FLYING ALPHABET SOUP

SAT – MDW – DSM – STL - PSP – MSY – DFW – CID – LAS - ORD

The acronyms are endless.

With the move to Texas, I’ve come to know the code well.  For the uninitiated, they are airport abbreviations.

When so many people you care about live so far away, flights become a fact of life.  And, out of necessity, I’ve become quite the expert on fares, routes, timetables.

This new hobby is ironic in the extreme, as the airlines and I have never been best friends.  Our love/hate relationship started with my first flight.  I was 19 years old.  I flew to Newark; my bags to Ft. Lauderdale.  And so it began….

The airlines have even held me hostage upon occasion.  The most extreme example was the flight home following my family’s five-month stint in Poland.  The jet taxied away from Heathrow terminal and held us captive on the tarmac.  After six hours, they finally decided the plane wasn’t going anywhere and returned us to the terminal.

Despite my rocky air travel history, planes have become a necessary evil with the move to south Texas.  Texas is enormous.  The drive to anywhere is long.  San Antonio to Des Moines is a 16 hour drive.  To St. Louis – 15 hours.  To Chicago – 19 hours.  This is why I fly.

The only redeeming feature of so many flights is the airports.  For those, like me, who participate in the sport of people-watching, there’s no place like it.  I come by my affinity naturally; my mother is the champ.  She can miss an entire conversation when engaged in people-watching.   Airports, filled with people, are undoubtedly one of the best venues - the saris and turbans, the cowboy hats and bedroom slippers, the serapes and muumuus. 

The dad running for the gate with a child under each arm.  The Amish couple stumbling, dazed.  The over-lipsticked woman pushing her Chihuahua in its stroller.  The man reading the Des Moines Register that looks so much like my Grandpa Schulz I want to cry.  The new Air Force recruits trying not to act as nervous as they feel. 

The incessant rush to the next gate, to get in the next line, to scramble down the next gangway, and tumble into the next seat.  Whew.

I am a great fan of visiting new places, but not a great fan of getting to new places.  As long as I live in San Antonio, however, the airlines, the airports, and I will continue to tango, and I will continue to muddle through the IATA alphabet soup.  I just returned from PSP and AUS; this spring I'll get to DSM and BUD.

HOW DO YOU MEASURE A YEAR?

525,600 minutes

525,000 moments, so dear

525,600 minutes

How do you measure, measure a year?

Jonathan Larson measures a year…in daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife…how do you measure a year in the life?

A year in San Antonio is measured in sunshine, flip flops, in guacamole and dust.  In Mapquest, fish tacos, texts, and airline tickets.  (Lots and lots of airline tickets.)

In calibrating chlorine and deveining shrimp.

In mourning losses and celebrating newness.

525,600 minutes.  And just as many new faces.

It was a year of tearful farewells, but far more tenuous hellos.  New faces and names.  Dozens and dozens of introductions.  My mind reels.  I’ve always prided myself in being good with names and faces (not as good as my brother, but good.)  I was mistaken.  So many faces and names and places.  It’s a matching game and I don’t think I’m winning.

The last time I was the new kid in town, I was coming to the St. Louis area as a graduate student.  Fellow students made instant connections.  With time, my circle grew – theatre friends, work friends, church friends; fellow parents and neighbors.  My world was rich with faces.

My world in San Antonio is still rich with faces, but suddenly most are unfamiliar.  It’s hard being the new kid in town.  How do you find your people?

Before leaving St. Louis, while standing in the middle of the grocery store aisle, a friend asked how I was going to meet people when I didn’t have kids in school.  No PTOs or Mother’s Clubs.  No play groups or extra-curricular practices.  Her question surprised me.  I hadn’t considered that perspective.  I made friends before I had children, surely I could do it again.  And I’m doing it…but it hasn’t been easy.

Tim and I are still trying to find a church family.  Our neighbors are rarely seen.  We’ve made a few connections amongst Tim’s colleagues, but how else?

An unexpected invitation led me to the Newcomers of San Antonio organization.  It has been an incredible gift.  The organization is comprised of men and women, like Tim and I, who have been transplanted.  They too are floundering, finding their way in a new city.  Through the organization, we have been to parties, lunches, and coffees.

We fumble through introductions and small talk, trying to find common ground….and we are.  The connections are often tenuous, but the kindness and the smiles are real.  We are finding common denominators, like empty-nesting and Midwestern roots.  These people, like Tim and I, are trying to make connections, trying to fill the void created by people left behind.

