Saturday, August 11, 2012

WE'RE NOT IN KANSAS ANY MORE

Do you remember when I locked my keys in the car in Tribune, Kansas? You might not, but my kids (and my husband) haven’t let me forget it.

One of the things that amazed me during the forty-five minutes I waited for the County Sheriff to arrive and break into my car for me was the fact that in this town of seven-hundred and eighty, actually smaller than my high school, where everyone most definitely knew everyone else and where I was most definitely a stranger every single driver who went by either stopped to see if they could help or waved to me. Not a big wave. Just that lift of the hand off the steering wheel that says, “Hey.”

That’s when I became aware of the phenomenon, but it had probably been happening for weeks. Now I started really noting it. Everywhere we went - stopped at the side of the road to give Gene water, walking along a dry overheated Main Street, pumping gas - no matter where we were people waved.

At first it felt strange. I mean, why were these people greeting complete strangers? Was it a way of saying, “Hello, I see you. Don’t try anything funny.”? Or were they signaling, “Yes, I know you’re there. Keep your distance.”?

But it quickly became apparent that it was a signal of comraderie, of companionship, of commonality.

“Hey there. I’m here and so are you. Nice to see you.”

But it meant even more than that. It was reassurance.

“We’re in this together. Keep safe. But if anything happens, I’ve got your back.”

With the stilted self-consciousness of someone used to being part of a world that prizes privacy I began to return the wave, until it became second nature. Very quickly I found myself being the initiator as often as I was the recipient. And much as I value my solitude, I liked the feeling that I was never really alone.

Lately, though, I’ve seen a change. I’m the initiator of waves that are seldom if ever returned. And my greetings are met with quizzical glances, if not downright suspicion. We’re back on the sophisticated East Coast where easy friendliness is reserved for friends, family and acquaintances; and where strangers have to work their way into the inner circle.

In the past I may have felt a secret superiority and surreptitiously looked down my nose at the simplicity of the Midwest, but now I appreciate it. More than appreciate it. I miss it.
No wonder Dorothy worked so hard to get back to Kansas.


For Gene's very different view of the same journey, check out his blog at www.ConnorsArmy.blogspot.com
To learn more about Connor's Army go to
www.ConnorsArmy.org
To see exactly why we're doing this go to
www.SunriseDayCamp.org
To make a tax deductible donation go to
https://www.wizevents.com/register/register_add.php?sessid=1809&id=1056

Monday, August 6, 2012

THE DOG DAYS OF SUMMER


Sarah refuses to ride in Kentucky any more.  Gene would love to refuse to ride in Kentucky any more.  And I can’t say I blame them.

Let me digress.

About a week ago we ran into another Trans Am cyclist (I love using the lingo!) heading west.  She joined her warnings to those we’d previously heard and labeled exaggeration about the viciousness of the dogs in Kentucky.  But this time she showed us the scar on her leg that had required an emergency room visit and antibiotics.

That day I went to WalMart and bought out their supply of pepper spray.  You know, that stuff every parent wants their single daughter to carry when she moves to New York City, but that’s illegal to sell in New York, but that’s available everywhere in Kentucky.

At WalMart it’s sold in the gun department.

Imagine this Northeastern liberal pacifist who won’t even allow her kids to have toy guns, going into the gun department, and shopping right next to the holsters and sights.  It was a surreal and extremely disturbing experience for me.

First there were the feminine items – pink holsters, pink edged camo, pink knives, and best of all the pink guns.  Then there was the big unshaven guy buying ammo.  Then I had to pay next to the mother buying a rifle for her all of ten year old son.

I’m surprised I didn’t clutch my head and run screaming from the store, or worse yet confirm their worst fears about commie socialist tree-hugging New Yorkers by launching into a tirade about the dangers of easy access to weapons.

But I kept my outnumbered head, quietly paid for my pepper spray, and calmly walked out of the store.  Of course, inside I was lecturing vociferously as I sprinted away faster than an Olympic athlete going for the gold medal.

The very next day Gene had to use the spray.  And the next.  And the next.  Then came today, when he and Sarah were chased by a pack of three dogs.  As luck, or the canny hunting sense of animals left to their own devices, would have it the biggest went after Sarah.

And as any father would, Gene unloaded everything in the spray at him and they rode away as fast as their shaking legs would carry them.  But Sarah was really traumatized and was still shaking when I caught up with them twenty minutes later.

As I listened to their story my mind went back to the advice of the salesman at WalMart when I asked him about the safety of using the spray on a dog.

"Pepper spray, huh?" he said looking me in the eye before he matter of factly counseled, “I’d get a gun.”

