Road trips

Road trips cannot only take you somewhere physically but they can take you back in time. This weekend our lowly Honda took me back 50 years or more. To the smell of the ocean, sunny days, sandy beaches, big cars and summer vacations with my parents. Names like Mystic, Old Lyme and Saybrook dance in the back of my memory like fall leaves in the wind. Turning and twisting, showing me the bright colors of my childhood.
When I was young my parents like to vacation by the water. For many years it was Connecticut, Old Lyme and Saybrook then it became Maine with Old Orchard and Ogunquit. The same ocean, different states and different memories. Connecticut was when I was very young. From the time my parent first adopted me to about 10 and then it was Maine for a few years. I even remember Wildwood, NJ being in there for a season with a rented house. There was New York and Lake George. New Hampshire and Lake Winnipesaukee. Always by the water, in motels and rented cottages. Just me an my parents.
The trip always started the same. My parents learned early on I would ask questions endlessly if allowed to do so. Taking a trip with a non-stop chatterbox especially a long trip as in 4 or 5 hours, would drive any normal person over the edge. So after our first outing my parents found it better for their nerves to keep me up very late the night before we set out on our vacation. Then we would leave early. I would curl up in the back seat amongst my pillows, blankies and stuffies and we would set off for our high adventure.
The back seat of our car became my traveling room. This was the days before seatbelts or carseats. Children rode unfettered in the back seat or the front seat. In the arms of an adult or stretched out asleep. I was a sleeper. Suitcases on the floor so if I rolled off the seat I wouldn't fall to the floor, I would just roll onto the suitcases with the front seat stopping me from going any further. I would sleep for the majority of the trip. In fact for most of my life I have been able to sleep almost anywhere due to that early training. Lulled by the sound of the tires on the road, by the passing of other cars and trucks I would sleep from state to state and wake up amazed if not somewhat bewildered that we were no longer at home.
Our cars where always big and we always had them for 10 years. I don't know why 10 years but I do know why there were big. Other than the fact that those were the days of outrageous consumerism my dad was 6 foot 5 inches tall. He only bought cars that could accommodate his size plus his hat. He was an executive in a small but rapidly growing company. He wore suits, ties, dress shoes and a hat. He shaved with shaving soap and a brush, wore Old Spice and his hair never touch his collar. The only time he wore short sleeve shirts and shorts was on vacation. His skin was as milky white as mine and we both burned to a glorious red if left out in the sun too long.
My poor mother's job was to attend to our needs. Vacations were never vacations for her. If we rented a cottage she cooked and cleaned there instead of home. My father could not boil water for the life of him. She reminded us to cover up in the sun, although she was a sun worshiper and never burned she was anchored with two pale lilies with fair complexions. Motels meant going out to dinner which I am afraid my father was not a big fan of. He liked meat, potatoes and a veggie. Never an adventurous eater he was well into his 50's (and we had been to Maine for several years) before he discovered he liked lobster. He yardstick by which he measured all restaurants was mashed potatoes. He would always ordered them and if he found them lacking we would never return to that restaurant. He was a world traveler and always came home a few pounds lighter than when he left because he found it hard to adapt to any cuisine but my mother's cooking.
Our vacations are just hazy memories and this weekend some of the earliest rose from the dust of my somewhat cluttered mind. Don and I visited Mystic Seaport. The last time I had been there (or Don for that matter) was some 50+ years ago. I vaguely remember the ship the Charles W. Morgan which is now undercover in a large plastic and wooden structure undergoing a major renovation. Instead of walking onto deck of the ship as it laid moored in the water, you have walk up 3 flights of stairs (did I mention I don't like heights?) to walk upon its deck as it sits upon land in it's protected cocoon. As you climb the stairs you can see into the very bowels of the ship. It's planking mostly stripped away and its very skeleton exposed to the world with modern day tools and equipment laying about ready for the skilled hands of the carpenters and craftsmen to bring it back to life.
It is a very different place now then it was back when I was a child. Motels, hotels and restaurants surround the area. There are buildings brought in from Mystic itself and other places. Repurposed and renovated to give you the feel of a New England seaside town. But it lacks something in my adult eyes that I saw there as a child. I am not sure what it is, maybe nothing more than an elusive dream. We see things so differently when young.
Don't get me wrong. I loved going there and feeling those lovely memories of childhood. Almost feeling once again what it was like to walk with my parents by my side. We can't go back in time but we can relish what we had and knew and hold those precious things in our hearts. We lose so many memories, times like this are like fireworks in the night, bright and beautiful for a moment and then gone. We think we will remember but we don't. Life moves on and we get caught in it's flow. Memories on top of memories, burying each other until some are lost forever.
It was a good weekend. I have come to the realization I don't have to remember everything. Memories are not all we are made of. We live each day and that is the wonder of it. Carpe Diem....seize the day not the memory of it, but the moment of it.

Why bother???

