Down with a bug

On Sunday, the reason for Saturday's poor hiking performance became clear as I started sneezing and coughing and blowing my nose and feeling generally rotten and over the last few nights, as I have tossed and turned feverishly, memories of childhood sick days came back to me.

Back in the day, once my mother had declared me too sick to go to school, she would put my favorite sheets on my bed (I was particularly fond of some with stripes that looked just like fruit stripe gum). Dad would move the TV into my bedroom and I was to "rest".

While everyone else was at school, by a miracle delivered through a little rabbit ear antenna on our not-very-up-to-date black and white TV, I could enter the world of GAME SHOWS. I absolutely loved them all. Wasn't Kitty Carlisle just about the most glamorous woman that ever lived?

What's My Line, To Tell the Truth, Concentration, Password--they were all so much fun to watch and I just knew that the contestants and the celebrities were living lives that I couldn't ever imagine in my little fruit-striped cocoon littered with kleenexes and Nancy Drew books.

Well, we all grow up--there aren't many game shows that appeal to me these days but I've known a couple of people who were contestants on the old game shows. When I lived in San Antonio, years ago a woman from my church was on Price is Right--she was tall and blonde and enthusiastic--perfect contestant material. A friend of mine who practices law with me was on Password during its last season. He has told me the whole story from sending in his application to hugging Betty White--it wasn't quite as good as hugging Betty White myself but I suppose vicarious game show contestanting is about all I'll get.

Indian Summer

It was the last girls' soccer game of the year yesterday and I finally managed to go and see one of my favorite kids-that's-not-my-own play.

My high school experience is one that I rarely talk about but it did not include high school sports. It did not include dances or clubs or field trips or science labs or foreign languages or even teachers. I went to a small Christian school back in the 70's during a Christian school movement that swept the country at that time. My school used an independent learning curriculum called Accelerated Christian Education and I was one of two graduates in 1977.

Like I said earlier, I don't talk about it, I certainly regret it and I once heard my oldest son tell his then girlfriend--"Don't ever ask mom about high school."

But, I survived and made it to college and the scars of the past are just that nothing more. Nothing, though, was more important to me for my children than a real high school experience and this little town gave it to them.

I wish that I had been able to absorb lessons from high school sports and from teachers that challenged me to venture past the boundaries of what I thought possible. But, that's water under the bridge. I've learned to think, I figured out what I should have learned then and after four kids I have been to enough sporting events that some of those life lessons should have rubbed off on me.

Those thoughts come back to me from time to time, though, as I sit in the sun and watch soccer and wonder what it is like to be 16, have a ponytail, wear shorts and chase a ball up and down a field relying on your teammates.

As political as I'm gonna get

I must be old if my children's friends are running for office.

Trevis Knapp who is a senior at the University of Maine at Farmington is running for State Reprsentative as an independent. He dropped off a sign today and even put it in the ground.

Of course, Trevis reminds me of a story.

One year Molly and Sara decided to have the "Rockingest New Year's Party that Dixfield had ever seen." They planned all sorts of activities--I think the theme was pirates but there were lots of other themes thrown in. They had an apple bobbing contest, a unicorn pinata, a free-style rap contest, a dance contest and a ball drop from the upstairs bathroom window at midnight. At the time they were all older teenagers ranging from junior in high school to sophomore in college.

I was confined to my room for the duration of the party (at my own request) but did come out to witness the ball drop.

After the ball drop, I went back into my room and picked up my book to read wondering when the party would break up and how long it would take me to clean up the mess the next day.

In mid-wonder, I heard Trevis say, "OK, let's clean up now." The next things I heard were dishes getting washed and the vacuum cleaner running.

Trevis won me over at that moment with his leadership skills and value-based judgment. He can put a sign in my yard any time, I don't really care where he stands on budget deficits and Roe v. Wade--he cleaned up my house at midnight after a party.

A tapestry of lives

On Friday afternoon I drove to Franconia State Park and hiked up the Old Bridle Path to Greenleaf Hut. The hike is just under 3 miles and has an elevation gain of 2450 feet. Once I got to the Hut, I only had a few minutes to claim a bunk and put on my official Appalachian Mountain Club volunteer t-shirt before starting to mingle with the guests prior to supper. Meals at the AMC high country huts are delicious affairs. While, it is true that hungry hikers will be happy with any food offering, the hut "croo" always does a gourmet job.