Right now this New York commie socialist liberal tree-hugging pacifist protective mother is seriously considering his advice.



For Gene's very different view of the same journey, check out his blog at www.ConnorsArmy.blogspot.com
To learn more about Connor's Army go to www.ConnorsArmy.org
To see exactly why we're doing this go to www.SunriseDayCamp.org
To make a tax deductible donation go to https://www.wizevents.com/register/register_add.php?sessid=1809&id=1056

Monday, July 30, 2012

DRUM ROLL PLEASE

Sadly for us, but happily for Crystal she is still safe and sound with her mother in the hay-filled barn at Crystal Creek Ranch.



For Gene's very different view of the same journey, check out his blog at www.ConnorsArmy.blogspot.com
To learn more about Connor's Army go to
www.ConnorsArmy.org
To see exactly why we're doing this go to www.SunriseDayCamp.org
To make a tax deductible donation go to https://www.wizevents.com/register/register_add.php?sessid=1809&id=1056

Sunday, July 29, 2012

CRYSTAL THE CROSS COUNTRY KITTEN

Crystal was cold.

She’d been nice and warm while the gentle Great Pyrenees had surrounded her with white fur, but now the dogs were gone and she wasn’t quite sure why.

Maybe it had something to do with the big black car that had come to a creaking stop on the dirt road next to where she’d found herself when she’d crawled out the open barn door late last night.  It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.  She’d been so curious about what was outside the hay-filled confines of the only home she remembered.  But as soon as Farmer Bill had shut everyone in for night, Crystal had known she was on the wrong side of the door.

She heard strange noises and could sense creatures beyond her limited vision whose interest in her was not friendly.  She’d made a big mistake.  She sat in the field mewing faintly and shivering as much from fear as from the chill night mountain air.

From out of the dark two shaggy forms had materialized, circling her as they sniffed.  She’d mewed desperately hoping against hope that her puffed up fur would scare away these huge creatures.

The shapes had moved closer and Crystal had backed away as fast as her unsteady legs would let her; but before she knew it there’d been a cold wet nose in her face.  She’d closed her eyes and curled up into a ball, crying piteously.

That was when the two dogs began their nightlong guard, wrapped around the tiny terrified kitten.  The unlikely trio had stayed like that all night, until the noisy minivan had come rattling down the road in the predawn light.

Now the warmth of the dogs was gone, and Crystal’s tiny mews reached new ears.

Getting out of the car, the woman in pajamas tried to figure out where the obviously very young kitten had come from.  She scooped up the shivering ball of fur and held it close, trying to give some of her body warmth to the tiny creature.

“It’s okay, Sweetie,” she cooed.  “It’s okay.”

Crystal like the sound of her voice and crawled up to snuggle into her neck.

“Oh, you’re so cute,” said the woman.  “How do you think she got out by the road?”

“I don’t know,” came a much lower voice.  “But why don’t I hold her while you drive?”

Crystal was handed to a man who held her up to look into her face.

“She’s very young.”

“I’d say about two or three weeks,” answered the woman.

The man smelled like milk and Crystal realized she was hungry.  As soon as he held her closer she searched for the source of that smell.  When she finally found it, she started licking and sucking as she would have if her mother had been there.
“She’s sucking my lip,” he laughed.  She continued, though it was frustrating not getting any milk.

“Here,” said the woman, “wrap her in this and I can hold her on my lap as I drive back.”  Crystal was smothered in soft green fabric that warmed her instantly.  “See you later,” called the woman as the man rode away on his bicycle.

As the car rocked its way back onto the farm, Crystal forgot her hunger and let herself doze off in the warmth of the woman’s lap.

She stirred vaguely as she was carried into a tidy little cabin, but didn’t fully wake up until that smell of milk came to her again.  This time it was on the woman’s fingers, and it was warm.  Crystal licked the fingers and nibbled at them, but couldn’t get as much milk as she wanted.

“Not too much, Sweetie.  It’s not really good for you, but you just seem so hungry.”  This woman knew what Crystal was feeling.  And she was so gentle.  Crystal liked her.

She tried to purr to let the woman know how happy she was, but she was too busy trying to get more milk.  She was concentrating so hard, in fact, that she didn’t feel the woman move her to the soft bed.

“Sarah,” she heard, “open your eyes.”  Only inches away, a pair of light brown eyes looked directly into her own and widened.

“A kitten!”

She was scooped up again to repeat the process.

“William, open your eyes.”  This time the eyes next to hers were bright blue.  And a pair of dark brown ones popped up over William’s head.

“She’s so cute!  You put her in my polar fleece!  Never ever wash it!”

