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.

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.