Greenleaf Hut is located at 4200 feet elevation, just above a small pond called Eagle Lake and about a mile (and 1000 feet in elevation) below the summit of Mt. Lafayette. The hut is totally "off the grid" with a wind turbine on the roof to run some appliances and propane flown in by helicopter twice a year for the stove and the refrigerator. The croo (usually 4-5 young people) pack the food in on their backs twice a week. The meals are served family style for the 48 guests and the sleeping quarters are in bunkrooms. There is a clivus composting toilet and running water from a drilled well.

My job as an Information Volunteer is to mingle and meet the guests and talk to them about their hiking plans, offer advice or information if needed and to answer questions about the trails, the mountains, the weather, the hut or whatever comes up. At Greenleaf, my duties also included selling t-shirts, maps, advil, blister patches and hershey bars. Believe me, I was a popular lady. In exchange for doing something that is pure pleasure for me, I got to spend two nights at the hut at no charge.

Friday night was busy with people choosing t-shirts and talking to me about their plans for the next day. In the hut there is a log book where people sign their names or write something about their trip--books dating back half a century are kept on the shelf and people were enjoying looking for times that they had signed the book before. One couple kept trying to remember which Labor Day in the 1960's they woke up in the hut to a blizzard. Three young people from California were excited to find pictures of their Dad who had been a member of the croo in 1971.

One young boy came to me and asked if he could take the log book to write in it, I said "of course" and I think (I hope) that I smiled at him.

Today I hiked up the Bridle path with my dad and three brothers. I was the slowest and my brothers teased me but my dad stayed with me. When we got to the hut we were so tired that we laid on our bunks and my dad fell asleep.

On Saturday morning, after breakfast the guests headed off to their hikes and new destinations and the croo told me that I could take a few hours and go hiking before the afternoon rush started. I headed up Mt. Lafayette and across the Franconia Ridge to Mt. Lincoln. The morning was clear and I could see the high peaks in three states. Some of the people who had spent the night at the hut were up there, too, and we shared stories and reminisces about the various peaks that rolled in layer after layer to the horizon.

The hut is nice and dinner was good except for this annoying kid next to me that kept trying to talk. We had macaroni and cheese and pea soup and chocolate cake with mint frosting.

One of the men who stayed at the hut was an Alpine Steward and his job was to spend the day walking along the ridge and talking to people about the alpine zone. Some of the plants up on the ridge take many years to grow and a misplaced hiking book can wipe out a decade of growth. The trail is very well delineated and with caution and education some of the fragile growth can be protected.

Tomorrow we are going to hike to Mt. Lafayette and Mt. Lincoln.

After finishing my time on the ridge, I headed down through the erratic boulders and scree back to the hut. Along the area above treeline, the trail is marked by large cairns. In between two cairns, I met a young couple. I noticed the young woman right away, because she was so happy looking, her face glowed and words spilled from her "We just got engaged!" Right at that cairn just below! He had a ring and everything--I'm not sure what the significance of a cairn just below the summit of Mt. Lafayette was to them, but getting engaged on a mountain seems portentous to me. I congratulated them and headed back to the hut and to the constant stream of day trippers and new guests who came in for directions and water and information.

Later after dinner when the tired hikers were heading to bed I picked up the log book and read some entries while I listened to the wind turbine whirl on the roof and one of the croo lightly play his guitar.

Tonight I am thinking about my mom, in the beginning of August she had pain in her chest so she went to the doctor. He said she had an infection of cancer. He gave her some medicine that would make the cancer go away. It made her sick. She said she would rather have 50 babies than take that medicine. Her sisters are taking care of her while my dad is hiking with my brothers and me.
My name is Jimmy and I'm 13 years old.

Second chances

Two years ago today with just our families present, Charlie and I got married.

After the vows, we shared raspberry pie, fried chicken and potato salad with our families and then hurtled headlong into sharing our lives.

It has been better than I could have imagined.

Happy Anniversary, Charlie.

How far is it from the Mountain Valley Conference to the Olympics?

Just before Ethan started high school in 1999, he worried about what sport he would play during the Spring season in High School. He had been playing baseball since 2nd grade and loved playing catcher but he was also a strong distance runner and worried about choosing between baseball and track.

We were pleased to discover that our high school had a small cross country team that ran in the Fall--problem solved--he could run cross country in the Fall and play baseball in the Spring. He loved cross country from the first day of pre-season in August, 1999. In our part of the country running cross country meant running through the woods, over hills, through rivers and around rocks in all kinds of inclement weather.

Our school was small and the number of kids interested in running many miles every day after school was even smaller but they were a good bunch and Ethan completely enjoyed his four years of cross country. With our team being so small and seeing the same group of kids from other schools in our conference at every meet we soon got to know the other runners and the kids and parents cheered for everyone. One of the beauties about cross country is that it is an individual sport--there is a team score--but each runner really just tries to do better than they did in the previous race. Our races through the western hills were informal affairs--the kids were usually farm kids who had honed their muscles throwing hay and whose parents faces glowed with pride at their accomplishments. There were no soccer moms--cross country moms are an entirely different demographic.