From that moment things were a commotion of petting, cuddling, and cooing.  Crystal was in heaven.  She’d never had this much attention before and she definitely liked it.

Even when they left the little house and walked past the barn she’d been born in, she was content to stay wrapped in the soft green polar fleece as Sarah, William and James took turns begging their mama.

“Can we keep her?”

“Where’s her mother?”

“What if she has no mother?”

“What if she needs someone to take care of her?”

“Kiddos,” their mama protested only half-heartedly, “I’m sure she has a mother.  Besides, we’re living in a minivan.”

“She’s so small.  She won’t take up much space.”

“But, guys, what about Lily?”

“Lily would want to take care of her.”

“We can introduce her to Lily like you’re supposed to.”

“But we’re staying in hotels, and a lot of them don’t allow pets.”  Mama’s protests were definitely getting fainter and they could sense victory within their grasp.

“Then I’ll sleep out in the car with her.”

“Sarah.  You can’t sleep in the car.”

“Then we can sneak her in.”

“Yeah.  She’s not very noisy.  Just that little tiny mew.”

“And I can put her under my shirt.”

“She’s too young to leave her mother.”

“But what if she doesn’t have a mother?”

“But I’m sure she does.”

“But what if she doesn’t?”

“If she doesn’t have a mother, can we take her?”

“I don’t know.  Let’s not talk about this any more.  We’ll ask Bill about her.”

“Just promise you’ll think about it.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Really?!”

“Really.”

“You’ll think about it.”

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.  Enough.”

Crystal listened to the arguments and tried to figure out what she wanted.  She liked this bouncy family, but she loved the warm hay in the barn that tickled her nose with its smell.  And now she knew the gigantic dogs were her friends.

“Oh, you can take her if you want her,” said Farmer Bill.  “She was dumped here a few days ago.  People do that all the time figuring we’re a farm and can take care of the animals.  But we have no mother cat to nurse her and no time to hand feed her ourselves, so she’d probably be better off with you.”

“Really?”  The children were beside themselves.

 “Mama?”

“I know I’m going to regret this, but if she has no mother … then, well, yes.”

Crystal snuggled into the green polar fleece and for the first time in her three week life she purred.

ALTERNATE ENDING:

Crystal listened to the arguments and tried to figure out what she wanted.  She liked this bouncy family, but she loved the warm hay in the barn that tickled her nose with its smell.  And now she knew the gigantic dogs were her friends.

 “Oh, she has a mother,” said Farmer Bill.  “She’s in the barn.  There are other kittens in there, too; but I haven’t seen them.  I’ve only heard them.  Do you want to help me bring her back there?”

“Okay,” the disappointment of the children was obvious but Crystal wasn’t sure how she felt.

As they opened the door, two kittens came bouncing out of the shadows welcoming their sister back into the fold.  The children played with the three balls of fur as they tumbled in and out of the hay until it was time to go.

Crystal watched them leave and felt almost as sad as they did.  But then her mother licked her and she remembered she had her own family who loved her, and for the first time in her three week life she purred.
So which ending do you think is the real one?



For Gene's very different view of the same journey, check out his blog at www.ConnorsArmy.blogspot.com
To learn more about Connor's Army go to
www.ConnorsArmy.org
To see exactly why we're doing this go to www.SunriseDayCamp.org
To make a tax deductible donation go to https://www.wizevents.com/register/register_add.php?sessid=1809&id=1056

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

CITY OF HOPE

More than a year ago an F-5 tornado tore through a one mile wide swath right in the middle of Joplin, Missouri.  People all over the country, including my own family, watched on television as this city of 50,000 tried to come to grips with the destruction wreaked by this unprecedented cataclysm in their bustling downtown business and residential district.

Sarah was so affected by what she saw that three days later she contacted the Mayor of Joplin to ask if she could help them replant their trees.  Within a week she’d begun fundraising and, fueled by the thought of this former American Tree City now bereft of 20,000 trees, by the time we left New York five weeks ago she’d raised $800 for the Joplin Parks and Recreation Department.

Today we drove down to Joplin so she could hand deliver her check to Chris Cotton, the Director of Parks and Recreation.  Afterwards we toured the tornado district, and I can categorically state without any doubt that the aftermath images we all saw on our screens and in our newspapers were nothing like the reality.

Seeing firsthand the absolute devastation the people of Joplin had to dig themselves out of was startling.

At lot after lot where once houses just like our own had once stood, crumbling steps led to emptiness.  Steps that people walked uncountable times as they went about their everyday lives.  Steps that children toted bicycles up and down.  Steps that trick or treaters traipsed in their yearly quest for candy.  Steps that welcomed someone back after a hard day.  Steps that meant home.

