I hear about another benefit voted down or mental health services pulled, or the definitions of covered benefits changed. No, no, that's not Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, noooo; that person was already a little screwed up. Oh! Or maybe they are bi-polar! No PTSD here! Sure. Anything to avoid treating them. Excuse me, but What the h3ll?

Yes, veterans deserve a thank you, but it'd be even more appropriate if we would give them better services in appreciation for their service.
< /rant >
--

Pushing Buttons

The little girl loves any button she can get her hands on. Buttons that make noise, trill, chime, scream, play music. The action that creates another action. So she's developed a vocabulary for expressing her fondness for pushing buttons.

But'ons! Ah push it. Ah push but'on. Play 'sica. (That's music, she's talking about.) 'Sica on!

She loves it. She's also become fond of finding new buttons to push. Keyboards, the telephone, the cell phone... Mommy even has a few buttons.

"Can I have a hug?" I ask, and she comes shrieking into my arms. "Haig!" she proclaims. "Kiss!"

Then I made the mistake of playfully telling her that "Mommy is sad" when she didn't want to give me a hug. Oh boy, oh boy. Dumb Mommy. Another button to push. She knows she can say "no" and get a reaction. So now I don't get as many hugs because when I ask, she often gets that wild look on her face that says "I know what I can do to make Mommy crazy - Mwahahaha!" Now I have to fake caring whether she gives me a hug or not.

Come to think of it, her expression at these times is similar to the face I grew up seeing my mother make: You better do this OR ELSE. The little girl never sees my mother make that face. She could only have gotten it from me.

I already messed up on the screaming thing. I hate it when she screams, not least of all because, at close range, she can make my ears go numb for several seconds at a time, just before the pain kicks in. Then for a while, she tried threatening me with screaming when didn't like something. I'd tell her, we have to go [do something] and she'd look at me meaningfully and say, "Ah scream!" I couldn't decide whether to laugh or hold my head. I can't help but laugh. Honey, you are trying to threaten me? I can take you out. But unfortunately, I can't really best her. I can only do my Mommy best to not give away too much of my reactions.

I've had some practice with swearing. Every so often, she picks up something I've said. I have gotten much better at ignoring the word I do not want to hear. She really doesn't need any more of that sort of buttons to push.

Let this be a lesson to me. If she finds a button, she will push it. Quick! Hide all the buttons!
--

A Little Jump On The Season

I am feeling some pressure to get ahead on Christmas preparations because --

- What's that you say? It's barely Thanksgiving and it's too early for Christmas? -

True, true, but once we clear the end of November, all things Christmas will start bearing down on me, and I will suddenly find myself with no time to do some of the special things I wanted to do, and wailing and bitching, *ahem* I mean stressing out about it.

I do have time to do those special things, but only if I work ahead. If I tackle the big projects as a series of mini projects, then all is calm. (Or as calm as you can get in the midst of everything going on.) If I wait until early-mid December to start, woe is me.

This year, when I realized that our contractor was going to eat up an entire week with projects all over the house, I concluded that it was time to put in some serious prep work. And, if I got in significant work before we travel for Thanksgiving, I'll have a jump on the whole season. Or at least keep close to "up."

I might as well go ahead and mix up and refrigerate a few batches of cookie dough, eh?

Sugar Crystals in Butter - sparkly!


Therefor, a sampling of my list accomplished so far:

Mixed a batch of white roll cookies. These lemon-vanilla cookies are rolled and cut into Christmassy shapes to be decorated later. I have hopes that the little girl will experience some of the sugar-frosting-splashing and sprinkle-spilling fun. It'll be enough of a time-consuming job to roll, cut, and bake them, so I'm glad I got the mixing and chilling out of the way.



Mixed a batch of ginger roll cookies. This is my favorite gingerbread cookie of the crisp variety. I'm hoping, in the name of toddler participation, that the little girl will be able to help place currents and cinnamon candies.





Bought craft supplies to make fun gifty things that the little girl can help me with. Shhh, I'll tell you about it later.

Stockpiled bars of white and dark chocolate for another fun gifty recipe.

Designed a felt advent calendar wall hanging. I was originally planning to recreate the wall hanging that one of my aunts made for me and my sisters, but the original has gone awol (damaged and thrown out, my mother reports unsentimentally). Then once I started searching online for ideas, I found lots of cool plans. I ended up reworking my original idea to incorporate the best of other versions. Right now, it's all on a sheet of paper with sketches and notes. I'll post some picture later, I promise.

Accumulated felt and other supplies for that advent calender wall-hanging. I still have lots of do to get this ready before Thanksgiving!

Made a rough budget for gift giving. Hopefully it's between realistic and draconian. We almost always overspend, so having a rough guideline helps us keep the spending from reaching the scary zone.

