The Bering Blog

The English Nerd Emerges on Route 28

I was driving home from Pittsburgh this afternoon and by the time I hit Kittanning, I was tired of listening to the same old overplayed Zeppelin, Petty, Genesis and Eagles. I had another 45 minutes to kill and I didn’t want to drive in silence because I knew I’d think about all the things that needed my attention when I got home and I’d get tense and anxious, and I’d study the traffic too intensely and let the slow and obnoxious drivers bother me more than is healthy.

I turned on one of two NPR stations on Sirius. “A Prairie Home Companion” was just ending. I didn’t want to listen to “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me” because I savor that for listening on my iPod in the gym. I slipped over to the other NPR station and the announcer introduced a show I’d never heard of called “Selected Shorts” sponsored by Barnes & Noble and I thought how much I love being read to and how pleasant it would be to spend the rest of the way home immersed in a story. Score! That’s exactly what “Selected Shorts” is: actors reading short stories or selections from novels by famous authors. First up on today’s agenda: Kate Chopin’s “A Pair of Silk Stockings.” (Click the link to read the complete text. It’s not very long and is very good.)

Perfect.

For 20 miles I listened to Susanna Thompson’s lovely articulation of the story of a woman (specifically a wife and mother) in possession of an extra $15 (about $150 in today’s market) and how she spent it.

I went into English major mode, specifically the literature nerd part. Yes, I write (and write and think and read and write some more), but the study of literature is still what I secretly savor, like Valrhona chocolate. It was the best part of my high school English classes and the best part of my English major studies. It can be selfish and absorbing, but studying literature is what makes someone a good writer. Weighing words and experiences against the written words and experiences of others is the only real way to further express our mutual human existence, because clearly nothing any writer writes is new.

Take the Chopin story. A contemporary middle-class Mrs. Sommers with an extra 150 bucks would dream of outfitting her children in clothes from the Gap, but something takes hold of her and she finds herself in Victoria’s Secret buying a thong and push-up bra. While the story would be called “A Pair of Silk Panties,” it’s clear that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

I love comparing things like that. I love reading the words from decades, centuries or millennia ago and comparing them to the present and finding common threads in my life and in the lives of my friends and family. Call me a nerd, but that excites me more than any television show, video game, and yes, even sex sometimes (but only sometimes and it has to be really good literature).

It was a great trip home. The old man driving 45 miles an hour from New Bethlehem to Clarion didn’t piss me off nearly as much as he would have if I hadn’t heard the story. I’m ready to tackle the to-do list I left on my desk yesterday morning before I left for the now infamous girls’ day and night in Da’burgh.

Thanks to Kate Chopin and Mrs. Sommers and my English major inner nerd, I’m thinking quite clearly. I love when that happens.

Writing Is A Circle

I went to Staples today to make a few copies, the place I vowed I’d never buy anything at again after the computer desk debacle a few weeks ago. But went there I did and I ran into someone who had read the column I wrote about the Bruce/train experience I had while on vacation a few weeks ago.

I’m overwhelmed by the response to that column. I’ve written a lot of words in my life, but this blog that I turned into my newspaper column has by far drawn the most intense response. I’ve received emails from people who’ve lost loved ones in similar accidents and found the column thought provoking, or it made them angry, not at me, but at their loved one or their inability to resolve their feelings about the death. Others cried and said they tried to put themselves in my shoes. Whatever the reason, people were moved by what I wrote and that humbles me beyond description. My goal is always to write something that makes people think of their own lives, their own experiences because I believe writing should always be about the other side, the place beyond the writer. What a writer writes is never really about the writer. It’s what’s invoked in the reader.

And so the responses I’ve received put me in the position of reader. I wanted to share one of my favorites. It’s one I won’t soon forget.

I have a mottled sense of the afterlife, but I think about it differently after reading this.

“I read your blog this morning and I never heard this about the dream! When you were writing about Bruce in March, Pam and I talked about it once and she talked about driving out for his funeral and she said something like, “Trains are different down there.  The intersections aren’t marked, no lights, and the trains are super fast and super quiet.   Kayla and I thought they were a little freaky.” Well you said a revelation... and it was a big one. An accident, and that’s it. A mistake, nothing more.

