Day One

Here dies the first day of this grand adventure. For as much as I've done that may seem crazy to an outsider, up to this point the moves I've made and risks I've taken have been quite measured. I double and triple check safety gear, I do not quit a job until another is secure. My ducks are kept firmly ensconced in the row in which I've placed them. I am not reckless. Today starts a shift away from those habits, and my ducks are clumped, frightened and facing every which way.
This morning I awoke, made coffee, showered and dressed for work as I have done for the past two years (though I gave myself an extra half-hour of sleep). I made an office space for myself and a schedule, written in sharpie like it was the word of God. My hands rested on the keyboard in the way I learned to hold them back in typing class. I breathed, said a prayer, and began the day.

It was a full and productive. I am brimming with ideas, most of which will prove to go nowhere. I've had encouragement from unlikely sources. I am 90% sure this is the move I'm to be making. I have no evidence to support this theory.

My mind keeps going back to planting. At my old job, we worked with restoring old mined sites. These sites were certified cleared of mining influence, but were old areas where the soil had been so compacted that only scrub plants could grow; nothing long-term or healthy could survive with soil that hard and compressed. Roots couldn't penetrate the unnatural hardpan. My former company would go in and rip up the scrub plants. They would till the hardened soil over and over again, breaking up the clumps and once again adding air to the earth. And only when the soil was loosened was it ready to be planted with the seeds of the long-term, the seeds that would take it from scrub land to healthy forest, that place it was supposed to be all along. There was destruction in the process of construction, something I'm realizing is almost universally true.
I can say that on day one.

Two Months Out

I make no illusions about grief. It has now been almost two months to the day of Natalie's death, and I can't say I've begun to learn this language at all. If anything I'm discovering more words I didn't know I didn't know. Grief comes in such tiny splinters that I don't expect them until they are in me—under my fingernails come tiny shards of a life I so dearly miss and they do their best to double me over in pain. The other week I cried for an hour about an AOL email address. Seriously. I realize it sounds ridiculous but that is the thing with splinters: outside of us they are so tiny, but when they are where they are they are monumental. The night I got back to Virginia from a very hard trip to Canada I went over to Nat and Mike's to try on some of her old clothes (yeah nothing emotional about that endeavor) and in all my mental fortitudes I wasn't prepared for the coats to smell like her.
They smelled like her. Her hands were in the pockets.
I felt them there.
I can't touch those coats now because they feel like a hug and I lose it. They are on a chair.

The trip to Canada was agonizing because I was with men who didn't seem too keen on the business of living. All of them had gone through divorces or rough marriages or wars or other losses, all of them exhibited no signs of zest. At times it felt like I spent the trip trying to convince them to keep living. Maybe I am more sensitive to it right now because of Natalie, but to them life was more a chore to be endured than a gift to be enjoyed. I just watched a woman with a love of life lose it and then to spend 10 days with men who have life and seem so keen to trash it was, in a way, utterly profane. It was offensive. I wanted to scream at them for being so careless with something I know others have fought so hard to keep. I didn't.

There is much to say about the trip to Canada but I don't think this is the place to do it. Coming back I felt like my heart was sunburned, rough, raw, flaking and peeling, hot and sore to the touch. I felt like I left pieces of my heart strewn along the highway, on the shoulders of those I hugged, on pillows where I slept. I picked at it in moments of quiet and regretted it in moments of movement. It was never comfortable.

I realize that living can be unsexy; it is by its very nature., because living is sustained and sexy isn't. Living isn't some big constant adventure, it isn't one high after another, because living is real, and to be real, it needs to be rooted and there is nothing sexy about rooting. Roots aren't pretty. They are dirty, they are unseen, they get no glory. But they endure.
And lord, when roots are true, do they produce some beautiful flowers.

Speak Through the Snow

I’m from Virginia and I learned from an early age that snow was God’s sign you stay home.

No exceptions.

If there is snow, God gave you a bonus Sabbath or two—take the time off, read a book, sled, nap; it’s a gimmie day. Don’t drive, don’t move too quickly; don’t attempt anything that could be construed as chores.

