A Goose Chase Ending At A Farm

Waking up this morning, I had the feeling I was lifting the page in a long saga. 

It was a new chapter in the story Bernice has enriched my life with.  When she died, and all of her odds and ends fell into my hands, I didn’t know what to do with them.  I left them in their boxes, her scrawl fading on the masking-tape labels, stuffed in a closet for a long time.  Then one day, packing for a move, I poured myself a drink, sat down on the floor, and dove in.   It was almost all papers; address books, letters, church bulletins.  Stacks  of notes scratched out to herself in her final decade.  I read them all.  It was like a tragic chronicle of her decline.  The notes she wrote became increasingly desperate and despairing, and it was clear that she knew full well the abyss she was sliding into- financially, socially, and mentally, as her memory slipped away.   Not all of it was heartbreaking.  There were cassette tapes of her singing with her husband, a musician, and news clippings with him posed and smiling with hi ukulele.  And in her address book, there was a page labeled: “relatives”.  

It’s funny how alzheimers erases memories more or less in order, from the present back; like a tide flowing out to a grey and fathomless sea.  Bernice couldn’t remember the years she’d written those notes to herself.  She could only barely, on a good day, remember the husband she’d been so proud of and devoted to.  But she could remember her childhood- her parents and brothers, “our farm” that she’d grown up on- clearly, any day.  From the many stories she’d shared over years of lucid moments, I recognized some of the names on her list instantly.  The name of her older two brothers had notes dashed in at the corner of the entries- “died” and the year.  But her younger brother had no such note, and there he was, his address and phone number. 

I called.  I had been told that she had no family, none.  No living relatives at all.  And yet, when the phone was picked up, it was her brother.  He put his wife on, and we talked.  They were quite elderly and perhaps memory failures were a family affliction; I told them that Bernice had died, and was never sure if they understood what I was saying.  In the end, they were just confused and asked me to contact their daughter instead; they gave me her name. 

After some time on the internet, I found an address for her.  I sent a box of almost everything, and a letter.  In the letter, I explained that I had her original birth certificate, wedding certificate, and high school diploma.  Printed on vellum, bound in velvet or leather, in a time when such documents carried a reverence.  I thought they belonged with her family.  The niece wrote me back, just as I moved.  In the turmoil, the letter was lost.  By the time I found it, she had moved, too, and all the googling in the world brought me no closer to finding her again. 

But her letter had mentioned that her father, Bernice’s brother, had died and she was planning to take over the farm.  The same one Bernice had grown up on and told me stories about.  In Indiana. 

So, when we planned this trip, we marked out our route in such a way that we would pass through the town she’d grown up on.  And this morning, I took those documents, a picture of Bernice, and the crinkling page of her address book, and drive to the house number she’d listed under her brother’s name. I didn’t know what to expect.  I didn’t know whether I’d end up disappointed or whether something wonderful would happen; whether anyone lived there at all, whether this niece, who would be nearly 80 now, was even living.  But I knew I had to try. 

I left J and the kids to swim at the hotel pool and followed my GPS deep into rolling rows of seedling corn.  The morning was crisp and sunny when I pulled onto a dirt road and saw a pretty little white farm house nestled into a bend.  That was it. 

I pulled up and saw the sweetest, tidiest little farm.  The white house backed to a sturdy barn and a silo crept over with strands of ivy.  There was a little patio off to the side, and a garden patch, freshly weeded.  Redwinged blackbirds flitted from the lilacs and the sound of frogs and crickets rang from the fields all around. 

I walked up and knocked at the door.  I waited and held my breath.  I waited some more.  I knocked again, a little louder this time, just in case. 

I waited, to be honest, a little longer than a person who doesn’t want to be creepy ought to wait.  And finally, had to retreat down the porch steps.  I sent a message to J that no one had answered.  Next I meant to ask at the post office, to see if she still kept the PO box that was the return address on her letter those years ago. 

Just as I was leaving, he answered, “is there a mailbox?”

“Yes, but I can’t really know who lives here”

I didn’t want to leave these precious documents in some random person’s mail box. 