“I could picture it, too, in your writing, the sudden, massive presence of the train--a long whistle buried in the sound and whoosh of the engine and wind, the pretty, flat farm country.  …sigh…

“I want to tell you this, too. My cousin had a near-death experience. She’s a couple years younger than we are and summer before last she had a riding accident, was pitched from her horse, landed on her head.  She said it was all true about traveling to a light, people she loved greeting her, though afterward she couldn’t remember exactly who, just that she was so glad to see them, and she says what freaked her out the most about it when she came back to earth was that in that moment, it didn’t matter. 

“She was perfectly happy joining the angels and not returning. She said she even wanted to tell her husband and her 10-year-old son that it was fine. Her dying was fine--not to worry—they’d be fine, she was fine, it didn’t matter. But she didn’t die. An ambulance was called, she came around, told everyone about the light and the angels and they stared at her. She gave up riding after that, shocked at herself that she found it so easy  to die and her spirit so willing.

“So my whole point is that if Bruce was able to make his way back to you to explain, he cared an awful lot, more than spirits typically do once they’re outta here. It wasn’t as if he left casually or was at peace about it if he made his way back to explain like he did.”

Damn. Reading that again still leaves me breathless and in a strange way…happy.

That’s what I love about reflective, honest writing.

I’m so very glad for the responses, and in particular for this one.

And the beat goes on….

Life Sometimes Requires an Attitude Adjustment

If you’re not physically able to have sex in a hammock anymore, you don’t stop having sex, right? You might not be able to put away a pan of brownies like you could when you were 20, but you don’t stop eating chocolate. You might not play “Quarters” or “Asshole” anymore, but there’s nothing like a good beer now and again.

For me, I cannot NOT write and so I have a new keyboard and voice recognition software. I haven’t tried out the software yet, but the keyboard is all kinds of interesting.

As I learn, joint by joint, how my body is changing, I’m learning ways to tweak, or in some cases overhaul, how I do things to accommodate my real abilities. I’m new at it, but I’m learning to anticipate and think ahead of the next degeneration. Like the bumper sticker says, “Shit Happens.” It’s up to me if I want to live my life satisfied or frustrated.

This keyboard takes ergonomics to the extreme. It’s hard to get used to, and I learned last night not to try and improve my skills after drinking a few glasses of wine. You really do need all your wits about you as you navigate these keys. Cripes, it took me five minutes to write a two-line email.

(SIDE NOTE: I like that word “cripes.” What does it mean, anyway? Was it someone’s way of saying “Christ” without taking the Lord’s name in vain? My mom got mad at me when I was little for saying “Geez.” She thought it was a breath away from saying “Jesus.” Maybe “cripes” was some little kids way around his mother’s fear of eternal hellfire. Just a thought.)

Anyway, here’s what my new keyboard looks like (click on the photo for a larger view). The backspace, delete and enter keys are all at the bottom and you access them with your thumbs. That’s taking me some getting used to. Also, the arrow keys are divided – the back and forths on the left and the up and downs on the right – and I can’t stop typing M for an N. “They” say I’ll be 80 percent efficient in a few days. “They” obviously don’t know how impatient I am and what a lousy typer I am. This keyboard might be launched out the window by the end of the week.

(SIDE NOTE: My friend Rodney is a hunt-and-peck typer. I’d pay money to see him figure this keyboard out. It would make an excellent You Tube video. Lots of “cripes” dropped in that one, I’m sure. Just a thought.)

Shit, I keep hitting the apostrophe when I want to hit Enter. Enter is on the bottom, Lynn, next to the Space bar. See what I mean? I need to train my brain. The Kinesis folks call it “adapting your kinesthetic sense.” I’m thinking whomever typed the manual hadn’t adapted his or her sense yet. From the manual: “Your (sic) are simply adjusting your muscle memory or intuitive understanding of reach and distance.”

It makes a funny clicking sound when I type. But I like how I can sit with my arms extended in front of me at a perfect 90-degree angle and can type without having to move my little pinkie fingers much. Really helps the old arthritis, you know?

Relearning things we thought were second nature isn’t easy, especially when you get older. It’s easy to feel defeated or retreat back to what you’re comfortable with, even though what you’re familiar with isn’t what’s best for you anymore. But if something’s worth doing, it’s worth adapting.

