Welcome Home

July 21, 2006

(This is part two...)

I have never understood the whole Missouri/Mississippi river thing. The first is part of the second, or not. Here's what I DO know - we crisscrossed them and all their little friends. A lot.

We were in the midst of river crossing #zabillion when the little man in the backseat shouted that the portable DVD player wasn't working. He was cranky from so many hours in the car seat, and hungry, and for the next 10 minutes as we made our way over the bridge I tried telling him in soothing tones that Mommy couldn't fix it right now, because driving off bridges is bad.

He started throwing DVD's at me.

I pulled off at the first exit on the other side of the water, and we found a McDonald's (the first we'd seen in about 6 hours). After a strong talk about hucking things at people and a threat about corporal punishment, Bear sniffed back tears of apology and we cuddled and then I attempted to fix his DVD player.

Not so much with me and the technical thing.

I admitted defeat. We trooped into MickyD's and I ordered us some food and asked for directions to the nearest WalMart or Target or wherever I could buy a new DVD player.

"Walmart? Hey, Deanne, isn't there one oh..."

Deanne, the shift manager, came up from the back. "Oh yeah. So what you want to do is get back on the highway and go about 62... maybe 63 miles. Go right at the exit and left at the light. Can't miss it."

"63 miles...?" I echoed, disbelieving.

"Yeah. I can't think of where you could buy one of those things closer."

I blinked at her for a long moment, then took my hamburger Happy Meal and milk and walked off to the play area in a daze.

"Uh, Bear..."

"Yeah, Mommy?"

"We're going to have music time when we get back in the car."

For the next hour, we scanned through the tall collection of homemade discs I'd brought. The songs that Bear and I can both agree on are an eclectic mix of Southern Rock, 80's bands like the Police, Queen and Talking Heads, Laurie Berkner, some Disco, Neil Diamond, and selected one-off's from bands like Rascal Flatts and Rusted Root.

At one point, "Another One Bites the Dust" came one and Bear immediately loved it. I ended up playing it for him a half-dozen times.

63 miles later, we found WalMart. But by then, our old DVD had miraculously self-healed. And besides, we were having fun singing along and playing car bingo.

We travelled the length of South Dakota, the depths of Iowa. CD flew out to meet us in Nebraska and from there it was the long stretch through the dusk and the dark and then the lightening back home.

Just in time to pick up my Mom from the airport (because my mom will always find the cheap ticket - even if it means getting to the airport at 4am in the blessed morning). Then it was a parade and fireworks, and a fair with a rock-climbing wall. There were training wheels to come off a bike. There were hours spent curled up in people pile on the couch, just happy to be a family together.

And then it was back in the car, for a trip to Indiana, back to Illinois, and then up to Wisconsin for the opening weekend of the Bristol Renaissance Faire.

And finally, we straggled out to the parking lot. Nothing ahead but a last drive home and then.... life, again. Unpack, finally. And clean. And back to swimming lessons and popsicles and....

Bear fell asleep in the back. I scrolled through the camera, looking at all the pictures.

"I look tired," I said, peering at one of me in a garland. "My eyes are smudged and pouchy," I complained.

"No," CD argued. "Beautiful."

I wrinkled my nose at him.

"You need a good night's rest," he admitted.

"Bear farts in his sleep," I told him. "Also? He kicks."

CD laughed. "Kept you up?"

"Yeah." I reached over and held his hand.

"Were they good trips, though?"

I nodded. And he smiled. And we went home.

Stepping Into the Light (of Paris)

November 17, 2005

I want to say this loudly and proudly... the boy did good. We landed in Paris and were met outside customs by our driver, who whisked us to a fabulous hotel (Hotel du Louvre). Our suite had TWO floor-to-ceiling doors opening to balconies that looked onto the Louvre (that is CD standing on a balcony in the 1st picture). AND they allowed us to check in early, so we could shower and change.

Despite the fact that it was overcast and windy, we set out for a long walk. We meandered up the streets past spraying fountains tipped in gold and ancient facades with carved fleur-de-lis. Bought me a scarf to keep out the cold. Along the way, I kept turning to CD and saying wonderfully mature and erudite things like; "That's the Seine! We're walking along the Seine!" or "Ooh! Ooh! Look! It's Notre Dame!" or CD's personal favorite, "I'm in Paris! I'm in France! I'm not wearing underpants!"