But that J, he’s always thinking for me when I’m too emotional to do it myself. 

“Is there a name on it?  People used to put names on their mailboxes”. 

I hadn’t even thought to check.  So I pulled over, and looked.  And there it was.  I wrote her a novel of a note, slid the items into the box, took a picture (I mean I’d been parked outside this house for 20 minutes, what’s a little more creepy at that point anyways), said a little prayer, and that was it. 

I so wish I’d met her.  Had a chance to talk to her, and ask about the farm, about Bernice before the tide of her mind went out.  But I still consider it a minor miracle that I was able to find this relative that supposedly didn’t exist.  I am thankful that Bernice’s last few treasures found their way back to where they began and belong. 

And for me,  it was really something to see the farm I had envisioned so often, to know that a hundred years ago, Bernice had played where I was standing.  It was like getting to step into those stories, into that mysteriously clouded mind, and see something even more clear than the memories.  It made me happy to see it looking so well.  Somehow, even though it may have been a bit anticlimactic, it felt like a good way to end the chapter.  Like a full circle had been made.  But in a way that was gentle.  Like her. 

Great American Road Trip- So Far

Today on our Great American Road Trip, we spent our morning exploring the small town where the Littles' Grandad grew up, and took our time meandering through the middle of America.  We took scenic drives in Kentucky, played at a park and checked out some memorials in rural Ohio, had an awesome lunch at a funky cafe in Cincinnati (even scoring a vegan chocolate cupcake for the Sisters), and saw some sights in Indianapolis.  The girls watched Cars on our way through Indiana, and we talked about races and race cars.  We had a picnic dinner at the edge of a wind farm and took a walk through a baby corn field.  It was a long time before we checked into a hotel and the kids hit the pool, but that's because we took our time, going out of the way if something seemed interesting and stopping whenever we felt like it. We took in some gorgeous sights, played paper dolls and read stories, chatted about all kinds of things and had fun being together.  It's a wonderful thing how flexible kids can be.  I'm all about structure and consistency at home, but I absolutely love the way my kids can adapt when they are out of their element, and enjoy the moment we are in.  Of course, we are just getting started.  But- so far, so fun!

No Ifes in Kentucky.

After Mister's baptism, we left in the morning for a long-haul drive to kick-start the road trip.
We made it all the way through Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, and into Kentucky.
When we passed an encampment of confederate soldiers, we just had to stop and look around.

We stopped at an overlook to stretch our legs.

And arms

Other than that and a few snack breaks, we just enjoyed the changing scenery from the car.
The kids all did really well.  We did art, watched a movie, and played some car games.  I gave Little One a sheet of stickers, one for each state, and She was very into the license plate game.  She collected quite a few!
Little Miss joined the fun, too.  We played the "noun game" where we try to spot an object starting with each letter of the alphabet.  She was pretty good! At one point, we were kind of stuck on "i".

Missy: "I know! How 'bout we look for an Ife! Ife stahts with a "i"." 

LO: "Um, yeah, yeah good Miss. It DOES start wif a "i".  Um.  But, it isn't a word though. It's isn't a thing."

Miss (indignant): "It IS too a thing! It's an IFE.  Little One.  Don't tease me.  You know what's an Ife." 

LO: "I do not.  Mom? Is a Ife a real thing?"

C: "Hmm.  I'm not sure about that.  Miss, can you tell us what it is?" 

Miss: "Yes! You know, mom.  An IFE.  Like to cut things with, like at dinnah you use an ife to cut up some food. Ife."  

 We never spotted any Ifes.  Or knives, either.  But we did see lots of birds and farm animals.  Who knows what we'll find tomorrow?