So what if I no longer have sex swinging from the rafters? OK, so I never had sex swinging from the rafters. But I won’t be taking it up, either. My point is, my body tells me the IKEA chair is safer and just as satisfying. I also won’t be shoveling snow this winter. But that’s why God made 13-year-old boys who live next door.

Life sometimes takes an attitude adjustment. A new perspective. What’s your body saying? What’s your conscience saying? Take a listen. Growing and changing doesn’t have to be such a bad thing.

For the record, this took me four hours to type. What’s interesting is that the stick that’s usually up my ass is mysteriously not lodged real deep and I’m not as impatient with myself as I assumed I would be. As part of my attempt at a new way of thinking and being, I ANTICIPATE that I will figure this thing out sooner or later.

S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y......NIGHT

I’ve never been a big fan of Saturday nights. Once in awhile something planned happens, but even then it’s an odd night. Nothing’s on TV, going out means fighting crowds, I’m tired from the week and want to relax, but it takes effort to figure out that to do in the hours before bedtime.

Saturday is a blip in the week. Every other night has a positive “feel,” something that keeps me in rhythm. Then Saturday comes around and fucks it all up.

Saturday days are good for getting things done, but Saturday nights leave me a little lost. On other nights I plan the next day, but what’s there to plan for Sunday? Not much usually.

So this blog is following me around on this Saturday night, September 22, 2007.

I was at the Renaissance Festival in Pittsburgh for most of the day. It wasn’t as good as it usually is, but the glass artisans had beautiful work for sale, the Washing Well Wenches were hilarious, and I got to spend five hours with my kids. All in all not a bad day.

Tonight, though, is an effort. I did a crossword puzzle, tried to concentrate on my column that’s due Monday, but nothing kept me interested.

Here I am, bored.  I lit a few candles, so now what? Ah, a concert DVD. The Moody Blues (Le Moody Blues) Live in Paris, 1970.

This has potential.

The audience is sitting around on cushions, smoking, drinking, talking, like the band is performing in their living room. The hair is long, the pants are flared. The guys in the band are young and their voices sound like they walked out of the studio. Larry and I have seen The Moody Blues several times in 10 years, and while they still sound good, they don’t still have their 20-something voices. I don’t expect them to. But I’m so glad we have DVDs (and YouTube) to show us when they did.

The camera angles focus a lot on the band member’s backsides, but this is not a complaint. I like this version of “Are You Sitting Comfortably.” (Most of the video links are from the DVD I’m watching tonight, so it’s like a cyber-version way of sharing my evening with you.) Justin is smoking something….hmmmm…. Here’s “Nights in White Satin” as I saw it tonight. Click on the link and tell me if Justin’s smokin’ a J just before he starts singing. If ever a song was written for marijuana and making out, “Nights in White Satin” is it. 

The band is having fun. They screw up sometimes, but they laugh and look at each other like the friends they are. You know the looks I’m talking about. The ones where you look a little longer into your friend’s eyes and smile, ignoring the people around you. No words exchanged. The conversation plays out in the space between your eyes and your friend’s.

They’re so young. This gig was played 37 years ago. I was 7 years old. My mother was listening to Neil Diamond and Tom Jones and Englebert Humperdinck, so, therefore was I. My older brother and sister were listening to the Beatles and Fifth Dimension. I wish one of them had discovered The Moody Blues.

Larry and I analyze the social implications of “Lazy Day,” drink some wine, I admire Justin’s ass again, John’s, too. This Saturday night is looking up.

Mmmmmm…..Candle of Life is a great song, too.

I like this version of “Tuesday Afternoon.” I like the way Justin sings the words “here” and “near.” Imagine a British accent: “The trees are drawing me nee-ah. I’ve got to find out why. Those gentle voices I hee-ah, explain it all with a sigh…”

Alas, Larry is going to bed. I’m not tired yet, so the evening will end as it began, empty and odd and with the same old Saturday night flavor. Whatever. There’s a book upstairs that will put me to sleep. Thanks for sharing my night with me, and I do hope your Saturday nights are less disconnected than mine.

This Is Probably The Most Boring Thing I've Written, But...

It is a beautiful evening. A Virginia Woolf kind of evening. It’s warm outside, no wind. The crickets are still singing this late in the season.

