Travel Vignettes

Cows grazing on rollingly flat fields. Black and white, brown and white. A stream bed meanders through the landscape. Crows take flight in small flocks.

The sun slowly setting behind hills topped with winter-bare trees. Photographing knobby branches outlined by pale golden sunlight. Catching sight of the river.

Weathered out buildings. A barn with Mail Pouch Tobacco advertizement painted on. Old brick buildings, restored or boarded up.

Trucks thundering past on a winding narrow road. The SUV behind us tailgates, but where would they go? They couldn't pass those two tractortrailers either.

Over bridges with spans angled like Flying Geese triangles, brown, grey, green.

Baby tires of toys one after another and flings them to the side, over the car seat. There go the blocks, and the rattle. There goes the "sound machine." Still turned on, it gets stuck half way to the floor, a button pressed against the seat, - boingboingboingboing! and making us laugh until it's dislodged. There goes a burp rag too, and her blanket. Fling, flang, flung!

At gas stations, cars stuffed with families discharge to stop, stretch, recharge and refill.

A train passes in the distance, a homey, rolling sound with horns wailing and massive metal wheels rumbling on the tracks like a distant waterfall.
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The Good, The Bad, The Sleepless

So we survived the first night of our trip to enjoy the second.

The Sleepless:
Stayed up until nearly five am to prepare photographs of the baby for the grandparents photochip. Then after hours of singing to a non-sleeping baby in the car, found myself the following morning at four am, stepping in to put my daughter to sleep *again* after my husband had exhausted and exasperated himself on the same project. We had a very tired and very hungry little girl who was too tired to sleep or eat well. So that made three of us. I'm so tired, my eyes feel like they are about to shrivel up and fall out of my head.

The Bad:
We started the trip barely half an hour down the road with a suddenly fussy baby read: dirty diaper. We stopped at the best "travel center" we could find, and still had to change the little girl in a women's bathrooom in which the light bulbs were in imminent dancer of burning out, and NO changing station, necessitating using the tile floor (I have a cushioned changing mat, but still - Don't touch anything! I told her), AND enjoying the young ladies who came in and out in the dim light, washing hands, and using an incredibly loud and new-fangled "sheet of air" hand dryer, prompting the little girl to scream in terror. It was an inauspicious start.

At the end of the trip, after numerous misadventures and feeding-scheduling near-disasters, we found ourselves at our first stop - after midnight - in the worst "plush" hotel room I've ever had the misfortune to experience. The sufferings were slight but stinging. A nursing chair with no arms and too tall to put ones feet on the floor. What ergonomics? A heater that either ran continuously and noisily - when it wasn't putting out dry hot air, it was blowing cold breezes on us - or had to be turned completely off, which we did, preferring cold over noise. A bed that was ridiculously small for two people. Large, dark, fancy-ugly furnishings crammed into an already small room. Another interior designer's triumph over usability and common sense. A room that was not only NOT next to the lobby, but was located as far as one could possibly get from the lobby. Hellooo, end of hallway, fifth floor. Meanwhile, I haven't eaten in hours, and most of our travel food it too noisy to eat at night. I'm starving. And exhausted. Oh, a miserable night-day indeed.

