WAVE THERAPY

Tim and I went to the shore last weekend.

What a weird thing for this Midwestern girl to say.

Lakes have consistently comprised the extent of my “shores.”  Growing up, the lake was Union Grove.  Actually, it was less of a lake and more of a giant mud puddle – the result of eroding black Iowa topsoil.  When I was in college, I must have passed all 10,000 lakes in Minnesota on my way to a summer job near Bemidji.  And during my years in St. Louis, when you said you were going to “the” lake, it meant only one thing – Lake of the Ozarks.  Plopped in the middle of Missouri, Lake of the Ozarks was situated equal-distance between St. Louis and Kansas City – a perfect playground for suburban boaters.

I’ve spent the majority of my life land-locked.  Lake shores were my norm.  Not ocean shores.  Having access to the ocean is a miracle of sorts.

I remember my first glimpse of an ocean, during a high school Spanish Club trip to Mexico; I was 17.  The bus rounded the peaks that surround Acapulco and there it was – the Pacific Ocean.  The blue expanse seemed to stretch forever – a vast turbulent mass.

Since that long ago trip, I have seen many oceans from many different shores, but the magnificence never ceases to amaze and enthrall me.

Tim on Mustang Island (He always looks a bit like Bill Murray
from "Caddyshack" in that hat!)

The shore at Corpus Christi is just over two hours by car from San Antonio.  The drive between encompasses acres and acres of nothingness – barren, dry and brittle.  The occasional steer and the fact that all this emptiness is fenced is the only indication of life.  The Gulf of Mexico is welcome relief.

For our first trip to this shore, Tim and I opted for a visit to Mustang Island State Park, foregoing the more commercial areas.  The park was pristine, quiet, unspoiled.  We picnicked on the beach, read from our lawn chairs, and walked and walked.  The water was too cold to get in, but there were a few hardy souls in the brink.  (Goosebumps tickle along my spine whenever I think of it!) 

Primarily, however, I just stared at the surf and marveled at its wonder - one white ruffle after another working its way to shore in an endless rhythm; a pelican dipping its enormous beak into an oncoming wave and emerging with lunch; shorebirds trotting along the sand, searching for treats that the sea has left behind; the vast blue swaths of sea and sky, like a Mark Rothko painting. 

Another shore - 2006 - Molly and John at the North Sea
(Noordwijkse, The Netherlands)

The combination of sea and sand was balm to my weary soul.  All the lakes of my land-locked past were forgotten in deference to the miracle of the next wave.

Packing up our belongings at the end of the day was bittersweet, but one more gulp of that salty air and I knew we’d be back.

"WILD" SAN ANTONIO

When I announced our move to Texas, the reactions were mixed.  The most unexpected, however, was the fear of Texas wildlife.  Noel was scared of scorpions and Becky wasn’t crazy about armadillos.  It hadn’t occurred to me that this alien environment would have “alien” critters.

The first scorpion skittering across our bedroom floor made my heart stop.  I was reading in bed; Tim was snoring.  What to do?  No weapons came to mind.  The book in hand didn’t seem weighty enough to stop the full-sized arachnid.  My arms flapped at Tim.  Flustered, he awoke and reached for a shoe.  A smack, a flush, and the scorpion was gone.

Only after the spider’s appearance did I learn that San Antonio’s mild winter and dry summer had resulted in larger than normal scorpion populations.  Oh goody!  (Sarcasm should be inferred in this last sentence.)

The scorpion’s appearance raised the obvious next question:  What happens if I get stung by one?  (FYI:  They don’t bite.  They don’t have teeth. That ominous-looking tail stings.)  The Texas Poison Center Network suggests that adults treat their stings by washing the stinging area well, applying a cold compress, and then swabbing the area with antiseptic.  Take acetaminophen for pain.  That question answered.

Moving involves a lot of questions.  Where’s the closest grocery store? post office? bank?  How do I find a good dentist? hair stylist? mechanic?  I was prepared for these queries, but not for dealing with wildlife.