I’m thinking and writing below the radar. You’re gonna get a little of my subconscious here. It’s all and everything I want to give tonight.

There’s a little eco system living on my porch. A half-inch spider created a triangular web using a flower box filled with shamrocks and the porch ledge as two of its three sides. He sat underneath his web near the bottom edge of the box and waited for prey until I set my wine glass down and he scurried under the flower box. Soon he realized the glass wasn’t a threat and came out once again to wait for a gnat or fruit fly.

My next door neighbor is a music professor and is giving a recital in a few weeks. She’s been practicing every night for a month. Tonight I was listening to Classic Vinyl on Sirius radio, blasting it out the front windows as I sat on the porch, and as I listened to her and the radio I realized there is not much difference between Eric Clapton and Bach or Bachman Turner Overdrive and Rachmaninoff. When Clapton sang “Bell Bottom Blues,” the music was in sync with the Bach melody she was playing. When BTO sang “Takin’ Care of Business,” Rachmaninoff was a background singer.

It’s been that kind of day. An early fall warm day when you take everything for granted. Like the very small sparrows at the feeder and the ones blending into the grass below, everything moved and lived without question. My dogs ate their food, I bought thyme and paper towels at the grocery store, the DHL guy brought me a package, I watered the begonias. Nothing spectacular or out of the ordinary, yet spectacular and extraordinary.

Why? I’m not sure. Do you ever feel sometimes like you’re living a little outside yourself, just for a second, and can appreciate the rhythm of your life?

Beethoven, Zack the dog across the street, the little light in my window in the shape of a star, the people up the street laughing on their porch. Even the college students drinking beer on their rooftop a half block away. They are comforting and normal. I like normal. I crave normal. I crave similar. Eric Clapton is like Bach. Rachmaninoff would’ve written “Dixie Chicken” if he’d been alive in 1973. We’re all little sparrows at the feeder, most of us minding our own business and being normal.

It’s a beautiful early fall evening and maybe it’s time for chocolate. Or popcorn. Or a carrot. I can’t decide. These are the kinds of things that fall out of my head and out my fingers on the keyboard. I’m not Virginia Woolf, but I kind of understand her feeling of normal.

Girls Night at the Conti Ranch

I long for my “girl” nights with the anticipation of a child dressed up to trick or treat. Me and my daughters, speaking our own language,  putting things into perspective, laughing at the dumbest things.

Cassie’s husband is out of town and he didn’t want his 8-months-pregnant wife to be alone. Lately I’ve been so bound to my own little dramas that I didn’t realize how much I needed to be needed. I planned dinner, made dinner, cleaned up after dinner – just like when my girls were at home. I listened in the background as they talked their sister talk, once in awhile addressing me as I was busy in the kitchen, reminding me of things I’ve said that I’d forgotten, things they will never forget (and will always tease me about) that I thought were insignificant. It’s humbling to view your life through the eyes of your children.

When I first got here, Cassie greeted me at the door, as always. So did Sadie the dog, squeaking and wagging her tail. Cassie was disgusted because she’d spilled Cocoa Puffs on her white shirt. She wouldn’t have felt so bad, I suspect, if she weren’t four weeks from her due date. I just saw her last week and I swear her belly’s grown a foot. Yay baby! Here’s Carlene feeling the baby kick while Cassie lays on the couch doing Sudoku puzzles. (Click on the photo for a larger view)

We watched Jeopardy, looked at photos and talked all evening. Too fast it was 9:30 and Carlene had to go home because she had to work the next day and Cassie was pulling a 12-hour shift at the hospital. I was getting sleepy, too, but I hated letting the moment go.

Upstairs in “my” room, Sadie the dog slept next to me. Lila the cat was on the bed for a moment but decided she’d rather sleep on top of my daughter’s belly. There’s something wonderful about petting a strong healthy cat. The last cat I cuddled with was our cat Bungee who was riddled with sickness and thin. Lila purrs loudly and her hair is soft and thick and doesn’t fall out when I run my fingers over it.

Now it is the morning and I’m packed and ready to go home. I said goodbye to Cassie in the wee hours before daylight when she went to work. I hugged her, told her to have a nice day, and then crawled back into bed. The garage door opened, I heaved a sigh of sadness, it closed and I went back to sleep. Awake an hour later, I’m alone here.