Along the road towards Notre Dame are predominately garden and pet shops, and the proprietors use the sidewalk as an extension of their stores. We made our way through orange trees and fancy displays of dog leashes. As I leaned in to take a picture of one of the more whimsical birdcage displays, CD whispered in my ear "Free the gnomes!" and started teasing me about the oppressed nature of French garden gnomes and how we should start a movement to gain their gnome suffrage.

Viva les gnomes!

My friend Dee, who was in Paris just a few weeks ago, had commented that one of the things that had struck her was the amount of penises she saw in Paris. Uh, on sculptures. And how realistically sized they seem to be.

Now, I'm not about to get into a debate on why she was going around Paris checking out the sculpture's penises (penisi?) instead of the warm-blooded variety but it was intriguing enough a comment that we decided we should check it out.

And sure enough, I am here to report that there ARE, indeed, over a dozen marble penises hanging in the wind just in the short mile or so along the Jardins and around the Champs De Lysee. And yes, they were uh, realistic. Or not. Depending on who you know.

Let's just agree that Paris is, among its many other benefits, a city of glorious nudity.

On Saturday Night, we met one of my all-time blogging heroines and her partner in REAL LIFE for dinner. This will go down as a highlight of not just the trip but of the past few years. If you look closely, you can see my wrist in the picture in the post she wrote about her visit to Paris. My wrist! On her website! How cool is that?

In case you're wondering - Helen and Angus are just as loving, funny, bright, warm, and sharp in real life as they are on her website. It was a great night. And I will be hung over for weeks as I recover.

At 12:01 she raised a toast, and as easy as that? I was 40 years old. It was light and lovely and CD and skipped up to our room kissing and silly.

I don't know what happened in the night. I should have been overjoyed. My birthday in Paris. Dinner with Helen and Angus. Good things ahead! A gift in the room safe! But no. The the next day, I woke up in tears. I have no sense of how it had shifted inside me, but I was suddenly terrified that the best of life was behind me, and shaken by who my reflection had become.

I remained as fragile as spun glass, my emotions ripping away a storm inside me. Even as I opened the gorgeous Swarovski crystal necklace and bracelet that CD had given me. Even as we traveled the Seine in a glass boat, eating gourmet courses and watching the Eiffel Tower sparkle in the night. CD tried to take care of me, but I couldn't stop shaking and crying. I don't know why. I wish I did, because it has lingered into all the days since.

The next day, after investigating the Louvre for hours and especially enjoying the ancient Egypt exhibits, we found a Hertz rental car place in the mall beneath the museum. We decided on a lark to get a car. Within minutes, we were on the roads of Paris reenacting the car chase scene from Bourne Identity. As CD zipped in and out of skinny streets with no lanes, I frantically turned the map this way and that looking for a way out of town. That we ended up on the A1 is thanks to divine intervention, and NOT my navigation skills.

Eventually we settled on a northward trajectory, and into Lille and then on to Brussels. By nightfall, we were sitting in a tiny pub with a Dutch-speaking proprietress who was trying to understand my meager French.

The map we had was of Paris with the rest of France shown only in major routes. And, as it turns out, the way to get around Brussels is to go around in this tunnel that circles the main part of the city. You go down and up, hoping that each exit will bring you back to the highway.

(Dear Belgium: Better signs. Just saying.)

Eventually, hurrah, we DID find the highway again. Except we were now on our way to Luxembourg. OK, so we turned around. And soon, we saw signs for Germany. (CD: NO! Not Germany! This is BAD!). So we turned around AGAIN. And found ourselves on N8, which was actually a road on the map we did have. And we breathed a sigh of relief.

Until, dear God, we realized we were headed to Gent. And beyond that, the Netherlands.

So we turned around and went the other way. And an hour later? More signs for Gent.

So we took another road. And another one. In the dark of rural Belgium, on a cold night with only a full moon showing the way, we drove around for 3 hours.

Until, finally, we found a river. And from the river, we found the main drag. And from the main drag, we found Lille. And like that, we were in France again.

Our nerves frayed, our patience gone, we made our way with terse words back towards Paris. But somehow, by the time we approached the Rue de Versailles and made our way back to the Louvre, things had begun to settle between us.

