Forget the Part About the Bunny Negligee

I'm not sure if it's because they originated in London and I'm an anglophile, or because I'm really an 83-year old woman at heart, but good golly-golly I love me a doily.  I have a light green linen one that I bought in Scotland for under $10 dollars about ten years ago, and it's one of my favorite decorative items. 

Today Friend A came over and gave me my birthday present -- a paper-doily maker.

I can't begin to explain the world that has been opened up for the kids and me. We have all taken turns fondling it with stars in our eyes, and The Girl happily went through a stack of paper this evening chomping her way around the edges until she had a stack of perfect doilies. 

Friend A also treated me to beautiful paper to create beautiful doilies. We went to New York Central Art Supply while The Sister stayed with the kids and orchestrated the knitting lesson, and piano practice, etc. Standing in the paper section on the second floor, I looked around the shop and realized that it surely has not changed much in the past few decades. For a second -- a rich, plush second -- I felt connected to the unique energy that makes New York New York -- that frenzied/joyful/full/finally-getting-what-life-is-about feeling that I used to get when I was quite young and exploring the city by myself. Then I moved here with two babies... and the love affair between the city and me mellowed (the way most love affairs do after two babies). There was connectedness and familiarity and compromise -- all good, representative characteristics of a mature and enduring relationship, but I no longer had an endorphin perma-high. In the midst of the laundry, and groceries, and school auctions, and soccer clinics, and ballet lessons, and post office schlepps, I had become New York City's worn out, stay-at-home grey wife. I've known it for a while, but assumed that it was the natural order of things that had to be accepted. But today, standing in an authentic, not-chain, not-pastic establishment, surrounded by fine art materials, and with a doily maker waiting at home, I thought: it's still here for the taking. It's time to put on the bunny negligee and get some spice back into this relationship. And it's going to happen by being creative, by going to great little places, by showing the kids -- no longer babies -- what NYC has to offer. And I'm sorry that I just pushed my metaphor towards a bunny negligee while talking about my kids -- that's going to be some therapy some day if they read this... Point being: I got a doily maker, and that led to the art store, and that led to being reminded of that spark of creativity that NYC is so good about lighting... and I want my kids to feel it. And I'm really happy that the scheme provides time to do more art and to go on more field trips around the city, and I need to not neglect that responsibility. 

How Can I Serve You?

The spawn have been sparkling about my birthday for the past couple of weeks. They have a like-minded partner, as their auntie has been a party planner since she sprang from the womb. 

I woke up to lovely decorations, flowers plentifully about, gorgeous handmade party hats, and feathers hanging, suspended from strings.

As mentioned in other posts (here and here), the kids have had a tradition of skipping school and doing the amount of services/random acts of kindness that corresponds with the age that they are turning. I've never partaken of the tradition on my birthdays -- the kids would be at school, The Dad would be at work, so it seemed kind of weird to hit it solo. And let's be honest, being as I'm slighter older than 20, that would be a lot of serving. When you only serve for the sake of looking awesome on your blog/telling your friends about it, you really don't need to be such an over-achiever -- the goal is to keep it minimal -- just enough to snap the picture.

The kids were having none of my distracting/smart-alec responses -- this year I was doing ___ amount of services. This morning they had a list of ideas printed out, a form for me to fill in the services as I accomplished them, AND The Sister had gone out on her own time, with her own money and bought all the supplies that I would need: food for a homeless person, cookies to give to the doormen, a bunch of flowers to pass out, plastic gloves to wear while picking up trash, a baggy of quarters to buy food at the petting zoo, etc... She and The Girl had even prepared cute little bags of candy for the neighbors.  All I had to do was run out in my pjs and put the bags in front of everybody's door for a good-morning-surprise.

While I was expected to serve, I was clearly the recipient of much service throughout the day. The Dad got up early to appease the party-planners' checklist of getting me doughnuts.

The Boy set up chairs in the bathroom and put my laptop on the toilet to have movie-time (random YouTube clips). Family and friends called, emailed, texted, dropped off sweet cards, treats, gifts. I felt loved. It was only right that I do some service.

Let me say this about the passing out flowers thing: you feel like a loser. But when it works, the angels sing. 