It's time now to sing out, though the story never ends.  Let's celebrate, remember a year in the life of friends. 

Friends – old and new.  Keeping in touch with the old, cultivating the new.  It is this amazing kaleidoscope of faces that enriches our lives and makes every year extraordinary.

AQUIFER? WHAT'S AN AQUIFER?

A pit-a-pat upon the shingles.  A gray haze seeping around the edges of the curtains.  A whispered scent of dampness.  Uncommon stillness.

Rainy mornings.  I miss them.  I miss snuggling deeper under the blankets and allowing the thunder of drops to lull me back to sleep for another minute or another hour.  I miss the refreshing coolness that comes in its wake.  I miss the smell of nature washed clean.

Unlike rain in the Midwest, rain showers in San Antonio are sparse, but when they come, they come in torrents.  They pummel the sun-baked earth for a minute or two and disappear.  The ground barely responds to the slaughter, unable to soak in the sudden onslaught, and so, the rain runs away, into the streets, pooling in spots of least resistance.  There are few storm sewers.  There’s so little rain, it’s not worth the infrastructure investment.  After a particularly strong storm, the water will stand in the streets, until it evaporates or finds a way to escape.  The standing water is dangerous to cars and people.  Residents tend to wait for the water to subside, rather than fight it.

Water is a precious commodity in south Texas.  Faucets and toilets have, by law, low-flow valves to lessen waste.  Water bills are high.  Local ordinances restrict water usage.  We are allowed to sprinkle our lawn once a week, either in the early morning or late at night.  Our day is assigned by the San Antonio Water System (SAWS).

The only exception to the rule is new sod.  When our home’s builder put in the lawn, we were allowed three weeks of daily watering to establish the lawn.  As we didn’t know exactly which day our lawn went in, I counted the three weeks from our move-in date.  SAWS didn’t like that.  The water “police,” in white uniform, showed up at our door, informing us that we could no longer water daily.  How did they know??  What sort of monitoring does this Big Brother organization have in place?  Our water bill for that one month was almost $300.

The weekly watering allowance can be taken away, depending on the aquifer level. 

Aquifer.  I had no idea what that was when I moved to San Antonio.  People bandied the word about as normal and routine.  I nodded pathetically without understanding, until I did my own research.  An aquifer is an underground geologic formation that can store and transfer groundwater.  San Antonio sits on the Edwards Aquifer, which is a karst aquifer.  It is made of porous and permeable rock that has been dissolved over time and stores water in fractures, conduits, and cavities. 

Instead of some muddy river or freshwater spring, San Antonio gets its water from this underground table.  The level is constantly tracked and SAWS imposes rules about usage based on the level.

The rules are necessary, I guess, when rain is rare.  Rain capitulates to days and days of brilliant sunshine.  When I first moved to San Antonio, a former Air Force officer told me that the city averages 350 days of sunshine per year.  That’s why there are three Air Force bases in and around San Antonio; pilots can fly nearly every day of the year.

I’ve been forced into a trade-off – curling up with the latest bestseller on a dark, rain-streaked afternoon or by the pool with margarita in hand.  Hmmmm.  It’s a swap worth making.

(As I was writing this, Mother Nature decided to thumb her nose at me and let loose with an uncharacteristic downpour in the middle of the afternoon.  Just when I thought no one was paying any attention…)

BREAD CO

St. Louis Bread Company opened its first location in 1987 in Kirkwood, Missouri (a St. Louis suburb and my former hometown.)  Word spread about this yummy little café/bakery.  Its popularity swelled, as did the number of locations.  National companies began to take notice and in 1993, Au Bon Pain Co. purchased St. Louis Bread Company and took the concept national.  With the expansion, the bakery/café’s name was changed to Panera.

In its headquarters city of St. Louis, Panera Bread still operates under the name St. Louis Bread Company. The St. Louis metropolitan area has over 101 locations.

The San Antonio area has six.

Six?  Really?

Bread Co (as it is lovingly called by St. Louisans) is a social hub.  It is where friends meet for coffee or lunch.  It is where your volunteer organization congregates over smoothies to organize the next event.  It’s the go-to place for breakfast or if your group needs a catered lunch.

At noon, the parking lot at Bread Co is jammed; the lines are long; the tables are full.

Regulars battle the crowd, approaching the cashier with confidence, their My Panera card in hand, hoping that their frequent visits will entitle them to a free soda or pastry.  They order confidently, the menu already committed to memory.  They slide on to chairs still warm from the last patron’s backside.