Because the numbers were small in our conference, often the boys ran at the same time as the girls. Ethan was usually among the top male runners but there was consistently one female runner from the next school to the west of us that ran up with the boys. In fact, she was so fast that some of our male runners would set "beating Anna" as a goal for the season.

When the boys and girls ran separately, the boys on our team could always be heard along the course cheering for Anna. I don't think any of them ever had the nerve to actually talk to her privately--she was so beautiful and so talented that I think our boys felt that cheering for her was the most they could hope for.

Well, they all grew up. Ethan went to college and ran cross country for a while before switching to rugby--he's married now and is an engineer inspecting bridges to make them safe. Anna Willard went off the college too and discovered the joy of running Steeplechase. She excelled at it and tomorrow the cross country star from Telstar High School and the Mountain Valley Conference will run for the United States in the Olympics. Good luck, Anna--Western Maine is still cheering for you.

oh, Happy Day!

When I was three years old, I got eyeglasses--it's probably my earliest memory. They were blue and tiny and I had to be careful with them. I wasn't.

I hated being tethered to the glasses but it was far worse to be without them and unable to see anything. Despite loving to swim, when I took off the glasses and dove in, I was alone and confused by the crowd in the pool. When I went to sleepover parties or camping, the glasses were forever getting stepped on while I slept. When I turned into a teenager and worried about clothes and boys and hairstyles, I longed to have a boy look into my eyes and tell me how beautiful they were. It never happened, my glasses were too thick and without them I had a very unappealing squint.

One of my many eye deficiencies is a serious astigmatism. During my teenage years when I longed for contact lenses to solve my social insecurities, the science was not developed enough to make contact lenses for people with my degree of astigmatism. Finally, when I was 22 years old, I was able to get my first pair of hard contacts. I loved them--suddenly I wasn't the girl in glasses any more.

I wore my contacts faithfully for 26 years, then this past June I lost one. They were expensive gas permeable lenses and I thought--hey I'm 48, I don't care about being cute any more and maybe it's time to go back to glasses. So, I did. What I had forgotten about glasses is how they fog up when you are hiking up a mountain in the rain. I had forgotten that they get in the way of kissing. I had forgotten how they get smudged and how I had a constant dull headache when wearing them.

So yesterday, I went back to my eye doctor. It was the first exam in three years and while my astigmatism has continued to get worse--technology had caught up to me and he was able to fit me into the most comfortable contact lenses ever and here's the kicker--I can sleep in them! For the first time in my life, I woke up this morning and could see.

Oh, Happy Day!!!

Baxter, this year

One of the best things about getting away is not knowing exactly what you will come away with in the end.

Early last week, Molly asked me if we could have one more person at our campsite in Baxter State Park as her friend, Rory, from New Jersey would like to come to Maine and join us. Well, that sounded super fun--with Archie just back from Pennsylvania and with Molly and Rory joining us, this was starting to sound like something that a mom would cherish.

We loaded up the car with climbing gear, sleeping bags and two tents. Charlie was going to drive up separately and join us the next day so the young folks and I headed north on Thursday morning under sunny clear skies. When we got to our campsite, we discovered that we were missing the poles to the bigger tent. The kids assured me that it was no big deal and that they would be fine. There were some leanto's in the campground and the first night, Archie and Rory put their sleeping bags in an empty one while Molly shared the tent with me.

The next morning, Charlie arrived about the time the kids were waking up and after breakfast, he and I drove to the trailhead for North Brother Mountain. The kids planned to head up the Abol slide from the campground and do some climbing on the boulders.

About a mile into our hike, we started getting wet and then wetter but we kept going. I decided to turn back just below the summit deciding that I wasn't really able to safely climb on the wet rocks (oops, left my hiking shoes at the campsite--wet sneakers just don't cut it). Charlie kept going and did make the summit of North Brother.

Back at the campsite, the kids had summited Katahdin in the rain and clouds and got back right about the time that we did--it didn't take long to have a roaring fire as the sky seemed to be finished with its precipitation. We all were starving and ate for about two solid hours--I think we started with bagels and worked our way through s'mores to Dinty Moore Beef Stew with maybe a few snickers bars at some point. After our feeding frenzy, Rory read a book to Molly and Archie by the fire and Charlie slipped into his car to listen to a baseball game on the radio. I floated between the two spots, enjoying the presence of so many people that I love.