The first leg of our journey led us back to familiar territory.
I have mentioned before the church that the Sisters were baptized in; it's the same one J (and much of his family, all the way back to the 1700s) got baptized in.  Naturally, to carry on the tradition, we wanted Little Mister baptized there, as well.  Unfortunately, we had a really hard time making it happen. It's a long story, but the problem was some red tape.  Catholic red tape is particularly red, after all.  A deep, dark red. Blood-into-wine red, you might say.  After months of trying to get through it, we finally were able to schedule His big day- so long as it was yesterday.  Good thing we didn't have anything else going on, like a move or a big family vacation or anything.
The morning of the baptism, we woke in our hotel to blinding rain.  So much rain, that the place J was supposed to leave his car during our trip was flooded. Yikes. So we ditched it at the airport, sat for two hours at the entrance to the tunnel (good riddance to you, Virginia Beach tunnels!  You, I will not miss.  Not even a little.), and finally made it to the church.
The family that was able to get off of work at the last minute on a Friday was there, and the priest who baptized Miss drove all the way from his new church in DC just to baptize Mister.
Even after a long, hard day, Little Mister was every bit the angel during the whole thing.  Ever the little water-bug, He actually smiled and cooed as the cool water was poured over His head.  During the parts where the priest asks questions of the parents and godparents, Little Mister congenially joined the conversation,  goo-ing and giggling and blowing raspberries.  He grinned at His adoring fans.
He got baptized, we took some pictures, and celebrated it all with a dinner out at a favorite family place on the water, right by the house J lived in as a child.  We stayed with J's aunt, and Little One stayed up WAY past bedtime playing with Her cousin.
It was worth all the trouble it took to make it happen, and turns out to have been a great start to our trip, despite the most thoroughly exploded diaper imaginable, thankfully at the very end of the day.   Oh, well, Peanuts.  Hopefully His soul stays cleaner than His fancy white outfit.  As for J?  Who picked Him up out of the car seat?  I guess you could say he got "baptized" too.  Who says the Big Guy doesn't have a sense of humor?

It was pretty funny, wasn't it Mr?


Photos from the day:

Ready to get some baptizing on

"Bathtizing" each other with holy water. Puppy got bathtized, too. 

Playing at the restaurant

These two crack each other up.  And me.  

She looks a little different since he baptized Her, two and a half years ago!

Our sweet angel boy.  

Phase One Complete

Well, Peanuts.  We somehow survived the pack out.
People always say, "oh how nice! How nice that they pack for you! That saves you so much time and effort!"  Yes.  It is and it does.  But.
I have learned from experience now, that sitting back with a cocktail as the (lowest bidders for the job) packers do it all for you, is a decision that will only necessitate a great many cocktails on the other end of that move.  The packers are about speed; they see something, dump it in a box, move on.  So if, for instance, you have a little box of pins in your sewing drawer, it will be all kinds of interesting unpacking the box they got dumped into when you get to the new place.  Like your own welcome cactus in a box!  Or if, for instance, you are me and you like things to be organized and so you put everything into little labeled boxes and baskets and such, you are going to be silently listing all the expletives you know when you see that the packers took aaaallllll the categorized, organized toys in the whole playroom, and dumped each box out together in one big box, and then put all your boxes in another box. Why?  Why commingle the barbies with the trains?  Why all the legos all mixed in with the monopoly game pieces and hundreds of puzzle pieces?  Did I insult someone's mother?  I mean, why?  Imagine how fun it is to have a whole house to set up, and have to spend an entire afternoon sitting on the floor....playing puzzles. And jewelry. 20 little chain necklaces all in one giant knot.  That will take two afternoons.  If there is trash in the wastebasket, it's getting dumped in a box (with other stuff!) and packed.  If there are wet washcloths hanging, you are getting a box of mold on the other end. And so.  I have learned the importance of pre-packing.  This time around, with J's help, I managed to get it all done in two (very long) days (and most of the night).  Here are my tips for military movers:

1) Have a yard sale and/or donation cleanse first.  I think it helps the transition to involve the kids.  We went through all their stuff and made a pile of things that "someone else might love to have".  On yard-sale day, I spread out two big blankets, gave them a cash box, a stool, and an box for a counter, and let them set up their "store".  They spent half the morning working on their displays, putting shoes here and books there. They were in charge of setting prices, negotiating with buyers, collecting and counting money, and giving back change.  The rule is, whatever money is made from the sale of their things, they get to keep.  This is a pretty good motivation to let things go.

2) Go through all bottles of shampoo and such and either ziplock them or be sure those lids are closed and tight.  The packers do not always care if the shampoo is open and upside-down.

