MY GULLIVER SYNDROME

It happened again.

I flew into St. Louis recently and noticed it.

When I flew into Des Moines a couple of months ago, I noticed it.

I noticed, or was reminded, that – NEWS FLASH - I am tall.

In the Midwest, you may not notice.  I’m just another fair-haired, light-skinned, blue eyed, freckled farmer’s granddaughter - a product of my German heritage.  (When we were traveling through Europe, I was mistaken for a German more than once, even by Germans.)

But I am tall (for a woman) - 5’8.”  It’s not like this is new information.  I don’t think I’ve ever had to change my height on my driver’s license; I shot up to 5’8” during puberty and never deviated.  I inherited my long legs from my maternal grandmother, who even at 93 years of age doesn’t have to look upward to gaze into many faces.

My height has never really been an issue, except when trying to find slacks long enough or when dating.  My husband Tim was 4’11” when he graduated from high school.  He sprouted to 5’11” in college.  I’ve often told him that if he hadn’t grown, I wouldn’t have looked at him twice.  I had no interest in dating men shorter than I.  I’ll leave that to statuesque models that can pull it off with aplomb.  I figured I couldn’t so didn’t try.

In San Antonio, however, my height is an issue.  I tower over the majority of the residents - a bit like Gulliver amongst the Lilliputians.

With almost 1.5 million residents, San Antonio is the seventh largest city in the U.S. and the second largest city in Texas (behind Houston).  Of this total number, over 63% are Hispanic or Latino.

I am an Aryan product amid a population of predominantly black haired, dark-eyed, caramel- skinned…short people.  I feel uncomfortably tall amidst the diminutive stature of my neighbors.  Even the men who are building our subdivision, although incredibly muscular, probably average 5’5”.

My initial impressions of the people of this community are that they are kind, friendly, respectful, hard-working, family-oriented, and when speaking, transition from Spanish to English without blinking an eye.  But they are small in stature.  I am the oddball.  I tower above them, while trying to fit in.  In the Midwest, my height was barely noticeable; in San Antonio, amid these residents, I am constantly reminded.

Perhaps I’ll grow accustom to my head in the clouds.  It doesn’t seem to bother my neighbors and hopefully soon it won’t bother me; however, everything about San Antonio is still so new, I can’t help but notice…

Regardless, San Antonio still holds more potential for a happy ending than Lilliput.

MONSTER TRUCK RALLY

“MONSTER TRUCK RALLY!”   The words reverberate through the stadium.  You’ve seen the commercials - monster trucks mounting handily a line of small cars; their giant wheels pummeling average sedans.  I’m living in the midst of a Monster Truck Rally and regretfully I’m in one of the little cars that gets smashed at the bottom of the pile.  Vroom, vroom.

I have been driving since I was 14 years old.  Growing up in rural Iowa, a driver’s license was freedom, independence, and the only means of getting good pizza.  I was at the county courthouse on my 14^th birthday to get my driver’s permit and on my 16^th birthday to get my license.

Driving is second nature to me.  (Although I will admit that manual transmissions are the great exception to that statement.)

I’m accustom to big vehicles too.  Iowa farmers must have their pickup trucks and suburban St. Louis moms must have their SUVs.  But I’m having a hard time getting accustom to Texas’ enormous trucks.

The phrase, “everything’s bigger in Texas,” is especially true of the trucks.  They are not just big, they’re monsters and the Texas highways are full of them - dual wheels, extended cabs, giant beds. 

The cabs of these trucks must sit five feet in the air.  Our Toyota could easily slip beneath the chassis.  How does the driver get behind the wheel?  Is the extended bed meant to hold the ladder required to get into the vehicle? 

At a stoplight, I look to my side and stare directly into glistening chrome wheel wells.  King of the Cab looks down at me from his lofty perch.  He smirks and points at the mere mortal.  With a wave of his hand and a foot on the gas, I’d be smashed like a bug.  He knows it and smiles benevolently.  I pause a bit as the light turns green to let HRH go first.  It seems prudent and customary.  He is King of the Road and I am just a serf who would like to arrive home in one piece.

Recently, my husband Tim looked at an MG that was for sale by owner.