There are times in life when the days are gray. Not physically but mentally. I would not say that I suffer from depression but there have been times that life has been almost more than I could bare.
Disappointments are part of life but there are times when they seem to stack up like firewood and become an impenetrable wall. You can neither scale it or dig under it, you can only hit it again and again and again with the hope that the wall will come down without doing damage to you.
Today the wall became higher than I had seen it in years. The accumulation of months of negative feedback, worries, woes and various issues piled up one against the other until I could no longer see the other side.
For years I have volunteered or worked for our little town in a variety of positions. From being a PTG mom to the schoolboard to being a lister. I have always tried to see both sides of a situation. I am sometimes called a people pleaser or an optimist. I like, no I love, to see the best in a situation.
Our town has been around since the 1700's. Back in a time when going 20 miles could take you  more than a day to travel, people came and settled here. Strong people, willing people. Some of my own ancestors came from Massachusetts to Windsor, VT in the 1700's. Back in those days that was like traveling to the moon. There was a chance you may never see your family again when you moved that far away. These were people that made do with what they had. They built towns mean to last.
Now it seems no one cares. No one wants to be involved, take the responsibility of helping a neighbor or helping their town.
I have worked for the past 14 years in a town office that was once our town's one room schoolhouse. There are pictures of children and their teachers outside the building. Our town celebrated 'Old Home Days' in the shadow of this school. It is old, ramshackle and unloved by the towns people. The paint is peeling off the building, the interior is dusty and dirty. Mice nibble at the old law books and people turn their heads away as they drive by. If they ignore it, it doesn't exist.
We can't afford a new town office. We can't afford a complete renovation of the old town office. We can't seem to even be able to afford to be willing to come up with a solution that would show people who come to our town office to do research that we care about our town.
I once thought that small towns offered a glimmer of times gone by. When neighbor helped neighbor. When a town would pull together to get things done. But it seems that time has gone by. Instead of coming together to find a solution to the problem of our town office, people spent 2 1/2 years arguing over what to be done. A final vote put an end to the dream of a new town office but still left us with the problem of an old town office. I had thought New Englanders made do, could make something out of nothing. Here we have a building, yes it has 'issues'. But there are solutions out there to these issues. We have people in town who have spent their lives in the building trades. We have people with time, maybe a little or maybe a lot. We have people that could contribute supplies or money. Why are some still trying to force the issue of a new building or trying to get the old building condemned?
I am so discouraged and disappointed. I want to be like those who won't do. I want to give up and not care. I have to admit this time I am feeling down and out. I am feeling like the wall is too high. There is no way to get over it and I am tired of trying. I don't know if this is going to lead me down a different path. But for now I am going to stop trying to climb the wall. I am giving up. I care and frankly that sucks because caring hurts and I am damn tired of hurting.

Good Morning VT!

Good Morning VT! It's a new month! Can you believe we just zipped through September and now October is here. To me the start of the holiday season. Although all months have some type of celebration incorporated into the month whether it be some 'oddball' holiday like Emma Nutt Day (first woman telephone operator for those not in the know) held on Sept. 1st to a totally American holiday like Thanksgiving in November (like you didn't know that one). To me this is count down time. Not necessarily to Christmas but to another year. Christmas is great don't get me wrong, family time and all that but way over done. The reason why Christmas is celebrated by Christians has been forgotten by many. And it has become a very commercial enterprise. Like to see the stores to that with Emma Nutt Day or any of the other 'oddball' holidays.
Well I digress. Like spring with the rebirth of our planet, this time of year is when our small part of the planet takes a rest in a sense. The trees turn brilliant colors and drop their leaves. Animals forage constantly eating or storing food stuffs in order to make it through the short, cold days to come. We humans prepare our house, store our own food and get ready for the season of cold. When spring comes we New Englanders race out with arms open wide and embrace spring, summer and fall. We become dazed and confused with sunny day after sunny day. We mow lawns and sit in the shade of trees. We plant gardens and we harvest from them. We abandoned with much relief sweaters, heavy coats and winter boots. We live in tees, shorts and flip flops. I am always amazed how quickly New Englanders change during the warm months. It is as if they blossom with the warmer weather.
But eventually the days grow shorter and concern over the cold months becomes the main worry. Canning jars appear with big pots. Freezers are cleared out and readied for the incoming harvest. The sweatshirts, jeans, socks and sneakers reappear from the depths of closets. But once again these New Englanders run out and embrace the colder weather and shorter days. The colorful leaves, pumpkins that need to be carved, apples to be picked and eaten, cold night with wood stoves fired up and pots cooking on the stoves with applesauce and stews.
We prepare for what we consider the 'important' holidays. The one that I am most familiar with having grown up in the 50's and 60's. Halloween back then was just a fun time for kids. Now it is only second to Christmas in the amount of money spent. That doesn't seem right to me. Growing up it was dress up night. No expensive outfits, lots of home made ones, carving a pumpkin and going from door to door collecting candy cause frankly kids dressed up are cute and funny. There was no great importance to that holiday other than it was fun.
Thanksgiving meant preparation. Silver to be polished, crystal to be cleaned. The 'good' dinnerware brought our and washed and dried very carefully. These were the prized possessions of my mother's seen only on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Hidden away in the hallway closet and her bedroom closet for the rest of the year. There was also the ironing of the linen table cloth. That in itself a torturous routine. But in the end our kitchen table would be dressed in it's finest. The house would smell of turkey and other wondrous delights and my small family of 2 uncles,1 aunt, a cousin, my grandmother, my parents and myself would sit down to a table groaning under the weight of holiday food. Leftovers would go home with the relatives and we would continue to eat turkey for a week but that day made me feel comforted. Surrounded by the familiar as if life would never change. There was truly a reason to be thankful and I was and still am. I think of it ofter as the forgotten holiday. Stuck somewhere between the 2 money makers people forget that there is a great significance to Thanksgiving. Not just turkey and taters. It is a time to give thanks for what we as Americans have. Take time and think about the true meaning of this holiday.
Christmas starts coming in sooner than later. I have already seen decoration gracing some stores. It is too early for me and I turn a blind eye to them. I don't mind doing my Christmas shopping early but I will not be forced to decorate or join the mayhem of Christmas. My hubby and I no longer erect a tree in our house in celebration. I prefer to bring some of the outdoors in with my decorations and even just scatter a few of the old favorite decorations among the many plants that grace the interior of our house. Lights are as pretty draped on a 6' ficus as on a 7' spruce. Christmas is a spiritual holiday but it has become commercial. What more can be said on that subject?
The first day of the New Year is my own holiday. I don't decorate for it. I don't stay up late to see it in. I don't drink myself silly over it. I am just grateful for (hopefully) another year. I think of the possibilities, I love possibilities. What will the year be like? Oh the possibilities! Good or bad we will somehow make our way through another year. Things will change as they always do but we will continue to move forward. Always surprised and amazed at what it before us and where we have been. And maybe this year I will add a few new 'holidays' of my own. Days of personal celebration.
Carpe Diem!!!