"Hello, can I give you a flower?" Is pretty much the equivalent of: "Hi. I'm some kind of kook from a cult and I would like to ensnare you by handing you this flower."

At one point I saw these two darling college-aged foreign-tourist-types walking towards us in the park, and I stopped them and said: "Okay. You have to help me out. We are doing a day of service and my kids are making me pass out these flowers. Will you please take some, because I feel like a total idiot?" They were sweet and took some off my hands. 

There was also a cute nanny that tried to hug me, but it was one of those things that by the time I figured out what was going on and went to reciprocate the hug she had already started to pull back because I had been slow to reciprocate... But by and large, I was exasperated with the whole flower-thing by the time we got to the zoo (I don't like rejection, and quite a few people say, "No, thank you," or just grunt...), and I still had a small bundle in my bag. The kids were like: see, it's not so easy is it? 

The lady in the booth when we showed our pass was really cute. We chatted about how it was way too cold to be sitting in that booth... And that if ding-dongs like us didn't come to the zoo when it was way too cold she wouldn't have to... On our way out I leaned over and asked The Boy, "Do you think she would like to have the rest of the flowers in that booth with her?" He was absolutely sure that that needed to happen. However, by the time we got to the booth a swarm of people arrived and they were all fumbling around for their tickets, etc. We waited for the crowd to clear, and then another crowd came. I was cold and now felt stupid for having stood around -- handing them off the cuff while we breezed by was one thing, but lurking around and making a production out of it is something altogether different. However, the kids were not giving up on this idea. Finally, the coast was clear:

"We have these flowers with us and my kids are sure that you need to have them with you in the booth since you have to sit out here in the cold." 

You would have thought that woman won the lottery. Her hands flew up and before I knew it she had given each kid a big bear hug and God-blessed them.  It made me tear up. You have a moment like that and all of a sudden that flower-passing-out-business seems like the most freakin' brilliant activity in the world. 

While at the zoo we bought the animal food pellets and gave some to the little kid that was hanging out -- he was stoked and totally brave. We also "served" the goats and sheep by feeding them (guess which child put this idea on the service list?). Full disclosure: my kids did this act of service for me -- I don't like the gooey lips fumbling all over my hand.

Walking back we picked up trash and left chalk notes:

The Sister's

The Girl's ("Don't liter")

The Boy's ("Toot at the back of the line")

Obviously I did "a few" other acts of service (manicures for the girls, "a chat while drinking a sarsaparilla" with the boy, etc.). But back to things I received... 

Before my beautiful/tasty/interesting cake from Momofuku was picked up, the kids played a practical joke on me with a "cake" that The Sister made... Spam with mashed potatoes frosting (with vanilla and sugar to mask the potato smell). We have an ongoing fascination with Spam.  

Our dear friend/neighbor/piano teacher/musician invited us to a "once in a lifetime experience" -- a lecture/concert by Dr. Walter Hilse exploring Buxtehude and Bach. Up until today I had no concept of what the organ was or what it did. If asked, I would have said that it was similar to the piano, but required air pumping through it. I would not have been able to say specifically that unlike the piano, it is not percussion instrument, but rather a wind instrument. I didn't realize that that's an additional keyboard that is being played with the feet. It actually is a complicated system of levers and pulleys. It's an entire world that I didn't know existed. 

I also didn't know that chances are very good that Bach would have remained a decent, but not brilliant composer if not for his decision to go and meet Buxtehude. Upon his return home he began to write the imaginative and genius work that we value. To think of how just a few months can completely open up somebody's mind and push them closer to their full potential. 

I was also ignorant that St. Michael's Episcopal church is home to one of the finest organs for playing Baroque music, AND "one of the largest collections of Tiffany glass and decorations to remain in its original setting." We had the good fortune to be allowed up to the organ loft -- to be within speaking distance of Dr. Hilse, and have a perfect view of all that Tiffany beauty. Apparently Tiffany had a social connection to the church. Connections can be a wonderful thing.

I had additional education gifted to me. While at the zoo we went into the Tropical Zone and befriended an educator. She walked with us for a while and answered a million different questions about the birds, about the habitat, about the workings of the zoo. We have been going to that zoo for almost 8 years and I have never learned so much. When I mentioned that, she confirmed the obvious: we were there during a slow time -- everybody else was in school, so the animals were a bit looser and there was more opportunity for her to "educate" rather than "be a traffic cop." 