This was Friday night and despite the bad weather, all of the campsites and leanto's in the campground were full--I asked the kids what they wanted to do about sleeping accommodations. Molly and Rory decided to put their sleeping bags by the fire and keep the fire going all night and Archie decided to make friends with 3 women in a leanto and stay with them.

I asked him the next day, "Archie, how exactly do you ask three perfect strangers if you can spend the night with them?" He shrugged his shoulders and said, "well, I said 'I know this sounds kind of creepy but we forgot our tent poles and it might rain tonight, can I stay with you?'" He said that the women had a group meeting and decided that he could stay if he would build them a fire. Seems simple enough.

So, Charlie and I went to sleep in the tent listening to the fire crackle and pop and the murmur of voices until finally all was quiet and then in the deep dark night, I awoke to hear Molly shout, "Rory, Rory, Rory" and then I heard the torrential rain start to fall--I listened helplessly in the tent as they scrambled into the car for shelter. The deluge seemed to last for hours. As the sky lightened with dawn, the rain was down to a drizzle and I got out of the tent to survey the damage. It wasn't too bad, all things considered. Charlie got up and made coffee and we walked with our coffee down to the ranger station to check the forecast.

The forecast predicted more of the same but in spite of that, hikers were coming in to sign up for hiking up Katahdin. We sat on the porch with the ranger and sipped our coffee and chatted with the hikers. One was an Irishman from Donegal and he and some friends were heading up the Abol Trail. He inquired about our coffee and we invited them back to our site for a cup.

We decided that he brought us Irish luck because soon after he departed our campsite with a cup of coffee, the sun began to shine. Charlie decided to head back home and the kids and I decided to have one more adventure before heading back ourselves.

We drove to the north side of Katahdin and hiked the three miles to Katahdin Lake. Along the way we saw a mother moose and her baby walking along. We saw millions of mushrooms and Common Wood Sorrel. We waded into the lake and sunned ourselves on the sand. Reluctantly, we left the lake and started hiking the three miles back to the car. Archie walked faster than the rest of us and as he waited, perched in a tree in a glade near the end of the trail, he saw a deer walk into the glade followed by a fawn and undetected, he watched the fawn nurse.

So, I planned this trip expecting to check two more 4000 footers off my list--that didn't happen, but what did happen was that I am full of happiness and contentment at some priceless days and nights and memories to hold me for a lifetime.

Spreading Memories on Toast

It was a gold star weekend in New Hampshire that included hiking, music, friends, relaxation, fireworks, campfires and good food.

We always have a good time at Camp Calumet. There have been many summers since 1995 that Charlie has worked there. Two years ago he was newly back from New Zealand and working there when I sent him an e-mail that said "the definition of insanity is doing the same the over again and expecting a different result." Then I told my secretary that I was going to the grocery store, got in my car, drove past the grocery store and on to Calumet (I remember nothing about that two hour drive). I parked my car and started walking around, ready to bolt at any moment until I ran into some friends of his who escorted me to where he was........ a few weeks later we were married.

On the way home yesterday, I stopped and picked strawberries in the fields below White Horse Ledge and Cathedral Ledge where Archie learned to climb.

Then while Charlie watched the Red Sox and the Yankees into the wee hours of the morning, I made strawberry jam. Now, we can spread memories of this weekend on english muffins all winter.

50 States in 50 Days--The Abol Slide

A man named Mike Haugen is attempting to reach the highest point in each of the 50 states in 50 days. He began on June 9 in Alaska when he summited Denali. From there he flew to Florida and then began the 48-state driving portion of the trip. He is sponsored by Coleman and has a two person support team helping with the driving and the logistics. Some of the state's summits are drive ups but not the one he tackled for #27.. On June 25, he conquered Katahdin. For those of you who know Katahdin, he went up the Abol Slide trail in TWO HOURS and came down it in 1 hour and 10 minutes. My ankles ache just thinking about it.

On Memorial Day weekend 2006, I was hiking up the Abol Slide trail with Archie and a few of his friends. Well, we started hiking together but after about 25 steps, the boys said, "Do you mind if we go ahead?" and that was the last I saw of them for many hours.

Using the word trail for any of the ascents of Katahdin is really a misnomer. Trail implies walking--upright--I've never done that on Katahdin--it's hands and feet scrambling for most of the way. Abol is no exception. It is the most direct route to the summit and ascends straight up a slide which tore off the south side of the mountain in 1816.

After the boys left, I kept up my slow, steady, cautious climb. I felt very isolated and alone in the slide that day, but I was liking it--I was starting to get to a place in life where I realized that I could do the things that I enjoyed whether I was with someone or not. After several hours of clambering over the boulders on the steep slide, I heard a voice from above me say, "Are you alone?"