It’s different in San Antonio.  Bread Co, or Panera has it’s called in the rest of the country, is relatively unknown.  I can walk into my local Panera at noon and find tables available.  There is rarely a line to order.  When there is, however, even if it’s one person, it takes a long time.  The locals aren’t familiar with the menu.   The whole “pick-2” option is alien.  They have a dozen questions.  The cashier explains slowly, as if trying to remember himself.  I could explain more clearly and confidently (and have been tempted!)

When I step to the cashier and whip out My Panera card, the cashier looks at it for a moment, unsure.  When he finally slides it through the computer’s scanner, I ask if I have any rewards available.  He doesn’t know; his machine won’t tell him.  What?  When I order my favorite Fuji Apple Chicken Salad, they don’t put chicken on it.  Double what??

Don’t misunderstand, I’m delighted to still have access to Bread Co.  The food is as good as always (especially when they remember the chicken).  But I miss seeing the familiar faces that could generally be found in a booth or two and I miss the confidence behind the cash register (The noon team in Sunset Hills was incredible.)  I refuse to give up on my local Bread Co, but they could benefit from a field trip to St. Louis.

IN BLOOM

Texas Bluebonnets

Texas loves its wildflowers.  And what’s not to love?  Ditches full of Bluebonnet, Indian Paintbrush, Black-Eyed Susan, Lenten Rose, and Cornflower – a kaleidoscope of periwinkle, scarlet, pink, and gold.  The affect is stunning.  Of course, the Midwest has its share of wildflowers too.  Queen Anne’s lace creates snowy clouds, not long after the snow melts.  The Midwest doesn’t embrace its wildflowers like Texas does though.  Perhaps it’s Lady Bird Johnson’s legacy.  She put Texas wildflowers on White House china and suddenly, the world was enthralled.

Tim and I took a road trip recently to Fredericksburg, Texas.  The glory of spring filled the ditches – bright blossoms enjoying their moment before burnt by the summer sun.  Although Fredericksburg is a lovely old Texas town, we didn’t bother with the shops or German bakeries, we headed east to Wildseed Farm. It’s an amazing place.  Two hundred acres of wildflowers are cultivated and the seeds harvested.  Fields of bluebonnets and poppies were in bloom when we were there, as well as a meadow of mixed varieties.

Bluebonnets and Poppies

The visual display couldn’t help but remind me of the Keukenhof Gardens in the Netherlands.  The gardens, located southeast of Amsterdam, near the North Sea coast, are surrounded by tulip fields in every shade of red, yellow and purple.  The gardens themselves are an opportunity for the talented local growers to show-off during blooming season.  The visual displays are extraordinary.  For centuries, Keukenhof was part of the estate of the Teylingen Castle.  In 1949, however, the Mayor of Lisse encouraged local flower bulb growers to create an exhibition, and the rest, as they say, is history.  The annual event attracts hundreds of thousands of visitors each spring.  

Fields near Keukenhof Garden, the Netherlands

My family and I spent Spring Break 2006 in the Netherlands.  (We were living in Poland at the time and the Netherlands was a bit closer than Panama Beach.)  We visited Keukenhof and were awestruck.  Whenever someone asks me what they should see when visiting Europe and, if they’re going in the spring, Keukenhof is always on the list.

These incredible displays remind me that I am not much of a gardener.  My mother is, always has been.  She instilled in me an appreciation, but definitely none of the skill.  I actually attended a class at the San Antonio Botanical Garden recently.  The class was especially for newcomers to San Antonio – what grows here and how.  The drought-tolerant species, which were the focus of the class, bear little resemblance to what grows in the Midwest.

Molly, John and I at Keukenhof, 2006

When I pointed out some of the wildflowers I recognized from our visit to Wildseed Farm to the instructor, she asked if I liked them.  When I said “yes,” she replied, “Great.  If you plant them, they’ll spread well.”  And if I don’t like them?  “They’re invasive.”  Perspective.

Texas sunshine is bringing heat and signaling summer’s arrival.  Many wildflowers won’t tolerate the temps.  I’ll have to wait another year for ditches full of rainbows.  Since I can’t manage a trip to the Netherlands every spring, Texas roadsides substitute nicely.

KEEPING IN TOUCH

I like Facebook.  I admit it.  But before I lose the naysayers and doubters, please spare me a minute to explain.