For the past couple of years the family has worn striped socks and blue on my birthday. This was The Girl's idea and it represents my two favorite animals: peacocks and okapis. I didn't know that there were peacocks in the Tropic Zone, but, as our educator explained, they usually don't come down when there are a lot of people present AND February is mating season, so today the male happened to be trying to catch the eye of one of the ladies.

This was my cosmic birthday gift. Had an okapi wandered past I would have had to assume that I'm destined for sainthood.

Regarding the peacock:

"She isn't interested in his performance." The educator

"Are there any other males?" Me

"No. We keep trying to explain that to her." The educator

"Ah." Me

"There is another female. He isn't interested in her, though. There is however a duck here that is smitten by her." The educator

"I'm glad that somebody appreciates her." Me

"Exactly." The educator

Everybody needs to feel valued. I certainly did today. The amount of time that went into my day is staggering. The Sister spent hours just making those hats...

The Boy made me a doll. With a detachable rainbow yarn wig. And really long arms made out of skewers and cotton balls. He said that I could put it on my bed.

And as if inspired to make me something that would help me remember the day, The Girl created this:

We will need to do double-math tomorrow, but I feel like we all learned a lot today. If nothing else, the reminder that living things -- Peacocks, ladies freezing in booths, moms -- need, and appreciate, attention.  

Young Nerudas and Plaths

I felt like a bird, blender, hurricane.

Flying like a bird.

Twirling like a rock in a blender.

Flopping like an ear of a floppy-eared dog.

That is freakin' poetry.  That is what my kid produced in the creative writing workshop that I'm teaching.  On Mondays it's with teenagers -- and I love it.  On Wednesdays it's with younger kids, and both of my spawn participate.  I wasn't expecting to love it as much, but I did. I did. The children were all supportive of each other and willing to share and they were sweet and funny and crazy-enthusiastic to learn. 

For the future workshops they will be bringing their work that they will do during the week, but as today was the first day we did an introductory exercise/mini-lesson.  After we reviewed what adjectives and adverbs are (and in so doing reviewed what nouns and verbs are) they went into the hallway with the instruction to spin, or jump, or dance, or whatever... And then they came back to their paper and pens and wrote the words that came to them. Then quick like little bunnies they just scrabble-scribbled those words into phrases.  I told them that their "poems" weren't going to be brilliant because we were just doing it as an exercise to provide material for a practice workshop, but guess what? I was wrong. They were brilliant. 

The Return of Winter (the Crab)

Tonight we brought the pet hermit crab home from the crab-sitters. We might have left Tommy behind in Myrtle Beach, but we have regained Winter. We are officially back. 

Yesterday and today was all about getting adjusted. The kids have been finishing off their travel journals, practicing piano, and planning my birthday on Thursday. 

I have been prepping for a creative writing workshop that I started for a handful of super fun/smart/sweet homeschooling teenagers. It's interesting to hear the different reasons why each kid is homeschooling. Everybody has a story. I also had a marathon dentist appointment -- that's when you really know that the vacation is over. 

Yesterday we attended a fabulous FREE concert at the NYPL for the Performing Arts (that's the library that's part of Lincoln Center). It was the Egypt Mini-Series: The Music of Mohammed Fairouz. I swear I didn't know that the saxophone could make such sounds. It was so different. I don't know what dissonant chords are, or minor chords, etc... I can just say that it sounded different. And striking. I wondered this wonder as the concert was progressing: does going to so many concerts make the kids more appreciative of music, or is it kind of desensitizing them to it, so they take it for granted? I thought of a part in a play we saw one time when a girl had never had ice cream. When she finally did get to try it it was like this life-changing moment that was so amazing she could refer back to it when she wanted a little bit o' happy. I don't know know what the answer is, but I will say that when we had to leave at intermission to make our rendezvous (returning a friend that we had on a playdate), The Boy was actually sad to leave. He said it was the best concert that he had ever been to. 

I looked up Mohammed Fairouz, because man, if you can get The Boy to say he loved a concert something was done right. As it turns out he was born in 1985. Hello?! If you believe Wikipedia he is "one of the most frequently performed composers of his generation." Is he the only composer of "his generation"? Isn't everybody else his age like still watching professional wrestling and eating wings?  I am impressed, and I am very grateful that our friend suggested the concert (her daughter's piano teacher curated the event). 