Stockpiled butter. I make lots and lots of cookies, and some of them are heavy on the butter (see below: pizelles). Whenever butter was on sale this Summer and Fall, I got a few more pounds and stashed them in the fridge and freezer, where they'll keep for ages.

Stockpiled chocolates and truffles on sale. My whole family loves my habit of stuffing their stockings with these wee goodies. Since I usually give at least 3-6 per person, truffles tend to run me about thirty dollars a year. I mean, seasonally. Plus oh, several *cough* more for quality control testing. Two out of three people in the household agree that we need to double check the truffles for freshness. Anyway, I have been shopping the sales, and stashing bags in places that we hopefully will forget exist until immediately before Christmas.

Found used play kitchen and play food/utensils for the little girl. We got this this Summer after weeks of shopping and craigslist scanning. We've been saving it until the little girl is old enough to appreciate it, which we figured would be about Christmas.


Other things on the list yet to be done:

Cook up a crock pot of mince fruit filling for pies. To make this happen, I need to cut up a bunch of apples, etc, thrown together with raisins and currants, molasses and spices, and let "simmer" overnight. Then I'm going to freeze two pies worth. Then, when I am at my inlaws for T-day cooking, I can bake two pies - one for my inlaw's dinner (even though most of my inlaws don't care for this pie), and one for my cousin's T-day dinner the day *after*. So after I cook the filling, I need to *freeze* the filling so it can travel without spoilage. Anyway, that's my plan. I just got fresh currants.

Mix up some Pfeffernüße, my favorite childhood German cookie. Like the previous several cookies, this needs to be refrigerated, but at least I am not making the teeny tiny version my grandmother specialized in - that would take me months to achieve.



Bake pizelles, my favorite Italian wafer-cookie. I invested in a pizelle press a few years back. What fun! I'm hoping to make several flavours. Anise-flavored, always. Last year I also made a vanilla version, an hazelnut-almond version, and an orange-lemon version. Some for gifts, and some (okay, lots!) for us. Yummy. Oh, did I mention each batch takes a couple sticks of butter and a solid hour of uninterrupted work? (See: stock-piling butter, also: working ahead).



Start measuring/cutting/sewing the Advent calendar wall hanging. Any day now.

Wipe down play kitchen and replace batteries. Did you know that play kitchens these days often come with a sensor that plays "cooking" and boiling/sputtering noises whenever a toy pot is put over a burner? Me neither! Yes, it's electronic, but it's cool!

Wrap already acquired presents. I could start on some of the books and what-not.

Decluttering the kitchen and living room. My goal is to clear out piles so we'll have space to appreciate the tree and other decorations. I might even box up some of the toys in the house for the season, just to get them out of the way during other hoopla.

Move my mailing boxes into one location. I've been saving boxes of a certain midsize, oh, about the size of a cookie tin, say.

Start drafting my annual end-of-year letter. Yes, I am one of those people who write Christmas letters. Frankly, I enjoy getting them from my cousins and other relatives. So I try to make mine informative and entertaining.

Get more sleep. I've been recuperating from a series of bizarre illnesses (hellooo, walking pneumonia! Can I introduce you to pleurisy?), probably because I have let myself get chronically tired and run down. Enough of this; I'm going to sleep. :)

And may all of your preparations be good ones.


--

Imagine a Runner

I have been distracted all day, waiting for news, and engrossed in attempting to track my father's progress along his marathon.

The NYCM servers were completely overwhelmed most of the day by people attempting to track their favorite runners. I did not ever get to see my father on the map of the route, which would have been very cool. (I did see the Chilean miner who was running the race, but who had to stop because of knee injuries.)

Fortunately, I paid a little money to have updates sent to my mobile phone.

Bless the Internet! Every time my father passed another 5K, they'd send me a little automatic text message saying what time he'd passed that point, the time elapsed, his pace time, and the estimated finish.

It seemed to take forever to get the first one. His start time was late, late morning, so I kept waiting (and worrying a little while waiting) to see the first 5K notice. Where was he?! Did something happen? Did he not start?

It was a slow 5K. Curses on that uphill bridge! But after that, I'd hear the little buzz every hour or so, and find another update.

The early pace times seemed really slow... but after about 10K, he picked up speed, and kept cruising along steadily in the last two-thirds of the race.

When I got the 40K alert, we got even more excited, knowing that he was scant miles to the finish. We waited, and rechecked the cell until - Bzzt! There it was!

A clean finish, slower than hoped but excellent all the same.

"How old is he?" My friends ask me.
"What was his pace?" "What time did he finish?"

I'm always hesitant to answer those questions directly, because the answers seem misleading. It's easy to look at those numbers and say, "That's slooow!" (And "I run a lot faster/slower than that," if one is a runner, or whatever one says when one is trying to judge if something is "good" or not.)

But the raw numbers do not share the whole story.


Imagine a man who once broke his hip and had it put back together with two pins and a bolt. Imagine that man pushing himself in the hallway after surgery (as one is supposed to), walking laps. His determination got him going sooner and kept him improving faster than other men might have - that's what his nurses said.