The Good:
Hot showers that make me feel a little more alert and alive. Better feedings - several before noon - better nappings - little girl takes a nap on the bed for an hour before we leave. A modest travel day with good food, great weather and relaxed entertainments. Houston, we have a happy baby! The little girl entertains herself with red cylinders and teething links. I entertain myself by shooting scenery out the car windows with my snazzy new camera and feeding chocolate to Mr Sweetie. We eat lunch at our favorite reliably-decent-sushi-and-Asian-food-on-the-road, although I don't quite manage to stuff myself. Our next room is comfortable and convenient. The front desk offers to be of service and happily brings us more dental floss after we've run out. The duvet is plump and cozy. The pillows are poofy and self-re-fluffing, slowly rising up after each pressed hand. I set the little girl up on a bed with several pillows as bumpers, and she quickly learns the joys of sinking her face and arms into the fluffiness and Ummmming in delighted appreciation. I demonstrated how the pillows can be used to "bop" someone in the head, and she giggles wildly. We snack, we nap. We put the little girl on a soft play mat, and she "scootchs" off the mat and halfway across the room, adventuring at a snail's pace, looking back at us every so often for reassurance. Go, little girl! we say. I teach her how to call for Daddy and she practices calling for my attention, although she calls me Baba. She takes a one hour nap. I take a two hour nap. Mr. Sweetie troubleshoots dismantling a part of the travel bed. I read and write bloggy things. And then the little girl is down at a decent hour. I'm eating Nutella for dinner (hey, it's quiet!), my feet are going to sleep from kneeling in front of my husband's laptop on the floor, and it's still a good day. It's a good night for good sleep. Good night, all.
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Packing Mania

When I was a youngster, all of our relatives lived between two to sixteen hours drive away, so we were always going on long car trips. And since we were five people in one car, and often camped to save money on hotels, this came to a lot of stuff to pack.

My father would start early that morning and spend several hours collecting all of our packed items, carefully assessing the relative volume and necessary accessibility, and fitting it all into our big blue Chevy Impala. Somehow, he made it all fit, although I remember a couple of years in which I had things packed in around my feet. It always did take hours to pack the car, and somehow I came to understand that this accommodated my father's packing method.

I don't need to take hours to pack it all in, fortunately, although that one year we drove across country with a Summer's worth of stuff came close. We really did have to analyze the layout like a jigsaw puzzle that year, and in the end, a few things didn't make the cut.

My husband, bless him, is good at packing without obsessing. That first trip we took out West together - two weeks in a pickup truck with backpacking gear - he quickly learned that I obsessed over packing. One morning I was trying to get my sunblock no, and he said, Let me pack while you do that. I promise I won't break anything. It took about half as long, and it all fit. He said, We're ready to go. Just don't look to closely at it! Over the years, I've retrained myself to trust him to get it done when I'm too stressed to think straight. And thank goodness for that.

Even when I am not traveling across the country, it does take me a while, my brain organizing as much as the physical items. I'm always running later than I'd like, and I almost always leave feeling I've forgotten something. Often at the last minute, I am making sandwiches or taking clean laundry out of the drier or changing kitty litter - any number of things that need to be done before one goes.

I invariably do leave with something unfinished. Oh, well! I have to say. Or, Aiigh! Damn it! That feeling of panic and terror is as much a part of my travels as anything else. But then once I am on the road, I am relieved that it's out of my hands.

One essential tool to keeping my sanity is the packing list. Whether I am going to a dance weekend, a backpacking trip, or an overnight calling gig, or up to visit relatives for a week, or staying in Arizona for a month, I have my system to kept keep my mind straight.

I have packing lists for backpacking, including food lists and weights down to the ounce for each item. I have a list of basic essentials for any dance weekend with and without camping. I have packing lists for Summer travel, packing lists for Winter travel, and sublists depending on what activities -swimming, stargazing, hiking, birdwatching - we might be doing while traveling.

I need that system so that I bring everything we need, but not more than we need. Every year it shifts around, yet gets a little more refined. Mr Sweetie is proud that we've pared down to what we really need.

Now that we have the little girl, though, I have whole new categories of items to list. Clothing, diapering, nursing, pumping, sleeping, entertainment. And we have to find time in which to not only assess and refine the current list, but to actually pack as well. Yesterday, it took me five different tries to have the time + attention span to consolidate two lists. In case you are wondering, I get a lot of things done in the middle of the night.

And now we on to a whole new race... leaving town within twenty-four hours of our original plan, with everything we need, with sanity still relatively intact, at just the right moment in the feeding cycle to make it at lest an hour down the road before we have to stop. We did it once this Summer; now to try it again...