In New York, snow isn’t a sign of anything but a season. God didn’t speak through snow. Life doesn’t slow down, schools don’t close; offices stay open and work keeps happening. My years up there taught me how to drive in snow but made me lose some of my love of the fluffy white stuff. The common things lose their wonder.

This winter has changed and brought a bit of that love back; this past weekend helped.

The snow started on Friday afternoon. There were threats of 8 to 12 inches and the whole area was buzzing with anticipation. Grocery stores were selling out of eggs, milk, bread and beer; liquor stores did business like it was the holidays. I left work at 3, jettisoned home to quickly pack and begin the trek to the Big Blue Barn, a converted barn that is now a beautiful apartment housing three brave friends.

It took me one hour to go 8 miles.

8.
Miles.
GAH.

I was joined at the barn by the usual suspects of Doug, Justin and Tara (who brought her 3-month old puppy, Rooney) and with barn residents Jenna, Betsy and Emily (and a few other characters who popped in and out) and we settled in for our own version of a winter wonderland in a landscape covered in 12” of snow.

We cooked huge meals of spaghetti, pizza and lasagna. We had bacon and eggs and cinnamon rolls and knockoff captain crunch; we ate way too many cookies and chips and dips and we drank leisurely.

We watched movies. Lots of movies. And TV.

We played games like Scattergories and Farkle. We made unreasonable consequences for losing.

We went sledding. A lot. We injured ourselves in the process. We laughed so hard we snorted. We chased the puppy through the house and through the snow and gushed over him when he’d pass out from exhaustion.

Saturday night was the full moon and when it would pop out from behind the clouds the sledding track would be lit as if a spotlight had been shone upon it.

As if God was enjoying the snow right along with us.

Johnson City Thinks I'm Pretty

The drive to Virginia is a familiar one. It's the same drive I did my four years in Syracuse, the same as my one year in Rochester, and now the same as my three years in Asheville. It's seven hours. It's a roundabout number. I'm throughly used to the seven hour drives alone down I-81. I've been doing them for ten years.

And so this drive was to be no different. I got out of work an hour late, got on the road a half-hour after I would've liked but on the road I got. I only had about a quarter tank but I didn't fill up, eagerly waiting the cheaper gas across the border in Tennessee or Virginia. I was being thrifty.
45 minutes in: there's a black bear. Standing on the side of the interstate. Just watching traffic. Like ya do. Duly noted.

Just north of Johnson City, TN I realize I have to stop for gas. I had wanted to make it all the way to Bristol in VA but this will work. I take the exit for Tri-cities airport and stop at the BP there. First gas pump takes over five minutes to pump about a gallon. This isn't going to work. I painfully wait through $10 of gas ($2.46 gal for mid) then pull around to another pump to try my hand there. Same speed. Apparently this is the gas station from interstate hell. I was just driving at nearly 80mph; I want my gas at that speed too, you bastard. I end it at $12. I can't stand to wait any longer, this just took a half hour. I start my car. It doesn't sound like my car. It sounds ill. My car isn't ill. I stutter across the parking lot to the McDonalds there, so I can use a restroom that isn't attached to a gas station. I come back out, start my car and realize things had gone downhill. I realize this when my car keeps stalling. Or acting like its stalling. Even when I'm revving it like I want to race.

Curse word.
Double triple curse word.
Apologize to God.
Beg his forgiveness.
Promise him my first-born if car is magically healed.
Try car again.
Still coughing like it has auto emphysema
Well too bad, God cuz I didn't plan on kids anyway so HA!

I pop the hood and stare. Go to trunk, pull out tools and Haynes manual. Dismantle air filter, check it. Looks a-ok. Check connections on spark plugs. Check idle. You get the idea. I'm stuck in the parking lot of a McDonalds in 88 degree Tennessee. I'm in jeans. I hate everyone. Nice guy stops by with a slight beer belly, a trim strawberry blond beard and a receding hairline. He's the kind of guy one knows works construction before he confirms it. He offers whatever he can. We agree it's probably my fuel injectors. He works in town but doesn't live here and starts calling his buddies to find a good auto parts place. This is also when he starts telling his buddies he's met “some cute lady who's got her own tools. And a Haynes manual. I'd ask her out if she twern't headin' for a weddin' up in Virginia. Hold on. (turns to me) How ol are ya?” Then drops the phone and asks if I wanna go to the lake with him and forget my car for a while. Oh lord. I am in two different colored wife-beater tanks, my hair looks like it has been subjected to windows down driving for over an hour (it has) and I'm rapidly collected Johnson City crud between my toes. If this is what it takes to look cute around here, I am gonna win. I politely decline and reluctantly the nice bearded guy leaves to meet up with his friends. I head to the gas station (who sold me the stupid gas in the first place) and ask them if they know of any auto parts stores or mechanics.