And he got back out on the street, and he continued running.

Imagine a man who went in for strange pains and was told that he had to have an emergency bypass, yes today, four of them. And all subsequent complications and further wrenches thrown in by the inevitable aging process.

He may be slower, yes, and he is still running.

Imagine a man who clears brush along public berms so there is more room for runners and cyclists, who is known by scores of people along his busy training route.

Maybe you do have a little hurricane coming through, but he is still running!*
* true story

Imagine a man who has always looked for the best way to maximize his potential, who has tried to undertake things with so much precise and lavish detail that sometimes the trees get in the way of the forest. (Okay, okay, the trees are really cool!)

He plans, and trains, strategizes and analyses, and because of that, he is still running.

Imagine a man who values relationships and sharing experiences over material gifts, who seems to value conversation over status symbols, who sees the value in even small things.

Running with a crowd of fellow-athletes, while running your own race in the privacy of your own head. He is still running.

Imagine a man who values the kind gesture, the symbolic gifts of appreciation and poetry, the symbolic acknowledgements that you ran the race.

You can imagine his collection of racing medals, T-shirts and stories. And you wonder why he is still running!

Imagine a man who never throws a scrap of anything away until all use has been wrung from it.

Man, oh, man. He is still running.

Imagine all that, and then you might get closer to the truth about my father and why he's still running marathons.


How did he do? Well, he finished!
Yay! I'm relieved, but no surprise there, really.

Perhaps better to ask: How is he doing?
And one answer might be: He's testing himself against the wretched weather and the long uphills and his own limitations. He's enjoying the faces and the stories. He's choosing to live the maximum experience over and over and over again.

And therefor, he is still running!


I love you lots, Dad!
--

26.2 x31

The predawn awakening, the anticipation, the piles of gear.
The last-minute potty run, the numbered bibs, the staggered start.
Over the mat, the mass of the pack, finding the familiar rhythms.
The first long hill, over the bridge, first second and third wind.
Streets of spectators, tables of G@torade, cups slurped then tossed.
The air in your face, the sweat, the shoes.
The focus, the training, the determination, the lonely decisions.
The sparse street after the front runners have passed, the slow but steady run-walk, the mile markers creeping into view.
Cheers and clapping, strangers urging you on, steady goes it.
The camaraderie, the conversations, the sight of the finish line.
The photos, the medals, the handshakes and nods.

My father is running the New York City Marathon today. Within the last ten years, he's had a quadruple bypass and a hip replacement. He's still running. Today is his 31st marathon.
--

Dressing For Gig Decision Tree

The caller always sets the tone for the dance. I need to be dressed to both command attention, and appear as if I am ready to step out on the floor myself. A little dressy, a little festive, a little colorful. Eye-catching, but not scandalous (mileage varies depending on the venue).


Which skirt? Short dark with teal swirls, long white with peachy roses, or colorful, 3-tiered? Three-tiered, short, colorful, and fluffy.
The peachy roses is cute, but shows my legs, and I'm not sure this crowd would survive seeing my hairy legs. The dark one is a little too somber - I need to project a sense of fun.

Black leggings, fitted or more pant-like? Fitted.
It's supposed to be cold enough that I won't need to shed them. The fitted give a better line with the skirt.

Thin performance socks, wear now or change onto later? Now.
Don't want to show my feet to the organizers. I can bring heavier socks for afterwards.

Wear sneakers or clogs to travel to the dance? Undecided.
The clogs slip off and on easily and facilitate changing before and during the dance. On the other hand, if for some reason my car breaks down and I have to walk, it'd be ideal to have a warmer, sturdier shoe.

Which top? Bright sea green or darker teal? Hmmm. Undecided.
The brighter color is more festive, but the darker color makes the colors in the skirt "pop" more. For now, I'll wear the lighter and bring the darker.

Wear a different shirt for when I'm cooking? No.
It'll be an additional hassle to change clothes again before I leave. If the shirt does look too mussed, I can wear the darker one.

Wear black fleece half zip top? Yes indeed.
Always suitable and practical for gigs or dancing.

Wear earrings? Duh.

Dangly blue and purple ones or the gold wires with green beads? Dangly.
See: embody sense of fun. Also: sparkly color.

Wear dress while traveling or leggings alone? Neither.
Skirt would probably get a little crushed while in the car for nearly two hours, and the leggings alone might strike them as scandalous. Besides, I'm cold.

Alternative solution? Wear jeans over the leggings while traveling.
Extra warmth!

Wear hair up or down? Down for now, up for later.
It's not too hot or humid, so wearing it down would let it dry in a fluffier state. I'll put it up later before I get started depending on the temperature.

Anything else? Don't forget your coatglovesdanceshoescardsprogramhottea!
That's why I have a dance bag and a packing list.