Today we learned about the controversy surrounding the Belo Monte Dam project in Brazil. This was spawned because of that YouTube video we found when looking around for the "I Want to Marry a Lighthouse Keeper" song (see previous post). "Cleaner energy" from one camp, "toxic levels of methane" from the other camp. My goodness, how does one sort out all of the information from experts? Anyway, an exercise in current affairs. 

Anywho, we're getting back into the swing of things here. It snowed today and I wondered how those six-toed cats are doing out at Key West. 

The Gang has Returned

"Good-bye, Tommy!"
"See you next time, Tommy!"

Stopping and paying homage to Tommy the Crab is a Myrtle Beach tradition. When the kids were little they even had a framed picture of Tommy in their room. I suppose his cheerful/nonchalant attitude (though he is forever suspended on the top of a seafood restaurant) represents Myrtle Beach for us -- it's stress free, it's fun, and being in intimate proximity to the vast mysteries of the ocean keeps us from feeling like we aren't carpe diem-ing. 

Saturday was our exit date. We had tentative plans to hit the secret shelling location at low tide, but when the alarm went off at 6am, and I looked at the weather I decided that 26 degrees wasn't optimum for standing and digging in frigid water. We packed, and made tidy the villa, and were on the road and heading for Tommy, Krispy Kreme (our other MB tradition), and the airport to drop off the grandparents.

The donuts did not assuage the let-down of leaving a favorite vacation place, and certainly didn't lessen the sadness of dropping off the grandparents. The Girl is a cryer (she gets it from her mother... alas...), thus prompting me to try out the somewhat irritating quote on her: "Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened." It made me feel like a schmuck the moment I said it. When we feel junky enough to cry we certainly don't need somebody to make us feel more junky for crying. Usually, the best strategy is to just keep moving forward.

And so we did. Our route home was not to be direct, but rather an opportunity to check out the outer banks. This was a tricky decision, as it required some hustling... I had a goal that we be off the road come the drunkenly conclusion of the Super Bowl on Sunday. What to choose when the outer banks offers so much?

Not really part of our plans, but we did pass Camp Lejeune -- a Marine Corps base that my grandfather had been stationed at. I had always heard it as "lajoon," but The Dad, a French speaker, kept saying something that had some w's in it or something. Finally it dawned on me that it was a French word.

"What does it mean?"
"The young."
"Oh."

A rare example of the military not covering up the truth.

Our first OBX (that's what the locals call the outer banks) stop, was Cape Lookout National Seashore. With its lighthouse dressed like a harlequin, and its confident push out into the sea, it definitely carries a sense of drama and adventure. Case in point: the gift shop at the visitor's center is filled with books about pirates (Edward Teach, aka Blackbeard, spent a lot of time in the OBX), "The Graveyard of the Atlantic," WWII U-boat activity/Torpedo Junction, and sharks! We bought a book labeled as a "classic" called Taffy of Torpedo Junction and read it in the car/on the ferry. It was the perfect blend for both kiddos -- a dog and a pony as main characters for the girl, and mystery and war history as main themes for the boy.  

But before we hit the gift shop, we watched a poetry-filled 26-minute movie called, Ribbon of Sand (here it is in it's entirety) that not only shows the beauty of Cape Lookout, but also explains the uncertain future of the outer banks. It stuns me to think of the gamble that people are taking in putting down permanent residence there -- does carpe diem ever become foolhardy? Acknowledging that I'm Grammy, I can't speak for that. My brain constantly weighs where the safest place to live is. I know NYC might seem a strange choice, but with the lack of driving, doormen, healthy eating sensibilities, top medical institutions, and millions of witnesses, it seems the best bet so far. 

Of course there was a Junior Ranger program to be done. As it's off season, the ranger there was generous, put on a private little program for the kids, and even gave them a couple of very large shark teeth (I like to think that this was the universe's way of showing The Girl that all her hard work paid off.  She sifted and dug and scoured the beach and found nothing, and then in an unexpected way she gets handed some very cool specimens. Sometimes that's how things work. Our job is to keep trying -- keep moving -- and have faith that things will work out one way or another). 