We owned an MG early in our married life, but quickly realized its impracticality.  It wasn’t great in hot summers or cold winters, which left little of the St. Louis year remaining.  Two people could barely fit in it comfortably and forget about luggage or babies.  We owned that car for nine months.  Tim remembers the car fondly and eyed excitedly the red MG sitting in the corner of a parking lot with a “For Sale” sign on its dashboard.

Tim and I in the MG (Sept. 1990)

MGs are cute, but small and low to the ground.  What was Tim thinking?!  The monster trucks would scoop it up and eat it for lunch!  The monster trucks would roll over it and not even notice!  We’d be left at the side of the road with the rest of the roadkill.

I sighed with relief when Tim discovered the car’s price was more than he wanted to spend.  I’ll leave the side of the road to the skunks and armadillos.

BYE-BYE BARNUM & BAILEY

The circus left town.  Without me.

Two years ago this month, my husband was offered a job in San Antonio, Texas.  The offer was too good to pass up.  During the ensuing months, I became star of the Big Top.  I juggled like my life depended on it…because it did. 

In December 2011, I moved my husband to Texas and set up his apartment. 

During the winter, I finished a kitchen remodel in St. Louis and laid 1,200 sq. feet of wood flooring.

I put our house on the market in March and sold it six weeks later.

That summer, I put all of the family’s belongings in storage and moved the children and I into a corporate apartment, as there were no rentals available in my son’s school district until August.

When August came, we retrieved some things from storage and moved into a Kirkwood School District apartment.  During a quick trip to San Antonio, Tim and I decided to have a house built.

Two return trips to Texas in the fall provided opportunity for me to make decorating decisions for the house. 

Throughout my son’s Senior year, we visited prospective colleges and kept up with the resulting paperwork.  (He visited ten schools.)

With the arrival of another spring (We’re up to May 2013, in case you’ve lost track.), I moved my daughter from Truman State University to Des Moines, Iowa for her internship.  My son graduated from Kirkwood High School and went to orientation at Drake University.  We collected our things from storage and the apartment, and moved them to San Antonio.

I kept all the balls in the air.  I kept moving.

from the U.N.I. years, when I first encountered juggling

Years ago, I was a theatre major at the University of Northern Iowa.  As a requirement for an acting class, I had to learn to juggle.  It wasn’t that the professor thought we would literally join the circus, but it was an exercise in concentration.  I never was very good at it.  (My lack of any type of athleticism was apparent.)  My most uninterrupted tosses were accomplished by facing a wall.  With only three feet between me and the wall, the balls had few escape routes.

The balls of the last two years never escaped, but a few certainly went astray.  Now, however, the last ball is put away.

What happens next?

Journalist Cokie Roberts once said:  “Women…often they’ve spent their early years juggling so many different activities that they were simply making it through the day.  But then they reach a point where they are able to integrate their life experiences.” 

I juggled so much in the last two years that I felt lucky to simply make it through each day.  What happens when the balls are put away though?  That’s what I’m trying to figure out.  What life experiences can I integrate into this new life, in this new place?  What happens when time (which there never seemed to be enough of) returns to its normal pace. 

In short, I’m breathing again – taking big gulps of air and exhaling with a well-deserved sigh.

I’m writing again.  (This blog is proof positive.)  I hope to return to the book that was in progress two years ago.

I’m meeting new people – through organizational means, as well as the former Chicagoans who happened to walk by our house with their dog.

I’m finding ways to volunteer.

I’m taking care of myself.

I’m finding time for me.

And I am exhaling.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, the balls are still flying.  One, two, three balls - no wall to rein them in - picking up speed.  A drop is imminent. 

My eyes squeeze shut.  I blink the threat away.  And breathe.

THE SOUND OF SILENCE

“Where has the quiet gone?”  I distinctly remember my husband Tim asking me that question, as he blinked at me through bloodshot eyes.  It was 21 years ago.  We were first-time parents, sleep-deprived and floundering.    To make matters worse, our newborn had a pair of lungs that an opera singer would be proud to own.  Her screams were infamous at her day care center.  Quiet had disappeared from our lives.

Well… it’s back.

In August, we packed up both children and deposited them at their respective universities.  The packing, organizing, and delivering were chaotic.  The good-byes were tearful.  The return trip was…quiet.