But not for long. In a few weeks I’ll be back to take care of my daughter and her husband while they get to know their baby, the one that one day they’ll visit in his own house and be sad and glad all at the same time when they say hello and goodbye.

I take one more look around the baby’s room and smile. Life is good.

I Am The Decider

Some people’s bodies are temples. Mine is a drunken barroom with body parts going to hell like drunk people falling off bar stools.

My toes, feet, knees, wrists, elbows and now my shoulder with a full rotator cuff tear and a biceps tendon tear – all of them are in some degree of disrepair. I feel like an old house with drafty windows and crumbling drywall. I need to get ahead of the destruction and find a way to stop or slow whatever is going on inside my joints.

I hate surgery and the thought of surgery and everything about surgery. It scares me. And no one has anything good to say about rotator cuff surgery. Everyone I’ve talked to – doctors, patients, relatives and friends of people who’ve had the surgery – say it’s extremely painful with a long and difficult rehab. This woman’s blog scared the crap out of me: What To Know Before You Go~~Under The Knife~Shoulder, Rotator Cuff Surgery~Ouch!

A friend suggested that many of these stories could be like the ones we heard while pregnant, of how horrible childbirth was. They might be, but I’d sure like to hear from someone, anyone, who had a good experience with rotator cuff surgery and recovery.

Part of me wants to say forget it. Rotator cuff tears are not life threatening and the worse that could happen is that I lose the use of my shoulder. Guess what? I already can’t use my wrists and elbows the way they were intended so what’s the difference if I can’t use my shoulder? I can’t lift much weight the way it is. I have to be careful how I twist jars open, chop food, use a mouse, type, feed myself, wash my hair and the list goes on and on. So big deal if I become the Gimpy Grandma who can’t lift her arm above her head? I’m still me. I’m still a thinking, feeling, dreaming human being who can find ways other than using my shoulder to express myself.

I realize doctors want to heal. They want to make us feel better. My shoulder guy is a very nice guy, but he said, and I quote, “Lynn, you’re 44 with the shoulder of a 70-year-old…I don’t know what to tell you…I can let your decision go to not do something about your wrists just now (a full fusion of both, eliminating my ability to move them in any direction), but I can’t let this injury go.”

Um, Mr. Doctor? Yeah, the last time I checked I, ME, I was the one in charge of what I do and not do. I am, to use my favorite Bushism, The Decider.

My doctor has no choice in this matter. He’ll have to “let it go” if I decide to let it go. He can choose not to see me as a patient anymore if I don’t take his medical advice, but he doesn’t get to tell me what to do.

Maybe that’s what’s at the heart of what I’m feeling. Like I don’t have a choice. Like everything about my body is being decided for me. Like I’m being talked about in the third person.

I don’t want to be the Bionic Woman just yet. Something tells me it’s not time. I need to sit back and regroup. Collect my thoughts. Investigate. Learn. Most of all, I want to enjoy the anticipation of my grandbaby’s arrival in five weeks. That’s gotten muddled in all this negative surgery talk, all this fear. I get my thoughts tightly wound into a ball that then behaves like a skipped record. Time to lift the needle. Time to turn off the turntable. Time to turn fear into power.

I might be crumbling to pieces like an old brick stoop, my body might not be the temple I desire, but I still am The Decider.

The Tale of the Flat Tire

In the back of my Jeep is the blown out (and I mean BLOWN out) tire that used to be attached to the back on the driver’s side. I ran over some construction junk driving northbound on Route 28 out of Pittsburgh yesterday and ended up pulling over just before exit 14, stuck between New Kensington and Tarentum in rush hour traffic.

I probably should have pulled over sooner, like when I smelled the burning rubber and thought every car passing me had a muffler problem. I had no idea it was all coming from my Jeep until some chick in a late model gold Chevy Impala stuck her head out her window and gave a very strange look to the back of my SUV. Well, that and the fact that I had the gas pedal to the floor and was losing power. I was a little slow on the uptake.

I pulled over, cussed a little, and turned on the flashers. I was especially pissed since I was listening to the Jay Thomas Show on Sirius and laughing my ass off having a good time. Deep breath. My cell phone was fully charged, a rare thing for me, so I dug out my Triple A card and dialed the emergency number.