Things long unsaid had been hauled out into that tiny car and shouted at. It had hurt, but then it had begun to feel much, much better.

Dropped the car off, walked through the cold breezes to our hotel. Savored the warm there, the steam of a hot shower. And as we crawled into bed, he reached for my hand beneath the pillow. And we fell asleep kissing distance apart.

With the alarm set so we could make the plane home in the morning.

Don't you wisht y'd go on forever?

July 25, 2005

We started traveling with him almost from the moment he was born, so I never hear things like "are we there yet?". But he's a little kid with a little bladder, so I did hear things like "I got to go potty" - and by that, he means now.

But the path to my friend's house in western Illinois was decidedly not paved with McDonald's. It was almost an hour on country roads once we exited the highway; it was farms and fields and cows and corn and, yes, at one point I think I saw a surrey with the fringe on top.

Luckily, we did keep finding potties just in time.

Then, finally, we found the "s" curve at the bottom of my directions. The nearly-hidden driveway that pulled up the steep hill. And we came to a stop right in front of the red barn. Bear looked at me and announced (as he eagerly pulled off his seat belt) "Mom! I like this place!"

5 rampaging boys made immediate friends. Through dog licks, kitten scratches, water fights, a wasp sting, bruises, running, screaming rounds of tag, tears, giggles, sharing, not sharing, stops for snacks and clothing changes, and the periodic shout to behave from my friend or I.... it was a wonderful time.

She and I had hours to visit, to chat or just sit and sip, to prepare dinner and do the chores of life, to marvel at how far our lives have come since college so long ago.

It was a whole 'nother day by the time I pulled into our driveway - in more ways than one.

By then, many decisions had begun to settle in my heart. As I watched CD carry our sleeping son to bed, the chubby hands instinctively wrapping into his father's hair, I knew the magic of the trip had worked on me. As I followed behind with the blankie and the luggage into the cool rooms, I knew the words would keep.

I took a deep breath, already missing the country air.

Now comes the work of setting vision to action. But in that moment, I was still in the medicinal peace of a day away. To a place I hope to go back again, soon.

When we hit that road, hell fer leather,
Cats and dogs'll dance in the heather,
Birds and frogs'll sing all together and the toads will hop!
The wind'll whistle as we rattle along,
The cows'll moo in the clover,
The river will ripple out a whispered song,
And whisper it over and over:
Don't you wisht y'd go on forever?
Don't you wisht y'd go on forever?
Don't you wisht y'd go on forever and ud never stop
In that shiny, little surrey with the fringe on the top!
- written by Oscar Hammerstein II, music by Richard Rodgers, originally from the musical "Oklahoma!" (1943).

The Start of Goodbye

June 22, 2005

Yesterday started the night before. We packed, and hemmed, and ironed, and organized. Collapsed into bed so late that when the alarm went of at 5:30AM, we resisted. But eventually we did pull ourselves up and into the day.

6:30AM We started for the car, although it took about 20 more minutes before we had finished running back into the house for "one more thing" and actually pulled out of the driveway.

7:00AM Bear dropped off at Elia's, we headed to Midway Airport for our flight to Boston.

8:00AM Midway security being the clusterfudge of all time, it took us over 45 minutes to get through the scan line. They were announcing our names over the loudspeaker as we scrambled to our gate.

[time change + 1 hour]

11:30AM It is a running joke in my family that I can't get a ride from Logan Airport. Today was no different. We caught the "Silver Line" - a bus that becomes a subway. We switched over to the red line to MIT (Kendall Square).

Met up with my mom and brother and we all grabbed a quick bite at the food court. It was easy just to chat, look through the most recent Bear pictures, and share a laugh and pretend that it was just another day.

But then it was time to head over to MIT's unique chapel for the service.

1:45PM The whole family gathered in an anteroom. The lovely obituaries mention 2 nephews and 1 niece. But families are more than common blood; marriages and children created 17 people who called this amazing man "Uncle Mike".

2PM We approached the chapel in pairs as a lone bagpiper stood in the dappled shade by the entrance and played the mourners in. It finally hit me why we were there.

Mike had attended MIT from undergraduate through doctorate and then returned to teach. The eulogists had pulled his school records going all the way back to the beginning. It was bittersweet to hear how he'd always been special, always been kind and smart, always been more interested in the questions than the answers.