Briefly, I considered that it might be God and this was some sort of Saul on the Road to Damascus moment, but I squinted up to where the voice was coming from and instead of God I saw a man sitting on a boulder with a baseball cap on his head. I said "Yes" and felt kind of annoyed that he had interrupted my solitude with such a stupid question. He shouted down, "This is a dangerous trail, I'll wait for you and we can hike together." I was totally annoyed now, who was this guy implying that I was too helpless to hike alone? But, annoyed or not, I'm a polite person so I climbed up to where he was and smiled and thanked him and we began hiking the rest of the way together. It turns out he had been hiking with his daughter and her friends and they had run ahead--as it turns out they were on the summit enjoying meeting up with my son and his friends.

As we neared the summit, my son and his friends met us on their way down. They seemed to be having a good time and I suggested that they have supper ready back at the campsite when I made it down. My new hiking companion's daughter and her friends were waiting for him on the top. We briefly ate lunch and all started down. Well, I hadn't gone 1/10 of a mile before I stepped off a rock and twisted my ankle--badly. I have NEVER done that before or since and the fact that I did it on top of Katahdin when by all rights I should have been all by myself--leads me to think that God might have been involved in this after all.

My new friend helped me down and it was a very very long and difficult process. I couldn't put any weight on my left foot and scrambling down those rocks was worse than going up them. Of course, the reality is that my son and his friends could have carried me down without breaking a sweat but they were long gone by the time that I hurt myself.

Anyway, I never even learned the man's name that helped and hiked with me that day but I often imagine that he was a guardian angel perched on a boulder in a baseball cap.

Operator, please connect me.........

I was thinking today about all the folks out there that I consider friends because we read and comment on each other's blogs and how I feel supported in good thoughts and prayers and whatever good will is available. I treasure the way we laugh and cry and follow each other's lives through posts and pictures and I treasure the things we teach one another--a recipe, a book review, a knitting pattern or how the bird migration is coming along. I especially love the way we are all over the place--different cities, different states, different countries, different continents.

And it reminded me of a story..............

I'm afraid that I may get some details wrong and ask that if anyone knows more about this than I do, please correct my factual errors.

In August, 1990, Iraqi troops moved into Kuwait and many of the Americans then in Kuwait were taken hostage in the American Embassy in Kuwait City. Among the Americans was a Southern Baptist Missionary named Maurice Graham and his wife and two sons. The Iraqi's released the women and children within a month or so but held onto the men .

At the time we lived in Tennessee and were members of a large Southern Baptist church which had an empty home available for the missionary family. The wife and two boys moved into the home and our church set about making them as comfortable as possible. Theirs was an experience that would be impossible to imagine for any one who didn't live through it and one of the things that our church did well was insulate the family and protect their privacy while they waited for their husband and father to be released.

I do remember one story, though, that came out during a women's meeting. The missionary wife had to make some arrangements with the telephone company that resulted in her talking with someone in an office many states away from ours. At the point in the conversation where the telephone operator asked for the name on the account, the missionary said her husband's name, Maurice Graham. The operator stopped her business-like questioning and said "Is that the Maurice Graham that we have been praying for?"

This was before normal folks had the internet but the prayer chain had spread wide and a telephone operator in another state recognized a name and a need.

I guess that's kind of what I was thinking about today, the internet helps us get thoughts and needs out to so many people--I can imagine somehow we who share each other's hopes, dreams, accomplishments and sorrows on the internet are really connected in a sort of spiritual sense.

When I was googling information and trying to remember dates and names, I found an incredible story from the December 24, 2007 Boston Globe about Aaron Graham, who at the time I knew them was the 10 year old son of Maurice Graham. This article is well worth the time to read.

Theme Song

Yesterday, Weather Boy and Rach both wrote about music and songs that were important to them and, sad to say, I didn't recognize a single song that they mentioned. Am I really that old? Perhaps or maybe they just like obscure music. But it got me thinking.

In about 1971 when I was 12, I got a clock radio in my room and listened late into the night to a station called WAQY that played rock and roll. I loved the independence of listening to a station of my own but really just wasn't a rock and roll kind of gal. Eventually, the dial found a country station and then I found the theme songs of my teenage years--love songs, ballads, harmony, and gospel quartets. Looking back, I realize that I was a geek--I totally missed the best decade of rock and roll and missed having anything in common with my generation. It is especially ironic since 35 years later I married a man who was in a rock and roll band in the 70's.