Wish us luck. We have the lists. We have travel food and clean laundry, but a lot of things to pack and a lot of details to nail down. I want to be gone within twelve hours. I make no promises about my sanity.
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Acquiring Satisfaction

I know I am trying to simplify my life and declutter and live in a financially responsibly manner, and all that, but still, sometimes, I just like acquiring things.

I admit it; acquiring new stuff is fun. Don't hate me because I tell the truth.

There is the fun of browsing (as long as it doesn't go on too long). There is the delight of having found a really cute or practical thing (as long as it's not too expensive). Finally, I found a small spatula that doesn't cost an arm and a leg! And another couple of Fiestaware pieces that go with my existing sets. There is the satisfaction of feeling prepared and ready for my life. Finally, I have a black sweater that fits, goes with anything, and doesn't itch.

This applies to food and other practicalities too. I have fresh spinach! And large paperclips (which I am always using a lot of). And toilet paper - yessss! I am set! There is also the thrill of a new design or color to delight the eye. I am a big fan of certain styles - like for instance, vintage salt shakers or retro coffee mugs. And there is the Wowzarino thrill of finding something really amazing, such as a 20's vintage dress that actually fits me. Oh, and there are the therapeutic benefits It's such a dreary and depressing day. I know - Let's go browse at the thrift store! and the mundane, too. Those retro-design magnets are just too cute to pass up.

It's a big weakness, I know. I try to not acquire more than I can actually use. I sometimes pass on old or new items to thin the herd occasionally. I've been guilty of giving some of my finds to friends as gifts. Is that so bad, though? I'm just sharing the wealth.

I sometimes get bored with things always the same things, so a little something new can be refreshing. But I am just as happy with a new box of filing folders or an old mixing bowl as I am with a pricey piece of electronic equipment.

Perhaps that's why I am such a fan of thrift shops and clothing exchanges. One can give away some things and discover new ones without much cash outlay. I am especially happy when I find something that fits into a gap in my life.

In my house, my found/exchanged and thrift store finds include:

-a big poofy couch with large pillows (replaced a hideous set of sectional chairs that probably came from a dorm lobby)
-a set of colonial-style hardwood dining room chairs (replaced a mismatched set of my husband's chairs that were falling apart)
-the big brown chest of drawers (replaces an especially hideous and awkwardly proportioned dresser)
-the big green chest of drawers (to store winter and specialized sport clothing)
-a dresser/changing table (used to store fabric until my baby came along)
-three different bookcases, two of them repainted
-a lovely cream-colored ceramic lamp
-several pairs of earrings
-an awesome, colorful, tapestry-fabric jacket
-that aforementioned vintage 20s dress. In acetate. With a hint of a train.
-a set of buttercup yellow dishes (matches and extends an existing set of dishes)
-plain glass plates (collected for use at my wedding reception)
-a cherry wood veneer china cabinet and hutch
-a pair of elegant brass candlesticks
-two different rocking chairs
-a steamer, a tea kettle, a set of silver dessert forks, and demitasse spoons I use for eating ice cream, and the list goes on.

Then there're items that have been passed on to me. An abridged list includes:

-a ten inch cast iron skillet (replaced an oversized skillet I could barely lift)
-the baby's crib
-hundreds of baby clothes items and other baby gear


I realize I am flirting with issues of hoarding and shopping, here, but I'm not too, too worried. I'm not running up debt. I'm not hoarding that toilet paper, although I've had to take a stern approach to my love for glass jars. I do need to throw more stuff away, but I've been passing on outgrown baby clothes as fast as I can. At least I am not collecting adverts and logos any more. See, I have some restraint!

One question I try to keep in mind is: Do I already have one like it that serves the same purpose? If so, tough patooties, unless the thing it would replace is hideous or dysfunctional.

The even bigger and better question I try to keep in mind is: Will I be trying to get rid of this later? If so, it can stay right where I found it.