“I have a flat tire,” I yelled through the phone to the nice lady who answered. The traffic was loud. I assumed since I could barely hear her, she could barely hear me.

“Where are you, ma’am?” she asked. Good question. Shit. Where was I?  I was sitting in the passenger’s seat backwards, facing the oncoming traffic. I turned around and looked out the windshield and saw a big green highway sign that said “Lower Burrel Exit 14.”

“I’m between exits 13 and 14,” I said.

“You’re on a four-lane, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll make this a priority call and get someone out there right away.”

Priority? I liked the sound of that, but crap. Was I in danger? Did drivers on this road typically crash into motorists stranded on the shoulder? I got a little nervous. I took comfort in her sing-songy reassuring voice, hung up, and thought about how to entertain myself for the next 30-60 minutes.

Good thing I’d shopped at Trader Joe’s an hour earlier. After calling my husband and dragging him out of a boring meeting to tell him where I was, I popped the hatch, opened the cooler and dug out the salsa. In the back seat was the bag containing corn tortilla crackers. I popped the plastic on the salsa with a key and had me a little snack in the back seat as I waited for the Triple A truck.

Cars sped past. Vrooom, vrooom…..I was bored and started counting them. I got to 20 and stopped. I was having a “short-attention-span” moment. It occurred to me that I’d logged nearly 3,000 miles in the Subaru without incident on my trip to Minnesota a few weeks ago. I go to Pittsburgh in my trusty Jeep and all hell breaks loose. I guess that’s better than breaking down on I-80 through south Chicago where cars and trucks take up six lanes of traffic and travel much faster than 55 mph.

I put away the salsa and decided to make myself useful and free the spare tire. I took off the cover and unscrewed the bolt holding the tire to the inside of the hatch. It never occurred to me to change the tire on my own because I had no idea where the jack was (I’ve owned this vehicle for 10 years) and even if I did, I wasn’t interested in learning how to use it. That’s why I pay Triple A $50 a year. Let’s just say that it’s paid for itself more than once.

With the bolt off, I was free to move the tire off the large screw that held it in place. I tugged at it a bit, got mad because it didn’t move, and then pulled really hard, grunting and everything, until it loosened and the tire flew off and smacked me on the side of the head. “Smooth move, Haraldson,” I said out loud. That’s all I needed, to be passed out on the blacktop when the Triple A guy arrived. (For the record, I have a little bruise on my face and I had an annoying headache all the way home. Tires are heavy solid suckers, let me tell ya.)

I went back to the passenger’s seat and thought about the tip. I always tip the Triple A people. I carry very little cash these days and I’d used my only 5 to buy ice for the cooler. I was left with three ones and eight quarters. I was embarrassed I didn’t have more, but short of giving the guy my debit card, there was little else I could do. I tucked the money in my pocket and stared out the back window again.

“Do you need some help?” a voice asked to my left.

I jumped and my heart leapt into my throat. A middle-aged balding man in a Tommy Hilfiger t-shirt was standing next to the Jeep. A thousand cars had driven past me and I never thought anyone would stop to help me. I know I wouldn’t have.

“Are you from Triple A?” I asked him.

“No. I just saw you had a flat and thought I’d stop to see if you needed help.”

“Well, the Triple A guy should be here soon, but do you wanna see what I did to my tire?” I asked him, laughing.

He smiled and followed me to the back tire and I showed him the big old hole and the rim resting on the blacktop.

“When I run over something, I really run over it,” I said.

He laughed. I told him I appreciated him stopping and said I’d thought a cop would have wandered over by now. He said they were all sitting in their cars where the southbound lanes turned to one lane due to the construction about a mile away in the other direction. Good point, I told him. He asked if I needed anything and I said no, I’d be fine. It was nice to have the company for a few minutes.

Fifteen minutes later, a tow truck with flashing lights pulled up behind my Jeep and a nice looking fellow with a crew cut and a tattoo with the name Charlotte was emblazoned on his left arm got out and walked to my car, tire iron and jack in tow. He greeted me with a smile and I told him I was glad to see him. He just smiled and laid down on the ground, positioning the jack. He had on tight jeans, a blue t-shirt and brown work boots. I stood there in the grass looking around like an idiot, uncomfortable with doing nothing. He quietly changed the tire, took down the jack and smiled again at me. I took out my three ones and eight quarters and told him I wished it was more, but to take what I had and he said no, it wasn’t necessary. Keep it, he said.