During the primary campaign of 1976, a handsome nephew of my mother's came to stay with us--he was in the secret service and protecting a candidate who was campaigning in our area--I think the candidate was Jimmy Carter and the nephew was definitely Texican. Anyway, Texican played the guitar and didn't think I was such a geek for loving country music. He brought my brother and me a couple of country and bluegrass albums and I think we just about wore those albums out.

By late 1976, I was playing the bass and singing in a bluegrass band and spent several summers traveling around New England going to bluegrass festivals. Those were good days. We would play on the stage--early on Friday because we weren't that good--the bands would get better as the day and weekend wore on. When we weren't enjoying the music on stage, we were picking with anybody that had an instrument. Some beautiful music lofted into the heavens on those nights.

By the mid-80's, there wasn't time for music unless it was lullabies or Barney songs. Four kids came along between 1984 and 1990 and I don't remember any pop culture from the 80's or 90's. Folk songs from my bluegrass days worked well as lullabies but before long life just got so busy that I forgot to sing.

Then slowly, I remembered singing and the way it felt to wrap harmonies around each other like a vine. I missed it terribly and still do.

But, I digress. I was going to writ about theme songs.

One night several years ago, Charlie and I went to a folk festival and a woman named Lui Collins performed. I liked all of her music but her last one floored me--before she had finished her last chord, I was out of my seat and headed to the CD table to purchase a copy. The song is Swimming to the Other Side and it's by Pat Humphries. This is an interesting NPR interview with Pat Humphries about the song.

This song is definitely my theme song--any time I need to re-focus these are the words I remember--Here's the chorus.

Swimming to the Other Side
By Pat Humphries

We are living 'neath the great Big Dipper
We are washed by the very same rain
We are swimming in the stream together
Some in power and some in pain
We can worship this ground we walk on
Cherishing the beings that we live beside
Loving spirits will live forever
We're all swimming to the other side

Reconnections

During my life, I have made at least ten different states my home. This year will mark ten years in Maine, the longest time anywhere for me.

After my children were born we moved many times as their dad completed graduate degrees and began his career. It is difficult to be a stay-at-home mom with young children and to make friends but we did it time and time again.

Strangely and wonderfully, over the last two weeks I have been able to re-connect with three of those awesome friends that shared a few years with me. Finding them again has been better than Christmas and hearing about their families and their lives has been like a long drink of cool water on a hot day.

Twenty years ago, we moved to Franklin, Tennessee. My beloved Cousin Charlene lived there and helped us find a home and get established. One day at story time at the library, I noticed another mom with children of similar age to mine. She seemed kind and smiled a lot so I introduced myself and for the next four years or so, we shared many, many afternoons at the park or at each other's home. Her name was Joy and we lost touch after I moved. A couple of weeks ago, Joy ran into my Cousin Charlene and asked about me--email addresses were exchanged and we found each other again. Our children are all grown up now, and interestingly our three grown sons all grew into Civil Engineers--all those afternoons of building dams and forts in the yard perhaps?

In 1993, we moved to Falls Church, Virginia, just outside of Washington, DC. I don't exactly remember how I met Mary, but I know that I was drawn to her right away. We were neighbors and maybe our children found each other and introduced their moms. Mary had a beautiful garden and 3 sons and a husband who loved sports. I thought she was about the coolest person in the world to be able to juggle all that testosterone and balance it with the loveliness of her flowers. I remember she would sit out in her garden in the fragrant evenings while her men were inside with ESPN. I called Mary last week and invited her to Sara's graduation. She came and I am so glad.

In 1995, we moved to Iowa City, Iowa. Janet and I met through our children and we fell into a comfortable friendship that extended to our families. We led a girl scout troop and went on field trips and met up for a vacation in South Dakota. Like Mary, Janet was an extraordinary gardener and a good mom and a good friend. I thought that I had lost her e-mail address forever until today when she sent me an e-mail. She's moved since the Iowa City days, too, and her children have grown up as mine have.

New days ahead for all of us moms as we find out what's next, but I am so happy to have re-claimed friendships with some really special ladies with whom I shared some very special years.

Power of Ten

The friends in my neighborhood have been playing a game called the Power of Ten. So, I'm going to give it a shot.

Ten years ago, I was living in Iowa City, finishing up law school and enjoying Ethan's Babe Ruth games, Molly and Sara's softball games and Archie's t-ball.

Ten months ago, I was reading the first pages of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows in a sleeping bag at Camp Calumet in Ossipee, New Hampshire after C had done a rockin' good concert for them.

Ten days ago, I was enjoying mother's day phone calls from my three older children and burning a pile of brush with my youngest child.