Only now there was no home, just those cracked and tumbled steps leading to nothing.

It was the image of those steps and all the loss they signified that made me cry.

But Joplin isn’t just a city of loss.

Everywhere are the signs of rebuilding.  The new pool that welcomes hundreds of children on a hot summer day, the hospital that reopened on April 9, the school district that dubbed itself Operation Rising Eagle and welcomed students back to a different campus on schedule only three months after their high school was destroyed.

No, Joplin is definitely not a city of loss.  It is a city of strength.  It is a city of rebirth.  It is a city of hope.



For Gene's very different view of the same journey, check out his blog at www.ConnorsArmy.blogspot.com
To learn more about Connor's Army go to
www.ConnorsArmy.org
To see exactly why we're doing this go to www.SunriseDayCamp.org
To make a tax deductible donation go to https://www.wizevents.com/register/register_add.php?sessid=1809&id=1056

Monday, July 23, 2012

NATURE VS. NURTURE

Here in the heart of America’s beef farms it’s been difficult to make sure vegetarian Sarah gets enough protein.  It’s absolutely no exaggeration that every restaurant is either a barbeque joint or a steak house.  She’s been surviving on grilled cheese, soggy vegetables, and the occasional spinach salad.  William, on the other hand, has been happily living on hamburgers.

That may be about to change.

On our way out to San Diego we whizzed across the country in five and a half days on seventy-five mile an hour interstate highways.  Part of what I’ve loved about the return trip has been the backroads route we’re taking home, which has allowed us to really see America in all its glory and degradation.

Its hometown pride and its abandoned towns.  Its long held traditions and its technological downfalls.  Its amber waves of grain and its drought decimated farms.

While I’ve been most disturbed by the empty storefronts and broken windows that signify the desperate struggle affecting so many of the people living in one-street towns across our country, the children have become focused upon the plight of the animals.  Specifically the cows.

At first we passed field after emerald field of grazing cattle in all their bucolic beauty.  Then yesterday we hit the industrial ranches.

In other words, the feed lots.

Just having heard about them and how they treat the animals had been hard enough, but actually seeing them was almost physically painful.  Hundreds upon hundreds of animals crammed into pens with nothing to do but stand in dirt hardened by the blazing sun.  Tiny canopies give brief respite from the heat to a few, while the others mill about trying to find relief in each others’ shadows.  Even their feed is dried out and in the 100 plus degree heat, water is nigh on impossible for them to push through the crowd to reach.

Having to explain this inhuman treatment of animals by humans to my children was tough, but having to tell them that this is where all the beef we eat comes from was shaming.

Most difficult to process, though, was the day we passed hundreds of miserable cows walking in each others’ filth who were forced to spend their days watching the contented herd just across the street grazing in the pastoral splendor of a tree studded field with a stream running through it.  This juxtaposition of sad cows and happy cows caused much consternation in our car; and was the trigger of a long conversation about the plight of the local farmer versus the corporate farmer, and the temptation of the one to move into the ‘modern’ world of the other.

It’s been an interesting verbal journey that confirmed Sarah’s non-meat diet and began what I’m afraid is her voyage towards veganism, although I’ve told her she can only become a vegan when she’s prepared to make all her own meals to eat with the family.  With all we’ve seen with our own eyes, though, I think we’ve all felt pulled towards the meatless world

In the end I think William will continue his carnivorous ways for now, as will the rest of us.  But I hope the images of the happy cows and the sad cows will stay with all my children and affect the food choices they make in the future.

I know that I’ll be looking for meat, poultry and dairy from local farms and small ranches where they treat their animals with dignity and with the gratitude they deserve for providing our nourishment like the one owned by the family we spent the day with today.

I may be a card carrying carnivore, but at least I can do my part to support the small farms that were once the backbone of our entire agricultural system.


For Gene's very different view of the same journey, check out his blog at www.ConnorsArmy.blogspot.com
To learn more about Connor's Army go to
www.ConnorsArmy.org
To see exactly why we're doing this go to www.SunriseDayCamp.org
To make a tax deductible donation go to https://www.wizevents.com/register/register_add.php?sessid=1809&id=1056

Sunday, July 22, 2012

DR. SPOCK TURNS OVER IN HIS GRAVE


All right.  I will declare it right now for all the world to learn.

I am not the world’s best parent.  I’m not even close.  In fact, I’m miles away from even being a distant runner up in the competition.

I’m impatient with my kids.  I lose my temper.  I even scream at them.