I got in my Jeep. I was shaking a bit. He got in his tow truck and waited until traffic was clear and waved me to merge ahead of him. He took good care of me. I liked that feeling. He turned off at exit 14 and I waved to him. My stomach was in a knot for the next 20 miles and I drove 55 in a 65. I had to trust my spare and process the events of the last hour.

No worse for wear, I arrived home safe and sound an hour later.

Don’t you just love flat-tire kinds of interruptions? Sure, they can make you mad at first, but flat tires offer you time away from your planned activities. It’s a chance to think on your feet and be a little primitive, be a little out of your comfort zone. Not a bad way, Zen speaking, to spend an hour.

10 Days on the Road and A Lot of Different Beds

Coming home from vacation isn’t easy. Aside from unpacking and looking around to see what might be different in your house or needs to be cleaned or fixed, there’s the “coming down,” that feeling between vacation you and everyday life you.

I haven’t been myself these last few days. It’s like I scattered myself all over Minnesota (and Ohio and Indiana and Illinois and Wisconsin) during those 10 days away and I don’t know how to collect those pieces into the whole me again.

I slept in Chicago, Luverne, Jasper, Albertville, Breezy Point, Bloomington and Elkhart. Different beds, different showers, different rules. I feel a little weird at home in my own bed, like I’ll wake up tomorrow and have to pack up and move on. This hasn’t happened to me before when I’ve been on vacation. Could it be I really am an old curmudgeon, stuck in her ways? Nothing feels familiar, even in my own home. I feel like a stranger.

Hmmmm…what to do, what to do. What felt so good in these places? What kept me anchored? Carlene was with me most of the time. She’s familiar. But that wasn’t it.

The first night away I was in Chicago. One night from home is something most anyone can do, and considering we had fun and accommodating hosts, that night really doesn’t count as different.

The next night I was in Luverne staying with my late husband’s mother. I wasn’t counting on the extra family members there when we arrived, but again, they were all familiar. Sure, I hadn’t seen them in at least 10 years, but it’s easy to work out the kinks of time apart when you’re with the right family members.

The third night I spent on my cousin’s farm. He’s a single father of two teenage boys and he warned me not to bring along a white glove because he doesn’t clean. What a liar! He cleaned for me. He can deny it, but I know he did. The toilet was clean (and the lid down). The sink, the kitchen, the sheets on his bed that he gave up for me: all clean. Dean talks tough, but he’s a softie. And he’s a great dad.

In his single dad’s room that he gave up for me were photos of his sons as babies, a package of unopened socks, and a Powerball ticket. A picture of Jesus hung on the wall and there was a bowling bag in the corner. A large Utz Cheese Ball plastic jar with loose change inside sat next to the dresser. On the bed were clean pink sheets and a hand-stitched orange print quilt. It was like a tame dorm room lacking marijuana seeds and papers.

I got the least amount of sleep there because I stayed up to watch lightening until 1:30 in the morning. It was a storm 50 miles to the northwest, the kind you can’t see in Pennsylvania because of the hills. It was an array of flashing light dancing across the wide prairie sky. I’d forgot about these and how much I loved and hated them as a child. Loved them for their beauty and hated them for the fear I felt thinking it would actually find me in Jasper.

When I finally feel asleep I dreamed of bears. I don’t know why. I woke up in the morning and took a shower using Old Spice shower gel because I’d left my Dove body wash in my bag in my cousin’s room and I wasn’t going to run out of the bathroom naked looking for it like I’d do at home.

The fourth, fifth and sixth nights I spent in a hotel. The seventh and eighth nights at a resort with my sister and her sons and my stepsons and my daughter, niece and my husband. The last two nights were in hotels with good showers and that’s all I really remember. I saw so much in 10 days of different beds, but it was the night at my cousin’s farm I remember the best. Probably because it wasn’t just a place to lay my head. I was Lynn in QuickTime – no talk of career or arthritis or the minutia of a day in the life. Dean and I covered larger ground, that of relatives and burial plots and the state of farming and major league sports teams in Pennsylvania. I was more comfortable with that anyway.