Guy behind counter: I dunno. I don't live here. I lives in Kingsport.
Me: But you work here. And you haven't seen anything?
Guy behind counter: Nope.
Me: (to woman standing there): Do you know anything?
Stringy haired chain smoker: Naw. I lives in Johnson City.
Me: Well then where am I? What town is this?
Guy behind counter: Beats me.
Me: But you WORK HERE.
Guy behind counter: Well YEAH.
Me: And you don't know what town this is.
Guy behind counter: They don't pay me to know that stuff.
Me: Do you have a phone book?
Guy behind counter: I thinks so.

I borrow phone book, use it and the GPS function on my phone to figure out I'm in Grey, Tennessee. Because homeboy behind counter isn't paid enough to know the name of the town in which he works. Well done; he's gonna go far it life. I then use the phone book to call and plead with two mechanics to help me, who both tell me that it's too close to closing and that they're booked up for the rest of the week. Drat. I call a third. His name is Ed. I crank up the southern accent. I dial into my inner helpless woman. I throw hints about loving Jesus and being from out of town. Ed sighs. I tell him my problem. Ed understands. Ed gives me advice. He says its probably bad gas, I should get some specific fuel injector cleaners and try that out. And just in case, he'll have calls forwarded to his cell phone if I'm still stuck. I decide that first born no longer goes to God, creator of the Universe, but to Ed, polite auto mechanic.

I again use phone book to find auto parts store. I enter it into my GPS, who tells me in a polite voice that the closest store like that is .7 miles away, down the four-lane divided road that is Bobby Hicks Highway and so there I go. Along my walk two other guys stop to ask if I need a ride, or they can be of service. This would be a nice gesture if I hadn't just watched “Monster” and if they had been looking me in the eyes. And if my serious case of back sweat hadn't been so uncomfortable. I again decline the offer of a ride and keep on my trek to Advance Auto. I make it, I find what I'm looking for, I ask the guys there what they think and they say I'm probably spot on. Walk the .7 miles back along the highway that has no sidewalks, dump one in my gas tank, sputter around the parking lot a bit then say to hell with it and get back on the interstate.
I immediately feel that I have to pee.
But I won't stop.
Not for another four hours.
I'm going now, dammit I won't get delayed again.
So a seven hour drive turns into nine hours with the addition of $22 in dreadfully slow (bad) gasoline, 3 sketchy ride offers, a 1.4 mile walk along a highway named after someone who probably drove moonshine, $8 in fuel injector cleaner and one free phone book.

And no more bears.

Damn You, Tonya!

This is Dave.
Dave has been a friend of mine for almost 8 years. We met at the camp I worked for in Virginia where we all lived in tents and crazy things happened regularly. Dave came as a companion to my friend Shelby (now his wife) and he brought along an exuberance that is unmatched, a zest for fun that is both light and deep. We have had many adventures in these years (one of my favorite involves a situation attempting to explore a new cave). He is a dear, dear friend. Like a big brother only with less fights. When three of us came down with giardia, Dave was the one who volunteered to drive the deathly ill people 30 minutes to the hospital in a 1989 maroon Caravan. He and I have run many programs together, having so much fun in the process our kids would tell us to calm down. Our interpretive dance to Peter Gabriel’s “Solsbury Hill” is still one of the funniest moments of performance I’ve ever been apart of. He is another in a long line of people who blew into my life and have taken root. I am blessed by these roots.

Dave has cancer.