Tim and I stared at each other over that first supper table – confused, speechless.  I cooked the same amount as always; there were a lot of leftovers.  We tried playing a board game that we often played with the children; it wasn’t the same without our son John’s commentary.  The T.V. didn’t instantly go on after supper, accompanied by a long discussion of what we were going to watch that everyone would enjoy.  The silence was deafening.

Tim suggested we go out to eat the next day.  We had Chinese food.  We had Chinese food, without a discussion of what the children were going to eat because neither like Asian cuisines.  It was an “aha” moment. 

Options emerged, popping fast and furiously through our heads like popcorn’s last 20 seconds in the microwave.  I didn’t have to go to the grocery store every other day and buy milk and my grocery bill didn’t have to total at least $100.  Tim and I could eat more seafood, go to an adult movie, play two-handed cribbage.  The television didn’t have to be on in the evening; we could curl up and read.

the B.C. years

We find ourselves referring more and more to Tim and Terri, B.C. (before children) – things we liked to do, places we liked to go, restaurants we frequented.  We have to really dig through the memory banks (this November we’ll be married 25 years), but we’re doing it and enjoying it.

Don’t misunderstand, I miss my babies, but there are other things I have missed too.  Slowly and surely, Tim and I are getting reacquainted with those things.

Hello Silence, Welcome Back.

IN SEARCH OF...GREAT GUACAMOLE

My friend Becky perpetually bemoans the state of avocados in St. Louis.  She can never find one that’s “just right.”  She even went so far as to order a case shipped to her home.  Regretfully, they arrived more rotten, than ripe (nasty!)  I never quite understood her frustration.  St. Louis avocados were “fine”…or at least that’s what I thought until I tasted San Antonio avocados; they are amazing!

Hass avocados, imported from Mexico or Peru, must be getting as far north as Texas and stopping.  Or perhaps, Texans eat them all?

In San Antonio, avocados are piled in enormous stacks in the supermarket produce aisle.  When produce in other bins looks a bit tired or just plain sad, the avocados are perfect.

Avocados, so smooth and buttery, obviously create amazing guacamole.  My husband Tim is convinced that it must be against some local law to serve bad guacamole in San Antonio, but how can they go wrong when the main ingredient is so wonderfully fresh?  They don’t go wrong; they just go different.  Chefs attempt countless variations on a theme.

Tim and I are taking it upon ourselves to taste-test the local guacamole recipes.  Our journey is reminiscent of a visit to Key West where we tried Key Lime pie at every restaurant stop.  We compared the sweet with the tart, the fresh whip cream with stiff peaks of meringue, the flaky crust with the graham cracker crumble.  The guacamole journey is in process and has roughly ten different recipes to its tally – the chunky vs. the smooth, the buttery vs. the spicy, the citrusy vs. the peppery.

As part of our exhaustive research, we went to Boudro’s Texas Bistro on the Riverwalk recently.  Boudro’s guacamole was voted readers’ favorite in the local newspaper’s (San Antonio Express-News) Readers’ Choice 2013 poll.  Boudro’s presentation was impressive.  Our waiter made the guacamole tableside.  Besides avocado, he added orange and lime juice, purple onion, fire-roasted tomatoes, and fresh cilantro.  Yum, right?  We’re done?  We’ve found the guacamole; the search is over?  Nope.  Sorry Boudro’s, but we like to taste the avocado (especially when they’re as good as they are in south Texas!) and in Boudro’s version, the primary ingredient got lost amidst all the other flavors. 

Our search continues, but it’s a hardship we’re willing to endure.

A STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND

I am a stranger in a strange land…

And the land is indeed strange.

It is not the rolling, verdant swells of Iowa or Missouri.  It is not the vast grasslands of Kansas or the red clay of Oklahoma that we passed to get here.  South Texas is different.

Texas Hill Country is an unexpected surprise.  After miles of flat, desolate vistas, the hills appear, out of nowhere.  They meander across the countryside, as if searching for something.  If I had to guess at their quest, I would say “water.”  The landscape is parched, the soil sandy and barren.

Scraggy cedar trees and “live oaks” provide the only bursts of color.  And the green is evergreen - literally; they’ll retain their color all year.  “Live oaks” aren’t like the oaks of the Midwest – oaks that soar three stories tall, live for hundreds of years, and shower millions of leaves in the fall.  The trees of South Texas don’t grow very tall, perhaps because the soil and climate won’t allow it.