What every mother knows

What every mother knows is, nothing. That is not a startling fact, it is just a fact. When we start our trip to motherhood, that first instant that we find out we are pregnant, we think we know it all. And we don't. With some of us our bodies rebel at pregnancy. We throw up a little and a lot. Foods that we loved before become abhorrent to us. The thought of sex? Fun because we are already pregnant and not so fun because we are pregnant.
Then after nine or so months we go through the most incredible pain we have ever felt in our lives. Some babies make the trip in record time, some take hours and some take the alternative route, a C-section. Any way that they get here we are suddenly (and it does seem sudden) mothers. We are handed a baby. This little creature that grew inside of us is here and for the most part many of us are quite unsure of what to do next. Take me for instance. I had sworn I would never have children. They did not appeal to me. Babies, well they were babies. Latched onto their mothers, demanding attention 24/7. Then I met my niece Kelly. She was only 3 or 4 days old at the time. And even though she has grown to a beautiful woman at the time of our first meeting she was (in my opinion) the ugliest little thing I had ever seen. She was red, scrawny, screeching and I wanted one. My hormones kicked into high gear and I could not wait to get pregnant. I have often said, if it were not for Kelly my eldest son Eli would not be here. Blame it on those damn hormones.
I had never even held a baby. Eli was my first. I knew nothing about the care, feeding or the changing of diapers. I don't know what I expected. But what ever it was, the baby handed to me after some 32 hours of labor, wasn't it. I struggled, I managed and 5 years later, I did it again. Eric was the second baby I ever held.
Children do not come with manuals. If they did and one was handed out to each newly married couple or woman of childbearing years, there might be less children. No matter how much advice is handed to the newly pregnant couple or the new mother (or father) they are surprised when they realize that maybe, just maybe, this is not what they expected. Maybe they expected instant bonding, or a feeling of completeness or some other notion and when it didn't happen, they feel somehow they failed. But they haven't. Parents come in all different sizes, shapes and forms. You have parents that sign their babies up for elite pre-schools before they are born, you have some that will drive hundreds if not thousands of miles toting their children from activity to activity. You have some like myself that are thankful to have made it through the baby phase to toddler. I enjoyed watching the personalities grow. I liked the walking, the talking, the being driven mad by the curiosity. I don't consider myself a 'good' mother. I just never had it in me to be that mother that I thought existed on some higher plane. The one that seemed to be able to handle whatever their kids, small or large threw at them. These women that could survive the breastfeeding, 3 hours of sleep, keeping house, working and still have great sex with their husbands. These women that always had energy, never showed up wearing yesterday's clothes partially covered in baby puke and who fit into their pre-pregnancy clothes within a week of giving birth. These women are just myth. Behind every smile, there is a tear. Until today my own husband never realized how hard it was for me to hold it together sometimes. To stay home when I wanted to run away.
I admire women and men who want to be parents. It is not an easy road to travel. It is the hardest thing that any human can willingly do. To be responsible for such a thing as another life is amazing, inspiring and at times, overwhelming. Would I do it again? Yes. Not to say if I knew back then what I know now I wouldn't hesitate. I might. But sometimes it's better to take a leap of faith than to worry about what might be.
What I felt at the birth of each of my sons was relief, awe and wonder. Did I love them immediately? I'm not sure. But I know that I felt and immense connection to them. I would have never given them up once they were placed in my arms. I knew I had a lifelong commitment to be there for them. So if that is love, then yes, I loved my sons immediately. And my love for them has grown as they have grown. I have always have and always will love them. It really is as simple as that. You don't always have to like them but you always will love them and that is what gets you through the diapers, puke and tears.
What every mother knows? Everything...........