Another of my uncles talked about Mike, the guy. The one who loved to laugh, who joined in on games of Rail Baron, loved crosswords and was always interested in the world.

Then my cell phone went off. It took 4 rings for me to silence it.

[insert several moments of embarressment here]

His co-workers talked about Mike's amazing teaching skills and genuine rapport and devotion to his students. One brought with him a book that contained the thousands of emails the school had received from all the people who'd heard of Mike's passing and had to reach out and tell someone how much Mike had meant to them.

Most of us count ourselves lucky if we have a pond of people whose lives we touch in any meaningful way.

Mike had a rushing, roaring river.

Mike was universally recognized for being an amazing teacher and advisor. He won the sardonic Big Screw Award, the prestigious Baker Award, and at one point he had won MIT's "Outstanding Faculty Member of the Year" for 10 years straight.

At the end of the memorial, it was announced that MIT was renaming that last award after Mike.

3PM We walked up 3 flights of stairs to the reception. A long dark-clad line of solemn faces past chattering students who watched us with curious eyes.

I pulled into a corner at one point to check my phone. It had been Elia. I quickly called back and discovered that there had been a misunderstanding about the child seat but Dee had taken care of it. As I was talking, I looked up and realized I was surrounded by a small crowd of family friends waiting express their sympathy.

We walked together into the large reception room. The food was amazing, but I couldn't taste it.

I put on what CD calls my "Chatty Cathy" persona - I was engaging and talkative and accessible.

I was miserable.

4:15PM With red eyes and wrenched hearts, a cousin, CD, & I grabbed a cab back to Logan. Windows down to the hot Boston sun, we looked out at the blue water and the brick apartment buildings as we rolled by.

5:30PM There's a Legal Seafood inside Boston's airport. As we sat down, my boss call my cell phone. I answered it long enough to tell him to go away.

Then the 3 of us ordered strong cocktails and ordered food and talked about how the rest of the family was doing. As if we were doing any better.

Well, after an hour or so, maybe we were.

[time change - 1 hour]

8:00PM We landed into the Chicago sunset. Last hugs and off to our car and home.

As we drove, CD talked about the tour Mike had given him and Bear of MIT last summer - before we knew Mike was sick. Before the end began.

They'd gone to Mike's classroom and office, had lunch in the cafeteria.

Mike told CD how there's an aisle at MIT called "the infinite corridor". In what has become a sort of ceremony ("MITHenge" [thanks, Kimberly!]), twice a year all the doors along the corridor are opened and people line the sides and then, just at the right moment, the sun will shine through from begining to end.

I would like to think that, somehow, from now on, whenever they throw open those doors, Mike's spirit will be there. Traveling the sunbeam along the rows of rapt students, teachers, and staff.

[I thought I'd done with tears, but I was wrong.]

We pulled into the driveway and Bear came racing from the backyard into my arms. As I held him tight, he whispered to me "Did you say goodbye to Uncle Mike?"

And I kissed him hard. "Not yet," I told him. "Not just yet."

Anatomy of a Perfect Day

September 19, 2004

Sometimes a woman's got to do what a woman's got to do. In the case of a group of my close girlfriends, we've been letting life get in the way of our sanity. It was time to march out the door and do whatever was necessary to recharge ourselves and our friendships - a day together in Chicago. No agenda, no schedule, no kids, no partners, no work, no diets, no plan.

This is my photojournal of the day.

11AM Off we went from my place, in C's Expedition. We rolled through a Dunkin Donuts for coffee. I started making fun of the way Bostonians give directions... "Go to the Dunkie's, bang a left. Now you're on Route 3 South going west. So go another - one, two, three Dunkies - the one with a drive-thru - bang a sharp right."

The highway bled into the city and we decided to swing onto Lake Shore Drive up to Roger's Park, a lakeside neighborhood to the north. It took about 30 minutes to untangle our way through the downtown streets because of setup for the Celtic Festival and the ongoing hordes for the AIDS Walk. The delay didn't bother us in the least. We agreed that it was a perfect September Chicago day - deep blue skies, soft breeze, about 70 degrees.

12PM Found us in the most northern part of the city at Berger Park. We sat on the rocks and watched a guy throw sticks for his chocolate lab to retrieve from Lake Michigan. We listened to the waves, talking in fits and starts about life, dreams, men, women, children. We agreed that the guy from Highlander - the TV show, not the movies - was serious fantasy material.