My friend Rodney said he expected this trip to my home state to “look” like a grainy 1970s home movie. What it really looked like was a scene from “Alice in Wonderland”. And it’s on Dean’s farm that I left the part of me I’m lacking today in my own home. Two days in and I’m still “coming down” from vacation. I don’t suspect I’ll be the exact same person I was when I left when I finally figure it all out. Something changed, something’s different. I’m different. Not to be cryptic, but I’m still trying to figure out what that is.

Do you ever feel like that when you come home from vacation? Like you’re missing something and it’s not socks or underwear? I’d sure like to know because I feel real discombobulated. Not sad or bad, just at loose ends.

A Pre-Blog – Vacation Update

I’m sitting on a bed in the eastern Midwest . It’s 9 p.m. my body time; 10 p.m. local time. Carlene’s in bed. I’m writing to the light above the little sink outside the bathroom.

We did ten hours on the road today. Every person with an RV and/or bike or canoe or jet ski living in Chicagoland went to the Wisconsin Dells this weekend. Trust me. And they were all on I-94 at the same time as me going home. And the sun shined hard.

But what a 10-day event this has been. Not quite a “vacation” since vacation implies relaxation of some kind, and that came in fits and starts during individual visits with friends, my former choir teacher, Bruce’s second grade teacher, and a few members of my family.

I went to Luverne and Jasper first. I saw and did things I’ll elaborate on in future blogs, but for now, here are a few photos of the people I saw.

After arriving at Bruce’s mother’s apartment last Sunday and finding a room full of Bouwmans that we weren’t expecting and visiting with them for a few hours (they were fun Bouwmans so it was cool), Carlene and I drank wine on her grandma’s porch. Totally an illegal move (Grandma is not a fan of alcohol), but we didn’t care. Grandma was in bed. We love her, but what she didn’t know didn’t hurt her.

Here’s a photo of me and my nephew (Bruce’s nephew) Wendell, who is a month older than me. Before going on this trip I’d found a photo from 1981 of he and I with Bruce and Wendell’s girlfriend, Monique. Monique died a few years after Bruce and so I wanted a photo of the two of us, the remaining members of that sweet group of people.

OK, on to Jasper. Lisa was my maid of honor (her husband was Bruce’s best friend and best man and they have five children) and Dean is my friend (we are a month apart in age) and second cousin (he and my father are cousins).

After the revelation at the train tracks, I headed to Minneapolis. On the way I took photos of the beautiful windmills.

Tuesday night we all (sans older brother Marty) gathered at my parents’ townhouse. Here are a few photos of my sisters and mother and niece.

Wednesday I met up with Pam and her son Jack. Jack is a very funny, very cool kid. Instead of telling his mother he had to go to the bathroom when we were eating lunch at a local restaurant, he said, “I wonder if they have a bathroom in this place?”

I met up that night with my friend Val and some of her family. I’ve known her husband all my life (his mother and my mother are friends from way back). It’s amazing the relationships we can forge with words. She wrote to me earlier this year to tell me she was reading my blog and felt like she was spying on me by not telling me she was out there reading it. A million emails later, we finally met up again after at least 25 years.

I met Val because she was the sister of my 9^th grade science partner, Pam. Pam is one of those friends I might not see in years and yet when we see each other we pick up where we left off. I had breakfast with Pam on Thursday and dammmmit, I didn’t get a photo. But oh my god, the girl doesn’t age! She looks exactly the same as when we graduated. If I can steal one from Val’s Snapfish photos I’ll post it.

Thursday night was my mother’s birthday bash. It was an emotional and complicated night, but it worked itself out. Here's a photo of me and my older brother Marty, the one who writes essays that I post under My Brother’s Writing Page.

Friday we went up north to Breezy Point and we met up with my dad’s brother’s family. Again, very complicated and fun. My stepsons and Larry flew out, Andy caught a walleye, everyone spent time in the water, some golfed, and we went to see an Elvis impersonator.

My head is swimming tonight. Partly it’s road buzz, but mostly it’s family buzz. I’ll get more specific later, but right now here are a few words and photos. It’s the best I can do at almost 10 p.m. body time, 11 p.m. local time. Good night, my friends. I’ll write more after I collect my thoughts at home.