I got an email from him a few weeks ago, detailing the discovery of Tonya the Tumor, a softball size germ cell tumor that is sitting in this chest, overlapping his lungs and close to his heart. Of all the cancers to get at 29 it is one of the most treatable and he is in chemotherapy, with hopes that he’ll be done with it before summer starts. He called me this past weekend to see if I had any questions about his cancer, to make sure I wasn’t worrying too much and to see how I was doing. We talked for about 30 minutes and I got to ask the questions I wanted to ask, let him know how much I loved his friendship, and make him laugh as much as I could. As long as I’ve known Dave he has had the gift of good attitude. No matter the situation, no matter the resources at hand, no matter how glum it looks, Dave has a good attitude that is full of realism and yet abounding joy.

I can’t believe I get to have people like him in my life.

Not because he is sick, but because he is Dave.

(this is Dave with his twin brother, Dan. Dave is the one in the sombrero. Both are equally awesome.)
Dave's CaringBridge Site.

Fancy Free

It seems like every time I speak to my mother some new revelation pops up. Last week I was catching her up on trips, etc when she asked me quizzically and in all sincerity, "What exactly do you DO with your time?"
I realized that my mom doesn't really know anyone my age who isn't/wasn't married and/or has children.
At my age she had three children.
Me? I have Cranium tear-away calendar.
Just a somewhat hilarious revelation.
How does she relate to me? I worry about money and where I should go get dinner and what I'm doing with my life just like most people but that marriage/children thing is quite the chasm.
I told her, "Well, I go out to dinner a lot, hang out with friends a lot, go on spontaneous adventures fairly often, sleep in as late as I want on my weekends, I'm terrible at cooking full meals for one person, I read, I waste time online, I'm not good at getting back to my leftovers...that's about it."
And she told me I was footloose and fancy-free.
Trust me, nothing fancy I own was free. That shit expensive.


Photo of the week: Mike and Natalie and Mike's new smartcar. He's been drooling over one for almost two years and finally got off the waiting list and got his own! He's about 6'2" and says it's roomy. Natalie is my dear mentor and friend and all good things. This photo made my day.

We are Young and Happy...

One story from Paris...
We didn't reserve a place to stay until we got there. I had looked at a few places (shout out, Rick Steves' Paris 2008) but we hadn't really considered where to sleep. After I met Hatcher at the train station, we sat outside eating bread with Swiss apricot jam and goat cheese while we tried to figure out what to do and where to sleep in a city where we didn't speak the language and we didn't know. No problem. We found a hostel in the Latin Quarter, called and got a reservation in a 4-bed room for that night. Where? The Young and Happy Hostel. We liked the name. That was a selling point for us.
It was on the other side of Paris, but once we got our rolling suitcases down all those steps and onto the packed Metro we were just happy to be together on an adventure. We got to our metro stop and then had no idea where we were and walked about 20 minutes out of the way to get there. Eh well. It was our version of "The Amazing Race".
Conclusion: Young and Happy? Well, here is the stairwell up to our third story room:

Three stories, about three feet wide and two American girls laughing so hard we had to stop periodically to catch our breath. What!? Why did I bring a rolling suitcase? Oh that's right, London. Gahh! But we were still young and still happy and very bruised and battered.

Why am I holding a rose, you ask? Good question. We stashed our stuff at the hostel and headed to the Eiffel Tower to see it all lit up and a-purdy and while we were walking along a darkened path a French Police Officer holding a semi-automatic weapon popped out of the dark and said loudly "Pardon Mademoiselles!" My first reaction was to throw my hands up in the air. Maybe I'm a paranoid American, but man with gun shouting at me means I surrender. Weird I know. Anyway, he walked up and handed us roses, smiled and walked away. We hid behind a bush to see if he'd give them to every passerby but no, it was just us.
Must have been because we were so young and happy.
Other notes about Young and Happy: first night we shared a room with Amit, an Israeli book editor, and Steven, a college student from Ohio. Good times. Second night we were moved to a larger room that we shared with Rosalita and Paco, two Spaniards living in the UK who were on holiday and a bunch of other people we didn't meet.
Also: Young and Happy: bonus points for really, really cheap beer.
The end.