I tune them out when they’re chattering away and I’m thinking about something else.  I leave Sarah to assist the boys with their homework instead of helping them myself.  I let them go to school without brushing their teeth in the morning because I just can’t fight over it for another morning.

I’m not at all consistent.  I used to be, but it’s so darn tiring that too often I simply let them keep doing something I know (and more importantly, they know) they shouldn’t be allowed to get away with.

I’ve resorted to “because I said so” because it’s easier, even when I really do have a good and valid reason that would make an excellent teachable moment.

“Ah well,” I used to quip whenever one of those imperfect moments occurred, “I guess they’ll talk about that in therapy in thirty years.”  The list of things they’re going to discuss with their therapists has gotten so long that I don’t use that glib joke any more.

In my defense, my children are not angels.

They whine, they push limits, they do things they know they’re not supposed to do (see the previous item), they argue with everything, they don’t listen when I talk even if it’s to answer a question they just asked me, and one of them is a new teenager (no explanation necessary).  They bicker with each other and with me until I want to pull my hair out.  And I swear they live to annoy each other, and by extension me.

In other words, we’re a typical family.

So why is it that in one day, in a city thousands of miles from my home town, four complete strangers made an observation about my family that has me questioning the state of families all over America?

What, you ask, might possibly cause me such consternation?

The first situations occurred at breakfast.

We were in a highly recommended and obviously very popular local dive.  We could tell it was popular because every one of the dozen or so close-packed tables was filled when we arrived.  The wait, though, was a relatively short ten minutes compared to the wait for our simple order.  More than forty-five minutes after our waitress Amy handed in the ticket requesting two omelets, two pancakes, and a bowl of oatmeal, our grumbling stomachs were finally assuaged by the arrival of said food.

Forty-five minutes.

Any parent will tell you that sitting in a crowded restaurant with three starving children is difficult under the best of circumstances, but once the wait time becomes longer than ten minutes the potential for parental embarrassment rises incrementally with each passing sixty second interval.  If you’d asked me to describe the ensuing scene, I would have cringed and explained that my children were not shown to their best advantage.

They squirmed, they told nine-year-old potty jokes, they wriggled, they tried to convince us to let them watch inappropriate movies, they fidgeted, they wondered loudly where our food was.

We resorted to every parental weapon in our arsenal – distraction, joining in the jokes, pretending they weren’t ours; but eventually we simply ran out of ammunition and spent our time praying for the food to arrive.

Eventually our prayers were answered and we spent the next fifteen minutes in a soothing respite of silent ingestion.

Imagine my dread, then, when the man at the next table walked over as he was leaving obviously intending to talk to us.

“You really should learn to control your children,” I pictured him saying.  My answer, even in my daydream, was sputtered and imperfect and full of self-justification that even I didn’t buy.

His actual words had me sputtering as well.

“You really are wonderful parents,” he said.  I swear I looked behind me to see if he was talking to someone else, but at that moment there were no other children in the place.  Gene and I both managed to get out surprised “Thank you’s” before our complimentary stranger left and we exchanged shocked looks of disbelief.

And so the morning continued.

Our excited kids were rambunctious, and a man complimented Gene on his skills as a father.

We tried to hush them up, and a woman commented that she loved the way we interacted as a family.

My theory was that they put something in the water at that establishment to make everyone see the world through rose-colored glasses.  I was sorry to leave it.

By the time we were in WalMart shopping for groceries at the end of a day chock full of museum touring and IMAX watching, we were all tired and not a little cranky.  At the checkout counter Sarah insisted on carrying only the cupcake she’d bought for dessert rather than putting it in the grocery bag and carrying the entire thing.

I was short with her, Gene was loud.  She put it in the bag and walked out in a huff.

“Wow,” said the checkout girl, “you’re really great with your kids.”

We exchanged that look again.

“You don’t know what I see.  Just about fifteen minutes ago I had a woman come through here and you should have heard the names she was calling her children.  Keep doing what you’re doing.”

Back in the car Gene and I tried to process that whole thing.

“We’re not that great parents,” I stated.  “I mean, we’re not terrible, but we’re certainly not great.”

“What does that mean other parents are like?”

“I know!”  But I don’t know.

I keep having visions of those children in WalMart whose mother was calling them names in the crowded checkout line.  Is that the norm of American parenting?  Are Gene and I in all our imperfection the best that America can do?

Boy I hope not.



For Gene's very different view of the same journey, check out his blog at www.ConnorsArmy.blogspot.com
To learn more about Connor's Army go to
www.ConnorsArmy.org
To see exactly why we're doing this go to www.SunriseDayCamp.org
To make a tax deductible donation go to https://www.wizevents.com/register/register_add.php?sessid=1809&id=1056