A first.....

Today, for a brief moment the world stood still. I looked into the eyes of my first grandchild, Noah Logan Capponcelli. My chest felt it would burst from the instantaneous love I felt when I saw his small round face, his eyes blinking like an owl's. Looking so young and vulnerable and at the same time, so old and wise.
I never thought I would have a family. Have a physical link of genetics with another person. I felt very alone in the world because there was no one I knew of who shared my genetics. No one with a common ancestor, or a common link.
Then I was blessed with a husband and eventually two boys, Eli and Eric. I finally had a link I had missed most of my life. Down the line came the discovery of aunts and uncles, cousins, a sister and 3 brothers. But no link is closer than the child you give birth to.
Today Noah came into being. He was no longer a mystery hiding in the belly of my daughter-in-law. He will change and grow. His beautiful countenance will alter with time, but I will always see him in the back of my mind as I first did today. Swaddled, full head of hair hidden by a little cap with a blue bow. Small hands with perfect little fingers and those large eyes looking up at his father, my son, as if he could see him as clear as day.
I am his 'memaw', his grandmother. He is the first, the son of my son. I find this amazing, wondrous, amusing, overwhelming, any and everything you can think of. How does this happen? How do the years fly by so quickly that one minute you are the mother of a newborn and the next you are looking at that child, full grown to manhood holding his own child? I don't know but what I do know is now there is Noah and another adventure begins.

First night, Part 2

The hot summer days of this past weekend made me think back to my younger days growing up in South Hadley, MA.
I have spotty memories of my childhood. Flashes of friends, family, the house I grew up in. Moments frozen in time. My earliest memory is of my first night in my new home. I fell out of bed. I yelled for my mother? My father? A voice says, 'Why do you always call for him/her?' I realize now that these are two separate memories. The one asking the question was before my adoption. The falling out of bed really was my first night with my adoptive parents.
I have to sort of piece the story together for you. My adoptive parents really didn't talk about my adoption until, well, within months of their deaths. It seems they had tried for many years to adopt. (For the sake of convenience I will refer to them as my ad-parents and my biological parents as my bio-parents.) They had tried and been rejected in the USA and in other countries mainly because of their age. They had married at 31/32, my ad-mom had to have a hysterectomy because of a benign tumor so children were not a possibility. Back in the 1950's they were considered too old to adopt. Imagine that. But they had made a friend in the system. I will just call her Ms. S. One day they received a phone call from Ms. S. asking if they would consider adopting a slightly older child, not a newborn. They said yes and quickly began to prepare their den as a bedroom for their child. And 24 hours later they found themselves entrusted with a daughter. That night they tucked her into her new bed. Shut the lights off and walked down the hallway to their own bedroom. At some point in the night they woke up to a child screaming. (I still have a good set of lungs.) Their little girl had rolled right off the edge of the bed. They comforted her and once again tucked her back into her new bed. But this time they moved the bed up against a wall and they got 3 kitchen chairs and put them against the other side of the bed to form a rail to keep their daughter from rolling out of bed again. The rest of the night went peacefully. The next day a trip to a department store garnered them a bed rail that slipped under the mattress (which keep me for repeating the roll maneuver) and the kitchen chairs went back around the kitchen table.
See, things had happen so fast that nobody thought of telling these 'new' parents that their child had only slept in a crib, never in a regular bed. To this day I prefer my bed tucked up in a corner, I still get a feeling of being safe.
As for the other part, the voice asking the question. I can only believe that incident happened with my bio-parents and for some reason stuck with me. But for whatever reason it stayed with me it made me favor one ad-parent over the other. I don't know the physiology of the whole situation and I don't care to know. The one thing I feel is that when I called out as a toddler it was not to my bio-mother. Her 'rejection' of me was immeasurably painful. As a toddler and as an adult reaching out to her. The secrets she had she took with her to her grave might have explained much too me or maybe little but I will never know. None of us will.

Adoption, life and family Part one

Every day brings something different to our lives. Yesterday brought my siblings to my house. Okay I know for the majority this is not a big thing, but in my world this is. I was adopted when I was three and until I was 17 I thought there was no one in the world that I was biologically related to other than an unknown mother and father. I found out at that age I had two older brothers. I never thought of seeking them out because one had been kept by my mother and the other adopted by an Air Force family. I suppose at that age part of me just didn't want to know the whole story behind my adoption.
There are five of us. Tim, the eldest, followed by Bill, myself, Nonnie and Bobby. Through no fault of our own but more through what our mother thought about herself, her husbands, her children and her own life we were destined to grow up apart. What our mother never realized was something beyond her control would someday bring her children back together.

Joy....