And sometimes, the new thing is such a cheerful, cool, neato item that I can't resist. And if I get a lift every time I look at it or use it, what is the harm?

Every time I get out the vintage salt shakers or the set of stainless steel mixing bowls I bought twenty-five years ago for $19.99, I still get satisfaction from how perfectly they fit in my life. They were indulgences then, but now, they are an essential, happy part of my life.

No doubt I'll be complaining about all my stuff again soon enough. But meanwhile, I'll bring home a mini curtain rod for the baby's room and a new container of no-salt chili powder, thank you very much. And isn't that nice?
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The Baby Race

In the beginning, I didn't worry too much about how quickly or slowly our child was progressing. She had been born early enough that most things took more time. Meanwhile, the doctors assured us that when she was developmentally ready, she would accomplish those milestones.

This was vividly brought into illustrated relief as we tried to coax her into latching and nursing. After weeks of trying everything we could think of, and spending numerous sessions with a lactation consultant trying one strategy after another, the little girl woke up on her original due date with the sudden realization that sucking at the breast actually meant food! It was as if a switch had suddenly been turned on, and her latching and sucking found a new competency. After that, it wasn't easy, but it wasn't such a grueling slog to keep her fed.

After that, I took "developmentally ready" as a calming mantra. As in: when she was developmentally ready, she'd smile, eat solid food, sit up, etcetera. Other children would have been progressing at a mad pace or taking their own time, but this little girl took her own time with everything, moving along faster with some things and slower with others.

Then this month, I've been hit with more direct comparisons, and the results have been unexpectedly disconcerting.

We started a baby signing class, and I was very surprised that most of the other babies, most of them younger than my girl, were already crawling and exploring anything within reach.

Without meaning to, I start comparing my baby to everyone else's. She's bigger than most of the babies, except that one, who is younger than she is. Most of the babies are crawling while this little one is content to sit. One little girl comes up to her and reaches for the toy she's been chewing on. Some of the babies stare at our faces, others zone out. Some babies clap their hands together. My little girl stares as if she remembers that from somewhere.

My girl watches everybody, then reaches out with her elegant sense of balance and snags a toy duck to examine. She pokes an index finger into the mat material and runs her hands over the smooth plastic of a toy car, turning it over in her hands. Other babies cry and scream. My girl starts babbling to me as if to say, "Look at all of these babies!"

It's a study in variation.

So it took her forever to roll over or sit up comfortably, but she was stringing together sounds and "talking" to us months earlier than many sources say to expect single-note babbling. I'm proud of her being "early" for some things, but I find myself envious that other babies younger than her are already eating finger food and toddling about, so it's an inevitable adjustment.

Talking to others can be fun, encouraging, commiserating. But it's so easy to let our less-comfortable feelings get pulled into the mix. Whenever I sense another parent getting pulled into comparative boasting, I find myself backing away. It's nice to hear how your child is doing well, but why make it a race? I also catch myself feeling badly that my baby is not doing some of these things that others already seem to take for granted, and I warn myself away from that as well.


Well, we are all inclined to be proud of our children, aren't we? We want to feel good about their progress and that they are achieving their potential appropriately.

Sometimes I've been so laid back about certain milestones that I hardly push her. Is that a good thing, either? I don't want her to feel under pressure, but a little frustration can be a great motivator! When I came home from the first class, I once again took her hands and clapped them together, saying See, Mommy claps her hands, baby can clap her hands. Before too long, there she was, slapping her hands together and occasionally making some noise.

Encouraged, I give her some finger food. No dice! I'll try again in a few weeks. And so it goes...
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Eyes Crossed For the Camera

Now is the 52 Weeks self-portraits equivelant of photographing oneself making bored or silly faces. I've exhausted my original favorite topics and energy for NaBloPoMo. The barrel of inspiration is low, so I am scraping the bottom of it. *kkrrittchh! kkrrittchh!*

Here are some things I deal with while writing:

The cats being annoying. They go into the corner to find some plastic to chew or cardboard to shred. They only do it to be obsessive and annoying. While I'm trying to think creatively, it wears on my brain and my nerves. It's almost as annoying as them whining for food several hours before dinner time or running back and forth and crying just as I'm trying to put the little girl down to sleep.