Ten hours ago, I was wincing as Derek Jeter got hit in the hand by a pitch in a Yankees-Orioles game.

Ten minutes ago, I was sipping my first cup of coffee and trying to remember what I was doing ten years ago.

Ten minutes from now, I will be taking a shower and getting ready for a day of juvenile criminal court in Farmington.

Ten hours from now, I will be home from said Juvenile court and changing into my play clothes.

Ten days from now, I will be hoping for sunshine because I intend to climb my first 4000 footer of the year on that weekend.

Ten months from now, I'll be shoveling snow and trying to figure out if I can afford to fly to Macedonia for a vacation.

Ten years from now, C and I will be living in a little cottage in the woods, working less and playing more.

A Book, a Tree and Adolescence

Yesterday I wrote about the loss of a middle school librarian in our town and Tom mentioned it today in his blog along with a wonderful story about Harper Lee's struggle to write To Kill a Mockingbird--if that isn't a middle school book memory nothing is.

I spent every summer of my childhood in Hopkinsville, Kentucky with my grandparents. There was nowhere I would have rather been in the whole world during those years and I can still conjure up the gentle scents and soft southern voices.

The summer between 6th and 7th grade--1971--I spent a lot of time in the notch of a tree in the front yard high above whatever chaos my brother and cousin were hatching. In my leafy hideaway, I ate delicious juicy ripe plums, played with the calico cat that would sometimes join me and read.

I read To Kill a Mockingbird 3 times that summer.

Whether or not that is why I am a lawyer today, I don't really know but I always give Harper Lee the credit.

Hopkinsville in 1971 was not exactly Maycomb, Alabama during the Depression but it wasn't hard to make the leap in my imagination. From my perch in the tree, I could see a lot of people coming and going on the road and the world just beyond my grandparents' home where the folks that worked in the big houses lived.

It would be impossible to choose a favorite part of To Kill a Mockingbird, but one part that I think about almost every day and use in my professional life is where Atticus sets himself up in a chair outside of the jail because he heard that there might be trouble. Scout, Jem and Dill sneak over in the night and see the mob approaching the jail bent on lynching Tom Robinson. Scout runs to her father and faces the mob recognizing one of the men and in her innocent and trusting conversation with him, reminds him and all of the men of who they are.

What are some of the books that shaped you?

Late night radio

We were a traveling family, chasing jobs and dreams all over the country while home remained Mississippi and Kentucky. After 9 years--home is Maine--for the first time in my life where I live feels like home. But for all those growing up years, we would travel from where we lived to either Mississippi or Kentucky for holidays. The summer was mostly spent in Kentucky but we would also travel to Mississippi for a few weeks each August--August in Mississippi, now there's a treat.

The Thanksgiving trips, when time was of the essence, are the ones that I am thinking of today. It was difficult getting from Massachusetts, where we lived at the time, to Kentucky and back in just a few days. Mom was a teacher and, of course, my brother and I were in school. We would get out of school at noon on Wednesday and Dad would pick us all up with the station wagon packed and we would hit the road. In those days, I don't think we even had seat belts and so Brother and I would bounce around in the back seat or the back of the station wagon. We carried our food with us and only made brief stops for gas. When it got dark, Dad would pull over and put down the back seat and make a bed out of mats and blankets we had brought from home. We were supposed to lie down and sleep while Mom and Dad drove through the night. Usually, though, at least in my memory, I would either hang over the seat and talk to my father or sit up front with him while Mom and Brother slept.

As we drove the late night highways, Dad would tell stories about where we were going and we would listen to the radio. I loved those crackly far-away stations where I could just imagine other lives and other places. I still love the radio at night when I am driving--Baseball, Prairie Home Companion and Country Music are my first listening choices--but just about anything helps to pass the miles.

On Youtube, I found this video .

"I Watched It All (On My Radio)" by Lionel Cartwright (Don Schlitz/Lionel Cartwright)

I had a six transistor when I was a kid
Under my pillow I kept it hid
When the lights went out, and no one could see
Over the airwaves the world came to me

I'd go through the stations 'til I found a game
I knew how they played by the sounds of their names
The sluggers hit homers, and those pitchers threw smoke
And I watched it all on my radio

At the crack of the bat, I knew how far it'd go
And I watched it all on my radio
I watched it all on my radio

When the ballgame was over, the wrapup complete
I'd search through the static 'til I found a beat
The Beatles and Creedence, the Stones and the Byrds
You should have seen all the groups that I heard

And on Saturday night when the skies were all clear
A station from Nashville sometimes would appear
With steel guitars and soft Southern twang
The stars of the Grand Ole Opry would sing

And I had a seat on the very front row
And I watched it all on my radio
I watched it all on my radio

And 'round about midnight some preacher came on
To tell me what's right, to tell me what's wrong
And there was a test at the sound of the beep
'It was only a test' the voice would repeat
And the National Anthem would sing me to sleep

Goodbye, Swinger

I remember when my family got a Polaroid Swinger camera in the late 1960's.