12:30PM We walked over to a local diner. We found a booth and ordered, trying not to be obvious the way we stared at the Elvis impersonator. The food was forgettable. The jukebox was fine, fine, fine. We played the Beatles and Santana, we sang along with Earth Wind and Fire. The diner was a run-down local institution, full of people from every part of the social spectrum. We dawdled, soaking in the moments.

2PM We parked on Clark at Division and walked towards the beach past all the bars and night clubs shuttered to the sun. I remembered that fantasy guy's name was Adrian something. We decided it was the ponytail, the accent and the body. Well, C liked the sword. OK, we all liked the sword.

A bride and groom rolled by in an horse-driven carriage. In the tunnel under Lake Shore, a violinist played. Up on Elm Street Beach, there were only a handful of people enjoying the glorious afternoon. Another friend joined us, and we dug our toes in the sand and took pictures of the afternoon sun across the skyline.

3:45PM We drove south to Millennium Park, the newest attraction in dowtown Chicago. Yet another bride, this one dashing in front of the Prudential Building with an attendant holding her train.

4PM Despite its name, Millennium Park opened just last year. The cost overruns, delays, and controversy over the art and architecture are by now legendary. This is Mayor Daley's baby, his vision for bringing even more recognition to Chicago as a world class city. The park replaces an old trainyard that was a blight for years - smack dab in prime real estate adjoining Grant Park and the lakefront.

We explored the paths, landscaping, and sculptures. There's one we called "Coffee Bean" - a silver sphere that cast all sorts of interesting reflections. We joined the tourists at an open air restaurant and drank martinis from plastic cups and munched on a light, yet overpriced, dinner. Our waiter was a cute guy, young. But no Adrian-from-Highlander. I'm just saying. Plus? Bad service. The sun streaks had turned golden in late afternoon. We talked about our jobs, the politics of our careers, our plans for the future.

5:30PM We headed north for a mile or 2 up Michigan Avenue. At each intersection, the east-west crossing street would be aglow. We'd stop and gaze into the deepening sunset.

The city was bursting. We wiggled and clapped for the buskers - drummers, guitarists, and a horn section. We admired the skyline, pointing out buildings to each other. We were yelled at to repent or vote for LaRouche by street corner evangelists.

We walked in different configurations, changing partners, slowing down here and there and then speeding up, running against a yellow light. Eventually we ended up at the Water Tower and headed into Ghiradelli's for hot fudge sundaes.

7:20PM By the time we were done, it was dark. Riders in the stream of horse carriages now had blankets. We walked a block or so and then hailed a cab back to Millennium Park.

7:30PM We'd left ourselves a pair of sculptures to investigate. Two towers with water flowing over them and into a shallow pool. The towers alternately glow different colors or have faces of Chicagoans on them - they are best appreciated at night.

Every few minutes, one of the video faces "spits" - a stream of water projected from the mouth. You got wonder about the pitch session for this purchase. Spitting Sculptures? But they were a lot of fun. There was a crowd milling about, children playing in the shallow pools.

8PM We dug out the car from the garage and headed for home. We passed under the 'El" train - each of us used to commute on that train once upon a time. We looked up at it in silence, comfortably ensconced in leather seats and climate control.

The ride slipped by too quickly. I think we all wished the day could last a little longer. I was grateful it lasted as long as it did.

Total tally:
Statistics of party:
4 women representing -
Combined age of 145 years old, 5 kids, 2 husbands, 2 ex-husbands, 1 live-in partner, 4 cell phones, 4 dogs, 6 cats, 1 SAHM (and Partner in family-owned business), other 3 Careers representing 2 senior positions and 1 executive with combined salaries of over a quarter million. Average salary when we met in the early 90's - $5/hour (we worked at the same place).

Other Statistics:
Number of Brides seen: 5
Number of pictures taken on Canon Digital by me: 127
Number of shampoos it took to get the sand out of my hair: 3
Hours slept, in blissful exhaustion, afterwards: 10

Costs of the day (per person):
Dunkin Coffee: $2
Brunch at Diner (with tip): $7
Parking: $2
Buskers: $1
Dinner at Millennium Park: $20 (with Martini)
Sundae at Ghiradelli's: $7
Cab: $2 (We all pulled crumpled dollars from our pockets)
Total, per person: about $42

The Perfect Day with old friends? Priceless.