There are times whether walking down my old dirt road, or sitting on my front steps watching the world go by that random thoughts whiz in and out of my brain. Words, phrases, sentences, even paragraphs come and go at will. Random thoughts that I can't catch. Like wood smoke they go up to the heavens and disappear. But it seems that my brain gathers enough wool together that about once a month I stitch up some kind of story. This time around the word 'joy' has become the word that all other words seem to be crowding around. The joy of life, love, happiness. Joy is what makes you smile when it might be a silly moment. Joy can send your heart aflutter or it can make you release a deep sigh. Joy can be fleeting but when the moments are stitched together than joy is much larger than you think and covers you like a well worn blanket.
Our neighbor Maryann died recently. She was 65 years young. Whenever I saw her she had a smile and a wave for me. I called her my 'flyby' friend. I was usually out walking when she would drive by off to work or to visit her daughter or on some errand. She always seemed to be going somewhere. But she would stop for a minute or two if she had time so we could talk. The last time I saw her, joy radiated from her. It was the final few days before her daughters wedding. She couldn't have been happier or more joyful. She told me of some of the plans as she sat in her car and I stood in the street. The best thing about living on a dirt road is traffic is minimal so you can have real conversations with people.
Fate was on the road with us that day but we didn't know it. We didn't know that the rest of Maryann's life was to be but a few short weeks before and aggressive cancer would end it. Maryann was joyful and that is how I remember her. A smile and a wave and she was off. I never thought I would not see her again.
That joy can be contrasted with death in such a way seems terribly unfair. What would have been unfair is if she died before she saw her daughter get married. She most likely had many joys in her life but this would be the last and most important because her family was there to share in the day. She is a woman missed by many.
Joy can also be very simple. This week I sat and looked out at what I think of as my insanity. 5 raised beds just around the patio, filled with perennials and filling up with veggies, herbs and annuals. My unimaginably long and wide bed that contains a small tree, lots of peonies, perennials, a bush or two, another tree and morphs into the pumpkin and squash patch which morphs yet again into iris and daylilys and some flowers I don't know the name of. There is a large rugosa rose and its bed touches on the hillside of hosta and daylilys which slides down to the shade loving hosta and that wraps around a small froggie pond with various perennials with names like lenten rose and lugaria rocket and painted fern. There are several small beds scatter by the mudroom, side porch, generator shed, and greenhouse that are hardly gardens but they give me as much joy as my insanity beds do. There is also a 'fence' that started life in a factory as steel framed windows. Now they support grapes not glass. And birdhouses perch above them while birds fly through the empty window frames. There is an incredibly long series of raised beds that follow the quirky angles of the fence. Asparagus grows in some, rhubarb in others and the last couple are for potatoes. These odd things bring a smile to my face, they make my heart fill with joy as I watch the plant erupt from the earth for yet another growing season. As if their purpose in life is to give me joy.
My children give me joy. And they don't even know it. They just think I am their mom. That crazy lady that lives in Vermont with her almost as crazy hubby. I feel joy because they have gone out and found lives. That they have joy. Our youngest is to be a father. Joy glows from his face and his wife's. My older son has found love and I see the joy carefully contained within his eyes. And I hope I see it reflected in the eyes of his love.
Joy is simple and can be found everywhere in the simplest of places and sometimes at the oddest of times.
Take that joy and remember it. It is fleeting although there is a lot of it around it is not always recognized. Think about something special to you about a person that has died. I think of my mom waiting for me after school at the door to our house with her parka on, her wool pants and boots. But her skates thrown over her shoulder is what I see. And I hear her voice telling me to hurry. Time to go skating. Sometimes with friends and sometime just her and me. Such childhood joy. It's always there for me to capture again. Just like in the deepest winter's snow I can 'see' my gardens and feel that joy. Or when our first grandchild is born my chest will probably burst from the joy. Another link in our family chain, a chain forged with love and joy.