3) Tiny things like needles, thumbtacks, paperclips, and jewelry have to be placed into a container that will not open.  For jewelry, I fold each necklace or pair of earrings into a handkerchief; roll, place another in, roll, etc. to keep them padded and separate.  Then I put the rolled handkerchiefs into a jewelry bag zip it up, and wrap it.

4)Movers wrap is my best friend.  It's basically a ginormous roll of really strong saran wrap.  All my little boxes and baskets, all the puzzles, and so on get wrapped up in that stuff.  This time I wrapped an entire cabinet of little drawers.  Because I am not separating dress-up shoes from tiaras all day in July.  I would rather have the moving guy look at me funny.  I explain in the beginning that if it's wrapped in plastic, it goes as is.  Some packers hate me for it (takes up a lot more boxes), some love it (most of the job is done for them).  But it's the difference between unpacking a room in one day, or taking a week to sort things out.  I've even taken drawers out of dressers, wrapped them, and had them pack the drawers into boxes.  When I get there, I just stick the drawers in and I'm done! It's easy to wash a drawer at a time and put a whole load back in one place, rather than re-sort everything.

5) Make signs.  I empty a closet or two myself, then put everything I don't want packed in there and make a "do not pack" sign on the door.

6) Because things can be handled roughly, lost, or stored in uncontrolled conditions, go through and take out anything that is really special, or can't be replaced (like old film photo albums, little clay baby handprints, old family things, and a hard-drive with photos and videos), and pull it out.  Usually we put them in our trunk and drive it to the new house ourselves, but since that would mean hauling it around for six weeks (and I have to admit I have a ton of old photo albums), we left it with a friend this time.  We also had a generous friend collect and babysit our house plants until we can pick them up.

7)Anything you don't want dirty (throw pillows, sofas, anything) or that is really fragile, wrap yourself.

7) Do ALL the laundry, empty wastebaskets, wash ALL the dishes, and keep people from using them.  So hard with little kids who are in the routine of throwing things away in certain places.  And changing their outfits five HUNDRED times a day.

Not to mention, all the stuff in high cabinets or shelves has to be brought down, all the stuff on the walls taken down, swing sets and play houses dismantled, electronics unplugged and serial numbers listed, hardware labeled, etc.

So even though it truly is a huge service to have packers come and do the heavy work, it's not exactly a breeze, unless I want to pay for it later.
We arranged to have the Sisters stay late at school on those days to keep them out of harms way, and after the packers left I would move things around to make their room safe again.
Coming home and seeing all your stuff gone and a bunch of boxes in its place can be upsetting for little ones.  To help ease the pain, we bend some of our rules during moving time.  We let them watch a movie on a school night (bonus of keeping them entertained safely, away from towers of boxes that could topple if climbed), have popsicles, and stay up late for extra cuddles.  I also gave them a sheet of "This box belongs to me" stickers to put on their boxes so we can find them right away when we get there.

And the last night, we got to go to a hotel with a swimming pool.  Oooohhhh.  Aaaaahhhhh.

So far Missy actually seems to be loving the adventure of it all, and until She collapses from the lack of naps at the end of the day is extraordinarily cheerful.  Little One is very, very sad to leave friends behind, and to leave the familiar, and alternates between being happy and excited, sad and tearful, and moody and obstinate.  Frankly I'm pretty much the same, so I get it.  Moving is hard.  It takes a lot of work and is, in every sense of the word, unsettling.  The one I'm looking to as a role model in all of this is Little Mister.  Mister has had some protesting over the disruption of His perfect schedule.  But overall He is dealing with it all better than any of us.

He doesn't care about our stuff being boxed up, or whether it will arrive in one piece, or at all.  Who cares about a bunch of stuff?  He doesn't care that His fancy play gym is gone and He has to roll around on a flattened box, playing with some sunglasses and a random plastic lid.  Why not be happy with whatever we have in this moment?  He doesn't care that we are leaving places and people behind. Why not focus on Now, on the sound of the birds in the trees and the warm breeze through the window and the amazing entertainment of our own toes? Really, so long as He has His most basic of needs covered and is with His loved and trusted family, He hardly cares what else goes on.