Fenway Cathedral

September 02, 2004

Fenway Park, from Sect 18, Box 39, Row G, Seat 1
Game 67: Ana 7 - BoSox 12 (Yeah Baby), 09/01/2004

My old friend Kevin was into baseball in a very big way and infected me with it when I was in my 20's. I lost count of how many games we caught together.

I remember one night, Kevin and I drove around Chicago looking for a somewhere quiet we could talk. It was a melancholy night, just before he moved away.

Finally he pulled over on Addison, and I looked up at that old sign over the stadium. "I think this," he told me quietly as we gazed at Wrigley Field, "is about as Holy a place in Chicago as you could find."

I understood.

Baseball is a language that has given me common ground with other people as well. Like my dad.

Last night, he took CD and I to the Red Sox-Anaheim Angels game. Dad surprised us with amazing seats, and we lucked out with weather - warm with a cool breeze and a bright moon.

Johnny Damon got 5 hits for 5 at-bats and made it home 3 times. Millar got a 3-run homer. Manny got walked a couple of times. Red Sox spanked Anaheim. It was a rollicking boisterous game, and a great time.

It was the second Fenway game I've been to with my dad.

Aug 18, 1993 was the first time we'd taken in a Red Sox home game together. We got same-day SRO tickets, White Sox/Red Sox and grabbed some programs and some beers.

Danny Darwin, #44, was the starting pitcher. Usually, the Red Sox go through pitchers in a game like a cocktail nuts at a bar - but this day would be different.

It was a sunny summer day and my dad and I found a piece of railing with a good view. As the first outs were made, Dad and I got into a rhythm - he held the beers while I scored the game. He'd look over my shoulder once in a while, correcting my marks - "That was 9 to 3" he'd say. Or, "I'm not sure they gave him the error on that play."

Midway through the top of the 3rd, and a hush began to spread around the stadium. Dad peered at my box scores and asked, "Is that what I.." and I nodded. We shared a long look, and then held our breath.

Darwin, that inconsistent pitcher, was pitching a perfect game.

The full stadium was riveted. We watched in absolute silence.

5th inning, into the 6th and we still had, unbelievably, a no-hitter on our hands. Danny was throwing strike after strike. The catcher, Tony Pena, had practically crawled out of his shorts. Darwin was cool. We were praying, pulling, with glistening eyes and bated breath.

The Chicago White Sox were swinging with everything they had. And theirs was a roster of power hitters.

But no one could get a piece of Darwin.

Finally, in the 8th, with one out, Dan Pasqua connected and ran hell bent for leather before settling on 3rd. Darwin retrieved the ball, ready to pitch to the next batter. As though nothing had happened. No sign of disappointment, just steady focus.

But the fans had were not about to let the moment slide by. Before he could throw the next pitch, we stopped the play.

The noise erupted all at once, overtaking me with emotion. My eyes were puddled with tears. I looked around and saw that every man, woman, and child was up. Dad put out beers on the ground and we joined in pounding our hands together in a beat that shook the walls.

"Darwin, Darwin..." came the cheer. We screamed ourselves hoarse for long minutes, while the refs let the man have his due. Darwin stood alone, tall on the mound.

This wasn't Ripken, or Williams, or any of the guys who I've cheered for before or since. This wasn't Ramirez last night, used to the pounding affirmation from stadium full of admirers.

This was Danny Darwin. Traded around, stats up and down, the oldest guy on the team. You think he'd want to bust out in the Macarena. But there's an unwritten code in baseball. It's dictates a calm, unruffled gratitude to appreciation. A stoic's approach to the boiling emotions of the game. Darwin embodied all the class and grace of that code on that August afternoon.

He simply nodded in acknowledgement.

And I joined with 30,000 fans to peal a last hoot of frenzied joy and appreciation before allowing Darwin to finish his day's work- a 5-0 shutout that was much more than the stats of the day.

It was the best game I've ever seen.

Last night, my Dad driving out of Boston and we look back at the park, windows open and the night breeze still soft and cool.

I got a chill watching Fenway recede. It's as Holy a place in Boston as you could find.