Dishwasher woes

The end of April is almost upon us. Three days to go and then May Day and Cinco de Mayo and so many other things that the month will bring us. Every month is like that. Full of special days, not so special days, holidays and days full of memories.
This past month and for most of March our dishwasher lay silent. slumbering behind its closed door, the water in its pipes becoming foul. It stopped working one day. With a full load and the detergent stowed onboard it just didn't work. Well that is not quite right. It ran through it's complete cycle but at no time was any water involved.
Financials being a little slim we decided to let the dishwasher sit. We were born before such popular use of this kitchen appliance and remember well how to wash dishes (Gasp! Dare I say it?) by hand. So that is how it went for about 6 weeks.
It is funny what you remember from youth. Now I have had a dishwasher for 30+ years and washing dishes is not what I consider a thrill. But the memories invoked from this simple chore brought back memories of my parents house of more than 40 years ago. Stacking the plates, cups, silverware, pots and pans. Silverware was done first, followed by plates, cups and or glasses and finally the pots and pans. My mother was a firm believer of drying everything. Nothing was left in the drainer to be air dried. And doing the dishes was not done by the household head, my father. He excused himself and went off to his own pursuits. After breakfast it was work. On the weekends, after lunch could mean mowing the lawn during the warm weather or reading a book or watching TV during the cold weather. Dinner definitely meant the big leather chair and the evening newspaper. That was life back then. And sometimes (not always) it was better.
When we built our first house as soon as we could we got a dishwasher. My hubby and I had days full of children and work. With little time for dishes. We would regularly 'lose' our countertop under the piles of dirty dishes. Having a dishwasher was a blessing. One less chore to do among many. And sometimes we even remembered to put the clean dishes away. 
The first thing I noticed when we built our second home upon the perusing of the floor plans is there was no dishwasher. That was quickly corrected and life went on. 
We are technically on our 3rd dishwasher. The first died and my hubby was in the midst of renovating the president's house at the college. One thing to be upgraded was their dishwasher. So we were able to take their old dishwasher, our old dishwasher and make a 'new' dishwasher. That one eventually went the way of all appliances and we were forced to buy a new one. 
So there we were, washing dishes by hand and enjoying it. Well it is only the two of us so it's not like we generate a lot of dirty dishes in one day. I admit around Easter with all the baking and such I did miss the ol' dishwasher but only in the sense of a second pair of hands to help out with the unusually high volume of dirty pots and pans.
Finally the day came to see it the problem with the dishwasher was fixable by us or it we had to buy new again. It was a simple job which my hubby took on. Unfortunately simple does not always mean easy. Getting to the underbelly of the beast meant unhooking it from its plumbing, detaching it from the underside of the counter, pulling it out and realizing we are not repairmen so we have to make due with the tools we have since we don't have the specials tools for the special nuts and bolts. And also realizing that troubleshooting pamphlet included in the paperwork was written for a repairman not for us. Somehow, despite water leaking down to the cellar, the lack of special tools and more than one moment of thinking about just tossing the old bugger out (both hubby and dishwasher) we came upon the problem, a clogged filter. A small bit of plastic screening in the shape of a doll size cup that was full of debris. Not unusual for anything around here that water runs through and contains a filter as we have a very high mineral content in our water and our water comes out of a 'bore hole' well. In other words a hole drilled through bedrock. This is real, natural water.
Once the filter was cleaned out and the dishwasher reassemble and re-installed, the water flowed and all was good. Or was it? I miss that chore. No I don't want to wash dishes for a houseful but I didn't mind doing it for us. I could stand there and remember all those times I stood in my parents house. Before life got complicated and confusing. Before the world and I rushed headlong into the great unknown. I can hear the rustle of the paper from the father in the other room and I can see the kitchen and my mom. I miss them but life moves on and I wouldn't have it any other way. But I think I am going to start washing dishes again. Oh not all the time but when I need time. Time to slow down and enjoy the memories.

3 a.m.

What am I doing up right now? Three o'clock in the morning, my bedroom light is on hidden behind a closed door and drawn curtains. I can't sleep. I try but I can't. I am hot, shaking, light headed and sleep eludes me like a dream. I am detoxing. How the hell did I get here? It is really a simple story.
I use to sleep like stone. I slept through my 2 boys infancy. I didn't hear their cries in the night, their father did. Once I fell asleep, I slept, I dreamed, I awoke in the morning refreshed. Then it stopped. Not suddenly but gradually my nights of sleeping stopped. I was what is now called Peri-menopausal at 35.
My body betrayed me with restless nights. Some nights only a few uncomfortable hours of rest with hot flashes thrown in just to add to the misery of my nights.
Finally after years of on and off again problematic sleep I asked for and received a prescription for sleeping pills.Oh the bliss of those tiny pills. Take one and the world disappears for at least 6 hours. The night hours enfold you in a blanket of sleep. They are indeed a blessing and a curse. I didn't realize it but I had started an addiction. Wanting to sleep, desperate for sleep, I let a little pill do what my body no longer seemed able to do. And now my body can't sleep without it's little pill. It is not a comfortable feeling to lose control of part of your life. And I have most definitely lost control of my sleeping habits. So tonight for some reason I decided not to take my little pill. I have tried before and what I am feeling right now is most unpleasant. I want to grab that prescription bottle and just pop a pill. Make the misery end and slip away into my lovely drug induced sleep.
I am tired, in fact exhausted by this night time ritual of using a drug to fall asleep.  This is the longest, roughest and most sleepless night I have had in a long time. But it also occurs to me that my nights of sleeplessness don't have to be wasted on tossing, turning and hoping for sleep. There is a stack of books I would like to read. There are cross stitch pieces I want to do. In fact there are many quiet and comforting projects I could do easily in the dark hours. I don't have to sleep because eventually I will sleep. I may not sleep like my pre-35 year old body but I will adjust and eventually sleep will come and I will gratefully accept it.
Meanwhile, there is a book I have been meaning to read.