I have cleaned, sorted, padded, wrapped for our move.  I have packed, labeled, planned, back-up planned for our trip.  I have good-byed, thanked, and KIT promised many friends.  Ok.  But now?  Now is the time to be like Mister, and let it all go.  Now we set off on our next chapter, and take it day by day, moment by moment.  Despite all of it, things will get lost.  They will break.  Vacation failures will happen and some friendships will fade.  But we have our most basic needs covered, and we are all together.  We really couldn't ask for more.
Of course, swimming, warm baths, The Magic School Bus, and a pizza party in our hotel room aren't bad bonuses at all.

Budhism

Missy: "Moooommmy! Hee hee! Hee! I think tha dolly llama is FUnny. An' SIlly!"

C: "You do? Why?"

Miss (cracking up): "Cause of his silly wuhds!"

C: "Silly words? What do you mean?"

Miss:  "Tha dolly llama...hee hee... hee!  BOOTYism!"

Not Afraid Of Heights

When I was sixteen, I wore a floor-length, silver gown to my senior prom.  I went out and got my hair done, and I was all careful not to mess it up.  I went with my friends and my date and had a normal prom; dancing, chatting, dancing.  But when we walked out of the building and took a stroll down the walkway, there he was.  Some guy, selling tickets for bungee jumping.  Guys.  I had never been bungee jumping.  So, obviously, there was only one thing to do.  Borrow someone's shorts to slide on underneath, and then jump in my prom dress, hanging like a giant silver bell with that skirt up over my head, and then springing up and down, showering bobby pins everywhere.
Lately, I've been reminded of the jitter that washed over me back then, as stepped to the ledge and looked down over my toes.  A moment of wocndering whether this was really going to be fun, or scary, or awkward, or worse.  And then bending my knees, jumping up! and that moment right before gravity took hold.
Now that our celebration of the past two years is over, my little family is setting our sights on the road ahead.  Which I mean both metaphorically and literally.  In less than two weeks we will be setting out on a six week adventure through 21 of our great American states, seeing sights, visiting family, and spending so much intense quality family time together that by the time we get to Maryland and J dives into residency, we will be so sick of each other we won't even care.  We're getting all our family time for the next two years in one lump sum.
I've been packing things up, folding daily outfits into labeled ziplock bags and such. Because it takes more than a swiss army knife and a flashlight to survive weeks of camping with little people, guys.  It takes rabid organization.  Even then, it's going to be a bit dicey.  But, barring any actual harm of course, catastrophe is part of the thrill of an adventure.  We have planned out places to go, things to see, and art projects to while away the driving hours with.  But the real fun will be seeing what pops up, what we improvise when it rains (or snows), or a road is closed, or who knows what?
Driving off into unfamiliar territory is a lot like picking up and moving to a new town, a new life.  There are a lot of unknowns.  A lot of "what if"s.  It's good to try to plan ahead, to make things go as smoothly as possible. It's also good to realize that things will go wrong, the plan will be thwarted at times and have to adapt, and so will we.
There's a fine, fine line between adventure and disaster.  Where exactly that line falls is often a matter of perspective. I'm looking at this trip- and the move- as a thrill ride to jump on.  The Unknown can be frightening.  Or it can just be a bunch of awesome waiting to happen.
I looked like a fool and ruined my expensive hair when I jumped on prom night, but it was so worth it.  I know that on this trip and in this life, I will look foolish and get messy plenty.  But when the Navy says jump, we say "how high?" Because the higher the better! Bring it on.

Sea Ya Party

Well, Peanuts.  the countdown is on.  Less than two weeks until we ship out (ok, drive out.  We're driving.  But since the Navy has instigated the whole ordeal, we're going nautical. Mateys.)
To say a big goodbye to the friends we've made here, we got some of them together in our yard over the weekend and celebrated.  Nothing soothes the pain of leaving like some cupcakes, amiright? Chocolate is the answer to everything.

Well, actually.  Good friends are the answer.  It's a pretty great day, when we get both.