One of my first impressions of Texas was the vast Texas sky – the huge expanse of blue during the day and the multitude of stars at night.  I finally figured out that it’s not so much the size of the sky, but access to it.  Stargazing in the Midwest is often limited to tunnel vision.  The view is often straight up, because huge oaks, maples or sycamores tower to your left and right, obscuring any sort of expansive perspective.  However, in Texas, with trees that are only 20 or 30 feet, access to the heavens is broader – and more dazzling.

The cedar may not grow very tall, but they do smell lovely.  The earth brings a unique smell to each place – in Iowa, it’s the smell of that rich soil; in Missouri, it’s the smell of the moisture in the air; in South Texas, it’s the smell of cedar (imagine Grandma’s linen closet, but on a grand scale.)  I calculate that I’ve been to roughly 40 of the 50 states and quite a few foreign countries.  I’ve never encountered anything quite like the fragrance of Texas Hill Country.

Sniff.  There’s no competition with the cedar.  Whiffs of sweet honeysuckle, peony or lilac won’t be found.  The plants surrounding our Texas home were put there because they’ll survive the Texas heat, not because they smell good.

In the St. Louis suburban neighborhood that we last called home, spring was spent filling clay pots with flowers to grace the front stoop or hang from porch eaves.  Explosions of living color signaled “welcome.”  And so, immediately upon arriving in South Texas (even before I had furniture), I went to the local hardware store, bought pots, and filled them with colorful blooms.  They didn’t last long.  Despite daily watering, they couldn’t withstand the heat.  Only then did I take a moment to inspect my neighbors’ stoops – no pots, no color.  They knew better.  Lesson learned.

Hand watering of outdoor plants is allowed as often as you want to do it.  (I guess if you’re crazy enough to stand in 100 degree temperatures, holding a length of hose, go for it!)  However, the sprinkler system can only be used once a week.  Each house has a specified day and time to water.  New sod is allowed special dispensation; it can be watered five days per week for the first three weeks after installation.  Our lawn looked great for the first three weeks.  Now, it’s burnt and thin like everyone else’s.  Water is a precious commodity in South Texas.  In case I had any doubts about that, our first water bill made it abundantly clear!  (I would be remiss not to mention that a positive aspect of the state of our lawn is that my husband has mowed maybe three times all summer!)

The landscape is one aspect of the change we’ve undertaken – getting accustom to it is part of the adventure.

It’s a strange land, but only strange because it is different.  Those differences are the TexChange.

EXPOSITION

I am 54 years old (A bit older than the typical blogger, I would imagine, or is there anything “typical” about blogging?)

I grew up in Iowa and spent the last 30 years living in St. Louis, Missouri.  I married a Chicago boy.  (Yes, we’re Midwesterners through and through.)

I have two children, ages 21 and 18.  They have only known one home – a boxy, two-story in suburban St. Louis.

It’s a rather predictable scenario, nothing terribly surprising or unexpected, or that was the case until a job offer came my husband’s way 22 months ago.

Since then, I have been buffeted by waves of change.  Actually, “buffeted” may be too tame a description.  Pummeled?  Thrashed?  Brutally battered???

The job change, while welcome, took us to Texas (of all places!)  The long distance move was a nightmare (of course.)  And our Texas home is new construction (lovely, but incredibly vanilla.)  There are no familiar faces at the grocery store or Target.  And if that wasn’t enough, I packed up my youngest child for his first year of college, so I’m empty-nesting. (It’s important to note that both children scampered back to the Midwest for their schooling.)

Please don’t misunderstand.  My husband and I chose change – sought it, accepted and embraced it. 

New challenges are my passion.  I’ve never wanted to look back and regret, to leave anything “undone.”  Albert Einstein’s words ring in my head:  “Life is like a bicycle.  To keep your balance you must keep moving.”

My husband Tim has been my (mostly) willing companion in each new adventure.  A six-month stint in Poland comes to mind.  (But that story is for another time.)

At the end of previous adventures, however, we headed home.  Now home is the new adventure.

TexChange is a means of addressing this latest adventure and pondering the changes it creates.