I have been trying for several weeks to come up with something to write about. I started twice and never finished either one. I know the weather is always a big one especially when spring will be in Vermont the same day as the calendar date. And that even means this time around that little rodent down in PA was right about spring. But none of it came out right or went anywhere. So I decided to write about a library. Or rather a library that wasn't.
I am sure friends and family are getting sick and tired of hearing about this but I am hoping in writing it down I will finally be able to let it go.
As some of you may know I work for the town I live in. It's not a full time job in fact you would be hard pressed to call it a part time job. Our town is small, very small and I wear 3 different hats. I am a 'lister' (sort of like a tax assessor), the Town Health Officer (which sound more important than it is) and the assistant town clerk (there is one job were I really am clueless). My time is spent in an old one room school house which is now the town office. It is well over 100 years old, falling apart and has very limited space. In fact we have dubbed around for almost 2 years decided whether to renovate the current building, build a new one or purchase our elementary school (which has been empty for 8 years) to use as a town office. And that situation is a whole 'nother story. I will let you know we have another 2 years to make a decision and then the state closes our office. And I don't blame them. Safety issues, health issues, it is not a good building. Anyway I digress.
There were some books. Now some of them were particularly old. Probably not worth a lot but they were part of the original town library. Most of the other books were bad novels. Our town office is very short on space, so I dusted off the oldest books and boxed up the bad novels. Eventually I spoke with someone that served on our 'library committee', asking if a decision concerning the boxed books could be made. We really needed the room. This lead to an article asking for the disbanding of the library committee. There was no active committee, librarian, library and only 125 books.
Before this article came up for vote, we voted in the town offices. Included was a new library committee member. When the article to disband came up, she stood up and spoke to our town having a library. She plucked at the heartstrings of those sentimental beings in town and so the article to disband was voted down. The committee was given a year, till the next town meeting to come up with some type of plan to 'revive' the town library. What happened next was sad.
The newest member got herself elected chair of the committee. She did have the regional library consultant come in and speak at a meeting. She held meetings every month. She sent out letters requesting donations of books, she received donations of books. In fact she gathered together about 4,000 books. She rode roughshod over her fellow committee members in her attempt to create a library. She managed to get the schoolboard to let her use the elementary school to store these books. She spent days handwriting the name of the town library in the books. She had an article published with a picture of her surrounded by the stacks of books but she didn't do the most important things. She had no plan for the library. Other than gathering books there were no plans on how to fund the library. Where would the library eventually go? No plans were ever created when thinking about renovations or building a new town office that included a library. The sad fact is the library had been 'dead' for over 50 years. The committee had only existed because that seem to be the way our town is run. Don't change things. Even if they aren't or don't work.
So I have to admit, the last couple of months before town meeting this year, I fretted and worried. I spent hours emailing, talking and researching libraries. What I found was, libraries are not a room full of books. Libraries are living entities that require someone with training to care for them but most of all, a library which serves its community requires money. And that is something in very short supply in our town.
So when the article came up again this year to disband the library committee I spoke to the question. I admit I did not speak well but well enough that it was voted to disband the committee. Then the eventual question became, 'what do we do with 4,000 books?'
The books came from libraries that could not sell them at their annual book sales. They came from the recycling center. They came from well intentioned people. And now they belong to the town. Well our 'friend' doesn't see it that way. She see them as hers. Well to tell you the truth, I have no problem with that. I do have a problem with the original library books not being back in the town office. The town owns them and they are part of our history. So rightfully they should go back to the town. The rest of the books she may have. I really don't care. Although I do care that she is allowed into our elementary school and is using that building as her private storage area.
To end this whole drama-rama, the majority of books are now back at our town office. Two are not accounted for but that is okay. I have two boxes of books for recycling and there are plans in the works to do some housekeeping down at the old town office. Time to rid ourselves of things kept for keeping sake.
Some times you have to move forward in this world. Our town long ago lost the ability to have a library but we do have the ability to keep some things of days gone by. We have the original charter, letters and notes dating back to the 1700's, we have pictures. These are the things we need to save. They are very much real and touchable. The library was not.
Let's hope that a decision is made soon so these things will be preserved and given a place of honor for us to remember the settlers of our town and the past residents that worked so hard to keep this little dot on the map.
Thanks for listening to my rant. I feel like maybe, we have a foot in the 21st century.

birthdays

My birthday is coming up on Super Bowl Sunday. I have been on the earth longer than there have been Super Bowls. And no, I will not be watching the Pats vs Giants. I could really care less who wins. After all it's just a game.
As I listen to the sports news and I hear the names of the players in this upcoming game I wonder, who will know who these players are in 50 years, a 100 years or longer? Will anybody care?
It is at this time of year, when the days gradually increase in sunlit hours, when the groundhog pops up to tell us spring is 6 weeks away (no matter how we wish it were 4) and once again the anniversary of my birth comes around that I wonder, will I ever be missed? This is not ego speaking. This is that deep insecurity that somehow life has passed me by. That I have not done things I could of done out of fear of failure. That my own broad streak of procrastination has somehow become my downfall.
As much as I wanted to be a Rembrandt or a Picasso, I didn't have the talent. As much as I wanted to be an Einstein, I didn't have the drive. Where would I be if I had just taken that step into space? If I had free fallen into the vortex of my own talents or lack of talents?
I don't even know why I write this blog. My own family doesn't read it. My husband doesn't have the time and I guess my kids just aren't interested. I write for my own amusement it seems. So the words that tumble around in my head have an outlet. So I fling them out into the ether and wait to see what happens.
When the front end of life becomes shorter than the back end it makes you think. And the thoughts are not of the pleasant variety. I worry about living too long, not long enough, losing my mind, my money and my abilities to cope. I can't imagine life without my husband. What if I should outlive my children? There are so many black and worrisome thoughts that crowd into my head. I want to sleep. Escape into a world of dreams where time will stand still. I want a 'do over'. But I don't want to do it all over again. It was all hard enough the first time.
Maybe it is time for me not to worry about if the kitchen floor is crunchy when you walk on it or the laundry isn't done. Maybe I can find some balance somewhere between the wanting to be creative and the I can't stand a really messy house. I just feel I am running out of time to do these things, to figure out where I am suppose to be standing in the middle of this life.
And in the midst of all of this I still want to celebrate my birthday, the anniversary of my birth. I want to eat cake. Chocolate cake, from a box mix with canned frosting, in the shape of a heart. Made by my husbands' very large, calloused and loving hands.
Will I ever be missed? Damn right I will be. I have touched lives as they have touched mine. Like those ripples in a pond, continuing outward, never really stopping.
I think Buzz Lightyear said it best, ''To infinity and beyond!''