Another critter has appeared in our neighborhood too – mountain lions.  In suburban St. Louis, we wrestled with raccoons, opossums, and the occasional wild turkey.  But mountain lions?  Really?  The neighborhood website recommends keeping an eye on children and small animals.  I guess because a mountain lion might consider them “lunch?”  Neighbors actually filmed a mountain lion sunning on their deck.  Geez.

What do I do if I come face to face with a mountain lion?  More research. 

Since mountain lions like to snack on smaller animals, the experts recommend no crouching or squatting.  People should work to appear as large as possible, standing on tip-toe and spreading arms wide.  Exaggerated size may discourage the mountain lion. 

While I’m more a “get-me-the-hell-away-from-this-thing” girl, wildlife agencies insist that people not run from mountain lions, as that movement can trigger an instinct in the lion to chase perceived prey.  Since this is an animal that can run down a deer or elk, I don’t stand much chance at outrunning the big cat.  So I’m supposed to face the cat and try to appear larger than I am?  I hope I don’t have to put that strategy to the test; fainting seems much more likely.

What other wildlife research do I need?  Tim saw a roadrunner recently.  No sign of Wil E. Coyote though.  Regardless, I don’t expect my research is going to produce any remedies for being hit in the head with an anvil or grand piano.

SEEING SILVER

Twenty-five years ago, Tim and I hosted quite a party.

We were married on November 5, 1988.

It was a weekend to remember.  Mom and I cooked a rehearsal dinner for 75 people.  Family and friends – anyone who made the trip to St. Louis - were invited and gathered in our old, three-story house on Utah Place.  The ceremony was Saturday afternoon at St. Pius V and the reception Saturday night at the White House.

Memories run rampant, but it’s the oddest things that are most clear.

At the rehearsal dinner, by the time Tim and I trudged up three flights of stairs, said “hello” to everyone, and returned to the first floor kitchen, there was no food left.

At the ceremony, I remember homeless people finding shelter in the back row of the sanctuary and Tim’s family donning wax lips as we turned to face the congregation, so that we burst out laughing.

I remember driving to the reception in Tim’s little blue Jetta as snow fell, then a typical St. Louis buffet (fried chicken and mostacolli,) and Aunt Julie trying to pin up my skirt so I could dance.  Tim loves to tell the tale of our “dollar dance” when his friend Denny asked:  If a dollar got him a dance, what did $5 get him?  I told him “change.”

There are dozens of little stories like that, but what means the most to me after all these years are all the people who made the trip to St. Louis – from Iowa and Colorado and Wisconsin, Chicago and Nashville and Spokane.  They took over the Red Roof Inn on Hampton and the Holiday Inn in Clayton.  They filled the hallways and called to each other from balconies.  And they all came to wish us well.

Tim and I have done well, been well, are well.  I wish all those people were around for another party, so we could assure them that their trip to St. Louis in 1988 was worth it.  But the party would be far smaller this time round; we’ve lost so many.

Tim’s mom, aunt, uncle and cousin Ida were all at the wedding.  All gone now. 

All four of my grandparents saw me get married.  Today, there’s only Gram.

Many great-aunts and uncles made the trip.  But now so many gone.

This move to San Antonio came at a particularly opportune time, just in time for this anniversary.  I’ve recently touched and put away all of our belongings…including wedding gifts.  It afforded me time to remember and appreciate – the saucepan from Auntie Helen, the stepstool from my Great-Aunt Eunice, the bowls from my Great-Aunt Florence.  The dining room furniture made it to San Antonio; it was a gift from Tim’s mom.

These things and these people set the stage for quite a production – the dramedy of jobs and children and building a relationship to last.

I wish all those dear souls could see us, embarking on our next great adventure, in San Antonio.  And yet, somehow, I know they are; they are watching and smiling and toasting us once again.