Trying to remember how to spell words correctly so the little red underlines go away. Case in point: equivilent. Or is that equivelant? equivilant? equivalent!

I can't decide on a topic. Or I have a cool topic and find myself bored by my own writing. Well, it happens.

I'm hungry and haven't eaten, but have no time to consider what I should eat. Or the little girl is hungry and I have to hack something out knowing that she's waiting for me.

I have to fend off giving up this whole writing project. Why am I doing this, again? Oh, right. Stretching my writing muscles.

I also get annoyed by my tendency towards pretentious writing. I roll my eyes in my general direction, although it doesn't encourage writing, which is the whole point of this project.

I start muttering curses under my breath. I swear at the cats, I swear at myself, I swear with weariness and disgust. I get back on the horse and write some more.

I lose interest in and energy for editing. I know I want a different shape for a given piece, maybe even a drastic haircut of a difference, but I can't make myself whack it back into a better shape. Or I have no time and energy or attention span to make it happen.

Then I'm back to being bored by my own writing. No wonder I have sooo many readers! :) Hi! I wave in your general direction!

Come back tomorrow or next week. I'm sure things will improve.
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Powers Used For Good or Evil

I once heard a friend at church jokingly exhort his daughter, Remember Rachel, we want to use our powers for good and not for evil!

This phrase has stuck with me ever since. It's a delightful expression. It can be said seriously, it can be said facetiously. At the core of it is the idea that we can choose what to do with our talents, and that we can decide on the side of "Good" just as easily as the Ill.

So we have a quick wit. Do we want to merely entertain ourselves and our friends? Do we want to use our wit to put other people down and make people feel badly? Do we want to write poisonous essays? Or do we want to use our wit to diffuse an awkward or tense situation? Or maybe to help someone or ourselves past a difficult spot. If we have the skill, we can decide.

Maybe we are not using our skills for *evil* per se, but for dubious or self-serving purposes. Or maybe we allow other people to misuse our skills for their own dubious ends. Or maybe our skills are merely wasted, not serving much of a purpose at all.

Say we have a knack for capturing a scene. Do we use that for mockery or to show beauty? Maybe we just have to do our job, and we don't have the luxury of choosing for The Good.

What are some skills that we are allowing to be ill used or underused? What are other skills that we use to good effect, for The Good?

I can stand up for myself and for ideals I believe in. I once stood up to someone who was trying to run roughshod over the privacy of several hundred people. But I am aware that I am capable of shredding someone in the process. I have to be careful to dial back the assertiveness sometimes so I don't end up with people feeling ugly. Maybe someone is clueless and they need more gentleness, not me crashing in like an avenging angel.

I can be a good artist. I have a lot of skill (although some of it is out of practice), and a lot of background and skills. Many of those skills are out of practice because I've moved into new areas of creative expression. Some of those are a little underused. In a former life, I was sometimes asked to design things I wasn't sure of their validity. One has to make a living, yes. One does not gain respect by questioning clients on their motives for a project. Yet sometimes I had to ask myself - it this the best use of my talents and skills? Sometimes we move away from some careers and jobs because we feel our skills are being wasted. It can be hard to find the right fit.

I have a lot of knowledge about many unrelated concepts because I read a lot and am curious about the world. I can share that knowledge and spread that curiousity and enthusiasm. I can also look down on someone for being less informed than I am about a topic. (I've seen that from others - I think it's distressingly common.) I sometimes have to remind myself to use that knowledge for the good, not the evil.

Simply having a skill is not enough. We can nurture it and shape it, and use it as a tool for meaningful purpose. It's up to us whether that will be "for Good" or "for Evil."
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