My pruning shears

I am a gardener by whim and by chance. Preferring my gardens to ramble, to be unruly and by the end of summer to have filled me with delight. It is by all these reckonings that the day before a big winter storm I am attending to taking care of my pruning shears.
The unfortunate part of my garden methodology is I tend to wander. I may start out with all good intents to prune this or weed that but on a glorious summer's day I am often called away from the task at hand by a butterfly or an especially pretty flower. This is why in January I am attending to my pruning shears.Taking them apart and scrubbing the rust that has gathered on the blades. Having left them more than once out in the rain during the heyday of gardening season. I pull my whetstone from the drawer, along with pliers and a screwdriver and attend to the disassembling of the poor things. Believe it or not, for my many faults when it comes to gardening (or most things), losing my tools is not one of them. I misplace them, they temporarily disappear from sight but they are never lost. A good cleaning, my whetstone to sharpen their edges and a coat of oil will see them through yet another season.
It is especially nice on a cold winter's eve to be doing such a chore. As I take my steel wool to the blades of the disassembled pruners I gaze at my own reflection in the kitchen window. But I am not seeing my face. I am seeing the few blossoms that graced my wild apple tree just behind the house. It has never borne fruit and last year was the first time it bloomed. It's shape pleases me and the fact that it planted itself there, just in front of the wild blueberries and beyond a strip of moss covered lawn, well, it just seems right.
That is how my gardens are. They just seem right. I get plants because people give them to me, because the name makes me laugh or because I just like it. I have purple bee balm that struggled to survive in one spot. A little too damp and shady for it's liking. I move it to a much drier, sunnier area and it has woven it roots in and out with the golden glows, lupines and many other flowers that make up my gardens. Every time I see it and on those summer days when my garden glows with purple and the bees and butterflies are drunk upon the very nectar of those flowers I see my oldest son who gave me the first plant.
My gardens are filled with stories like that. And on a cold winter's night, I can almost feel and see the beauty of my gardens. Holding those old, rusty pruning shears which will be sharp, clean and well oiled when the sun comes round again and their services are called upon brings me such joy. Who would have thought that such a chore could be so memorable.

A walk off the dirt road

Today was a day for something different. A walk away from my dirt road up into the woods behind our house. I sometimes forget we own 10 acres of land most of it woodland behind our house. I become so focused on what is in front I forget what is in back.
10 acres is not a lot by Vermont standards. It's enough usually to keep your neighbors just far enough away so you can stretch your legs and have a little privacy.
Our acreage was partially logged off some 30 years ago before we bought the property. Even now if you look closely you can see the old ruts from the skidder that dragged the trees out. But there are still some incredibly large pine trees and lots of 'sugar bush' to be found. There are also the old stone walls that once defined the various fields that our property use to be part of.
Today I needed to go in a different direction. Life is not always what you anticipate. Don't get me wrong. I love living here and I (for the most part) love the isolation. But there are times when it is lonely. When I want to hear my husband's voice speaking and all I hear is me talking to the dogs.
 There are times when I get mad because my husband spends so much time at work that by the time he comes home, he has run out of words. When the weekend comes and he is off doing something that I prefer not to be involved in or doesn't require my involvement. The only words I hear are those from the TV and the TV is no conversationalist.
Today my anger drove me from my home. I was tired of looking at the same 4 walls and finding no joy or comfort in them. I am still angry. My answers to my husband being short and curt. It is and is not his fault. As I have become focused on what is in front of my house, he has become focused on his work life. A life that does not include me but supports me. A life that takes him away and sometimes doesn't give him back. He thinks about work, he dreams about work, he talks about work.
It is the little things in a marriage that makes people want to stay together. The thoughtful gestures that others may not think of as special. There is a book 'The Five Love Languages' that we both have read and it tells you not only how to speak to your significant other but how to listen.This sounds easier than it is. Because we forget to do it.
The things I appreciate most from my husband are 'Acts of Service'. When he empties the dishwasher or brings the laundry upstairs. It is not the phrase 'I love you' that wins my heart but the thank you(s) for the work I have done, mending his pants, or making a favorite dinner. It is the positive reinforcement that I am the one that makes my husband's life complete. And in turn I need to do the same for him. And that is why I walked up in the woods today. To turn away from the everyday sights and sounds. To see those things which I had forgotten. The fort from our sons childhood days, the tall pines, the twisted roots and fallen trunks of trees covered with moss. To be able to come down from those forgotten acres and look at the backside of my house, wood smoke curling gently from the chimney, welcoming me home.