So into the car to start Taffy of Torpedo Junction and race (without surpassing the speed limit!) to catch our ferry to Ocracoke Island. 

Now, if you look at a map of the OBX (not sure if grammatically that "the" should proceed OBX?) you will see that if you take a two-plus hour ferry to Ocracoke you can drive the length of it, past the stable where the Ocracoke ponies are kept, and on to a ferry that leaves every 40 minutes, and (in well under an hour) drops you at Hatteras. That was our plan. As we passed the booth to get on the ferry we were told that the Hatteras bay was being dredged, so the ferry service wasn't running.  Derrrrrr...  The captain was radioing down to the booth that we needed to get on the ferry or they were leaving, and we sat in stunned, but panicked,  silence trying to look at the map and figure out what to do. It was a no-win situation. Three extra hours driving or five hours on a ferry? Every adventure starts by saying, "Yes," so that's what we went with... 

We were to arrive on Ocracoke shortly after 6pm and then we would have to make a decision -- one way or another we had to take the ferry to Swansquarter (a three-hour ferry ride, and the only way off the island), and then drive up and over two-plus hours to get to our destination of Hatteras. The question was, would we spend the night at the one motel on the island that stays open all year, or take the last ferry running that night at 7pm?

When we got to the island it was already dark. And isolated. And after two weeks of vacationing (a goodly part of it with The Dad at the helm, so it can rightfully be referred to as "extreme vacationing") I was fragile. Except for some family members of the crew, we had been the only people on the ferry, which heightened the level of creepiness on my creepy-meter. I voiced that if I was Stephen King I would have rich material for a new novel. It didn't take long to realize that we would be taking the 7pm ferry off the island (which came at a high price: that would mean no pony-viewing). 

We bought our ticket, drove to find food -- luckily a pizza joint was open and we put in our order, drove past the lighthouse (only The Dad got out of the car), and visited the British Cemetery. This did get me out of the car briefly. Until this trip to the outer banks the only enemy contact that I thought the US had was the attack on Pearl Harbor. All of those U-boats lurking along the outer banks is a fascinating piece of history. As our navy wasn't equipped to handle this major threat (at one point in 1942 the Germans were sinking a vessel a day off the outer banks), Britain sent help. One of those helping ships was hit by a torpedo, and everybody died; four bodies washed ashore (another one was found in Hatteras). To show respect and gratitude, the plot of land where those four sailors were buried has been leased to the British government and is maintained by the US Coast Guard.  

We picked up our pizza and queued for the ferry (I made the comment: "Well kids, you can say that you went to Ocracoke Island to pick up a pizza). We decided that the island that seemed so Stephen-King-material-rich at night during the winter is most likely magical and awesome during the summer. And now: three hours on the shark-infested waters in the dark. Did I mention I was fragile? The kids worked on a Junior Ranger program that the good ranger at the Ocracoke station had left for The Dad (because he had called ahead). I read some Taffy aloud. We wandered about. There were three other people on the ferry. 

Finally, just before 10pm we docked and realized that all of the hotel options we had considered closed their offices at 9:00. After a grumpy two hours, around midnight we checked into some Holiday Inn Express near Kitty Hawk, grimly surveyed our room (things always look worse when it's late and you're fragile), and turned in for the night. Morning came fast, but we had no desire to linger in our lodgings, so with Holiday Inn's famous cinnamon rolls in hand we were soon on our way to Buxton on Hatteras Island. Buxton is where Taffy lived, and it's where the Cape Hatteras Light is located. 

Inasmuch as the ocean frightens me, I am also drawn to it and all things related to it. The Lighthouse Service and the US Life Saving Service fascinate me to no end. The choice to throw yourself into the elements -- the ocean at its very worst -- because it's a job that needs to be done, boggles the mind. Keeping cozy with all that mind-boggling is the hyper-nostalgic, romantic-in-the-not-Valentines-sense, heroic aspect of it. There was also an awesome, and by awesome I mean awesome, song that I first heard as a kid while listening to the  Dr. Demento show at my friend's house (Friend J -- you brought much weird-awesomeness into my life) by Erika Eigen. It's called, "I Want to Marry a Lighthouse Keeper" -- some might know it because it's on Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange soundtrack (that man! This song and Dr. Strangelove? You can't say that he didn't know awesome).  This clip is awesome because it might be Judd the Red Chicken's future; this one is just awesome; and this one is interesting because it's Ms. Eigen out of her prime, but using what currency she has (this song) to support a cause that she believes in (awareness regarding a dam in Brazil... also of interest to The Boy) -- plus it has ukuleles... might be one of the first songs we learn.  Watching all three of those clips fills me with a sense of accomplishment -- my kids are getting a brilliant education this year. Listening to that song also makes me think that we might have a clue as to what The Dad's future could be. You better bet that the first order of business would be ordering this place setting that I had to talk myself out of:

  
I liked this one, too:

Back to our story at hand. We went to the Cape Hatteras light house (tallest in the US), and befriended the lady in the bookstore ("I want to take pictures of your kids' sweatshirts!" "Do you live here year round?" "Yes, it's rather exciting. Though some who retire here eventually have to sell because there isn't any medical care. They have to helicopter you out and then you have to pay for it."). We also looked through the museum at the lighthouse keeper's house, and (wait for it) finished a Junior Ranger program. 

Our next stop was church where a member of that ward (congregation) spoke about unexpected changes --  when you feel like you've received personal revelation you move on it, even if it doesn't seem logical (his family had a moving truck packed and were taking off the next day). It was nice. It's fun to go to other wards when traveling and see which group of Mormons seem more, or less, peculiar. We then (again in our church clothes and tennis shoes) checked out Jockey's Ridge State Park. We were hoping that it was going to be like our experience with the Indiana Dunes, but while the dunes are the biggest, we didn't find one tall continuous one that was thrilling to run down. Plus it was cold. 

Kitty Hawk. There is so much good stuff there that I hope the kids picked up on. I hope it permeated into their beings and world views and personal philosophies. Examples of what I'm talking about:

The Wright Brothers tried to always be honest in their dealings. By all accounts what motivated them and buoyed them after set-backs was passion, not money. They worked at a bicycle shop to learn about engineering and mechanics, but also to pay the expenses of all their experiments.

They did not look like slouches. Check out the shoes he was wearing while working at the bicycle shop:

December 17, 1903. Outside on the field they have put up the markers of the first four flights. When you hear the distance of the "big" one, and learn that it was 59 seconds it kind of feels like "big whoop." But when you actually stand on the field and see the first three and know that it was like: clunk, clunk, clunk and then on the fourth try -- sooooooaarrrrrr. It all makes sense. How very, very exciting. And such a lesson on perception. And how previous experiences influence our perceptions. 

On a plaque explaining the monument it reads: "This memorial to the Wright Brothers serves to inspire people who believe, and by believing, accomplish the impossible." 

Mostly what I hope they learned is that if they work together they can go higher and accomplish more. That's what siblings can be for each other (cue Bette Midler). 

And then the drive home. We finished reading Taffy of Torpedo Junction, and jeepers gang, look what we have: 

Zoinks! After the bad guy is apprehended he says: "Last night's events are very unfortunate, thanks to the meddling of this stupid girl and her dog!" 

Now, I don't know the history of how Scooby-Doo was created, but this book was written in 1957. It's fun to wonder: did somebody read this as a kid and someday it resurfaced? Whether it's because we are all constructs, or because of the zeitgeist, or because of past experiences, it is fun to reflect on all the intersections of life. 

We also read some To Kill a Mockingbird, and the kids watched The Fantastic Mr. Fox again. We stopped at a Mexican restaurant in Maryland and were virtually the only people in the huge, brightly-painted place. It was a Super Bowl induced ghost town. My goal was to get home before the game ended, and we met the goal within about five minutes. As The Dad was unloading the car he said that the people suddenly pouring out on the streets was like so many ants. 

Sometimes I consider our daily lives and schedules and petty concerns and reference that concept -- ants busily moving pieces of sand around. But then we see dolphins in sun-splintered water, feel the tangible love of grandparents for their grandkids like heat waves coming off asphalt, and imagine what the first flight -- while laying on your belly -- must have felt like, and then, well, life doesn't feel so ant-like. Not that ants are bad, or not smart, or not special, but the fullness of an ant's creation, shouldn't be similar to the fullness of a girl's, or a boy's, or a woman's, or a man's.