The Tuesday Void

“From her roost the water hen stretched out
Her purple-green neck
The kingfisher's quick glance
Shook water droplets from his crown
And I thought love would always be
That brilliant on the wing and wild.”
Ibykos, 6^th Century BC

Hey look it's a Thursday and I'm writing about a recent camping trip. La De Da. Jonathan and I went back to Black Balsam, the place where we first camped almost two months ago. It was late as we drove up and the headlights cut noncommittal swaths through the fog that laid heavy in every fold and crease; the tall spruces sharply protesting against the sea. Along the side of the parkway multiple pickup trucks with cages were parked and Jonathan said, almost to himself, “Must be bear season.” The hunters were out training their hounds to track in the Tuesday void.

Black Balsam was as beautiful and chilly as I remembered and the waxing moon held its groggy eye just above the treeline. The fog brainwashed the stars into submission. I stepped out of the van into a silence punctuated only by hounds. The howls were distant but hauntingly present; I thought of The Hound of the Baskervilles and I shuttered. Natural and yet foreign to the place.
The next day we drove to the southern terminus of the Parkway and did a short (yet vertical) hike up to an overlook. About half-way up the trail we stopped to catch breath and bearings and the flora was humming. Literally humming. Every single bush and shrub and tree was full of bees, beetles and insects pretending to be either and somehow all were singing to the same chorus. It was as if the sound came out of the earth; like rocks were humming along and we had stumbled into their sing-a-long. Remarkable.

On the way down the trail we picked over the last wild blueberries of the season and I found myself humming.

Photo Proof, part II

Horseshoe Falls as seen from the Maid of the Mist, a touristy trip that lived up to its hype. We did it based on suggestions from both Leslie and Liz and it truly did not disappoint. Absolutely soaked and laughing the whole time. Below that are two photos of the Westy/Vanagon campers that surrounded us in Peterborough. It was an eclectic group of people and vans.

Photo Proof, part I

At last, some photos from the trip...I'll post a few at a time. Mind you it was just the two of us for most of the adventure, so most of my photos are of our surroundings and not posed shots.
Our first morning in the New River Gorge of West Virginia and I basked in the sunlight while Jonathan made coffee. I wanted to show off the interior of the Westy as well.

The sunset as seen through the side mirror. We were driving on I-90 in PA with Lake Erie just on our left, vineyards on our right and the sunset behind us.

Lake Ontario close to where we camped on Thursday night. The Great Lakes are worth a trip.

And what I saw when I turned left for, oh, 28 hours...Jonathan driving. This was sitting in traffic waiting to get through customs.

Back, eh?

I'm BACK!
Great fun, great great fun. Happy to be home, but loved my Canadian adventure with Jonathan.
I don't have time to post a full blog about it, but I did make this google map to show our route and explain a bit of our trip! I took photos and I'll post them as soon as I can!

View Larger Map

C-Eh?

So...
Going to Canada today.
Jonathan is an adventurer and I'm feeling spontaneous and so with right around 10 days notice I was able to finagle my way out of some work and go on this trip with him. We will be gone for about a week which is mostly going to be time spent in the Westy but there is a lot to stop and see and it'll be good time together. Niagara Falls, maybe the 1,000 Islands on the way back, who knows. I love even the idea of getting out of my comfort zone and doing something that may sound silly or fruitless. Why not? It's life. What else am I doing? And then there is the chance to listen to some audio books. I am legitimately excited about audio books. Did you hear the Harry Potter series on CD? It is straight kiss ass.
So we leave after work today, Katie Baker was kind enough to lend me her camera so no more cell photos, I'll take some real ones. Bon Voyage and I'll post when I return!

What the Broke Should Do

Is make a list of trips I'd love to take but currently can't afford. Clearly.

Trips I'd Like to Take Sometime in my Life:

• Paddle Boundary Waters

• Sail the coast of Maine

• Watch Sunrise at Acadia National Park

• Train around Europe

• Camel Ride in Egypt

• Rickshaw in Thailand

• Hike through Banff National Park

• Gondola in Venice

• Eat beignets at Cafe Du Monde in Jackson Square again

• Cattle drive in Montana

• Grand Canyon on a donkey