Facebook is a means of keeping in touch, a social media tool.  And like any tool, it can be misused and abused.  I’ve heard the stories, read about the scandals.  Any tool can be threatening in the wrong hands, even a screwdriver.

Facebook can be an extraordinary tool.  It’s no wonder businesses have gotten on the social media band wagon.  They can have immediate access to their constituency.  They don’t have to wait for sales circulars to make their way through the postal system.  They can let the interested know about their White Sale instantly.

Personally, I don’t “like” many businesses on Facebook.  I don’t want to be inundated with news of the latest item on their shelves.  Instead, I want to connect with people – friends and family.

It’s incredible.  I am in contact with people I haven’t seen in years.  People I never thought I would see or hear from again.  People who touched my life at various moments and various ages and then disappeared.  They are suddenly back in my life.  We have reconnected.  Let’s face it; letter writing is a lost art.  I wouldn’t get a note or phone call from them. But they’re there.  On Facebook.  Photos of their kids and their dogs.  Snippets of their lives.

I am in contact with people from Kindergarten, high school, and  graduate school.  There are people from my work life - from teaching at Nora Springs to the research office at SIUE, the Kirkwood Area Chamber of Commerce and the Walker-Scottish Rite Clinic.  There are friends that I made through my children and husband, through choir, through the theatre.

Facebook creates a connection I wouldn’t have otherwise.  I am not good about picking up the telephone.  My family isn’t either.  Except my mother.  She is the great exception to the rule.  The phone rings at her house constantly.  She is the hub of all information; she is the center of the grapevine.  It used to be that I only knew as much as mother knew or mother remembered to tell me (Remembered is the operative word, as I can’t count the number of times my mother said to me, “Didn’t I tell you that?”).  Not any longer.  Because of Facebook, I can even beat her to a scoop on occasion

Living so far from family, whether it’s 350 miles or 1,000 miles, I often felt “out of touch.”  No more.

I will admit that it’s possible to be exposed to too much information, but I’ve quickly learned what to scan, what to block, and what to ignore.

I recently celebrated a birthday.  I was showered with warm wishes – via Facebook.  It was incredible.  People who wouldn’t know when my birthday was, let alone send a card, took a few moments to wish me well.  My heart was warmed.  That is when Facebook really shines.  Besides wishes, Ana who was a foreign exchange student from El Salvador during my senior year of high school sent me a virtual cake  Steve, who I know from my theatre life B.C. (before children), sent me a virtual birthday squirrel.  And John, who I’ve known since our sons were in Kindergarten together, sent me videos of Elvis and a pig singing (not together) “Happy Birthday.”  Each of these people walked through my life at different times and different places, but continue to touch my days through Facebook.

When people say they don’t like Facebook or they don’t trust it, I have to shrug and smile.  I got to see photos of my cousin’s children this morning and catch up with friends in St. Louis via Facebook.  It made me smile and that’s all that really matters.

THE GREEN SIDE

My world has been invaded by the “dark side.”  Or perhaps the green side is more accurate.

I hadn’t anticipated the attack.  The invasion was thorough and violent.  Rebel forces were miles away.  Recovery was slow, barely holding symptoms at bay.

Death Star or Pollen.  They’re both brutal. 

Just as the Jedi generally had some idea that the Empire was due to attack, most springs I know hay fever is around the corner.  Not this year.  I mistakenly thought that a move to Texas meant I could forego allergy season.  I thought the dry weather and lack of many deciduous trees would mean a reprieve.  I was wrong.

Maybe I listened to our son John a bit too much.  He often teases us about moving to the desert and not remembering our names.  “…because in the desert you can’t remember your name, cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain,” he sings, smirking.  The sandy soil, the palm trees, the mesquite and cacti had him fooled.  They fooled me too.

I tried to convince John that San Antonio was a semi-arid plain and it is…sort of.  It’s on the cusp of semi-arid and subtropical, which must afford enough mix of rain and sunshine to lure pollen-producing plants. 

I tried to ignore pollen’s arrival – the pale green haze on cars and patio furniture, on carts at the grocery store and the gas grill.  When my sinuses were screaming in pain, I tried to convince myself it was a cold.  I would recover any day…any day….

Denial has given way to acceptance.  I’m religiously taking Zyrtec and buying Kleenex in bulk.

I was ready for change, whatever change Texas could throw at me.  A reprieve from allergies is one change I would have welcomed gladly and one I’ll have to live without.