I thought that it was an indication that maybe we were going to be cool and hip--that my father might grow out his hair and my mother might start wearing hoop earrings, turquoise eye shadow and miniskirts--that maybe I would be like Marcia Brady.

It didn't happen, our hipness didn't extend much beyond the camera. Now Polaroid is closing down its instant camera line, I guess that's progress--but I will always remember how very cool I felt with that Swinger hanging from my wrist.

Little Bear

This is Little Bear. She is old and fairly cranky but we put up with a lot from Little Bear. She is the much-loved pet of youngest son. He picked her out from a litter of kittens, most of whom were much cuter. Little Bear turned out to be the Ugly Duckling who turned into a Swan.

Youngest daughter selected a pretty little kitten which she named Cappy. We have always taken care of neutering or spaying our animals, but Cappy got in "a family way" when she was still a kitten herself. Cappy had 6 little kittens before we even realized what was happening and was so young herself, that nursing those kittens depleted her strength. The first evening that Cappy ventured out onto the porch after having the kittens, Little Bear promptly presented Cappy with a freshly caught mouse--laid it right at Cappy's feet. That's just the kind of cat that Little Bear is, thoughtful.

A few years later, during a sad and tumultuous move, I was transferring Little Bear from my car to our new house. She escaped into the July night. I searched, I called until my voice was gone, I laid in the grass behind the house and cried until I thought I would drown.

For months after that night, I spent every afternoon and weekend driving the back roads calling for her. We put pictures up in our little town and would get tantalizing calls from people who had just seen her farther and farther north. After each call, we would put signs up in the community from which the call came. Eventually, the calls stopped, Fall was slipping into Winter and night came on too early for afternoon searches, but still occasionally, I ventured on weekend drives north to drive down fire roads and call for Little Bear.

One day, I came in from work and there was a note from oldest son that said "Search the house for a long lost friend" and there was Little Bear, dusty and dirty, curled up asleep on youngest son's bed. We never knew where she had been.

For a while after that, she had terrible manners. She would jump up on the counter and tear into bags to get to food , but eventually she returned to her former elegance. I guess we'll never know where she was for those months, but we all feel like we would give a kidney to Little Bear if she needed it.

Molly Pitcher

When I was in 3rd grade, I read a biography of Molly Pitcher. I checked the book out of my elementary school library so often, that my parents finally bought me my own copy which I read until the pages were worn and I had committed it to memory.

What was it about Molly Pitcher that appealed to me, I wonder. I treasured other literary heroines--Nancy Drew, Sheherazade and Dulcinea--all creative, imaginative, intelligent young women whose bravery saved their friends and families. But Molly Pitcher had a special place in my heart and any time that I needed a name, whether for a pet or an imaginary friend--her name was Molly. In 1989, I was lucky enough to need a name for a daughter. She's off at college now--creative, imaginative, and intelligent--and today I am missing her.

Leaves of a Beech

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time in the woods behind my house--I would make fairy houses out of sticks and moss and climb trees to hide from my brother and his friends. I would hang on the tire swing my father hung over the gully or hide under the little bridge that he built over the creek looking for creepy crawly things.

Sometimes, I would just like to be in the woods doing nothing, sitting on the cool ground and day dreaming. We had a nice size beech tree just on the rise as you got into the woods behind the house and that was one of my usual sitting spots. I could see the house but imagined that the house couldn't see me.

Beech leaves have a simple shape. They are oval and have equally spaced pairs of veins off the stalk. While I was very good at sitting in the woods for long periods of time, my hands have always had to be busy and one of the ways that I would occupy my hands was to mindlessly strip the beech leaf from between the veins. I created piles of beech leaf skeletons.

Young beech trees hang on to their leaves even after all the other leaves in the forest have fallen. The beech leaves turn to brown but they stay on the tree and provide the rustle in the woods when the winter wind blows. Beneath the leaf that clings to the beech branch is a long cigar shaped bud. The leaf, brown and supple, protects the tender bud from the winter.

As winter winds down, the leaf goes from brown to transluscent tan. The picture on the right was taken of a beech grove during the first week of January, the one on the left was taken the third weekend of February. The leaves are barely hanging on--soon the buds will be on their own to make it through the storms of later winter and early spring.