Tiny Cases to Hold Things

It was my birthday on Saturday. My hero, Polly, came to watch Josie while Paul and I jumped a train to Portland for two days and two nights. It was a dream come true. Here are some of the highlights.

We stayed in a trendy hotel.

I bought little cases to hold things. They make me enormously happy.

I tried to take some blogger self-portraits. It’s surprisingly difficult.

I wore a skirt.

I spent hours at the world’s largest bookstore. We bought books. I considered sharing a picture that didn’t show the titles but this says so much about our lives right now. You can’t see the children’s books on the bottom – Olivia, Curious George and Corduroy. It’s kind of a little poem.

I turned 37.

Lover of Trees

The other day I was at a stoplight, spacing, thinking about the sound of waves and the heat of summer or the whooshing of air though the open car windows – or whatever it is I think of when I’m not really thinking at all. Anyway, there was a woman on the corner, she had waist-length hair and wore a prairie skirt. Her arms were stretched around a tree in a bear hug. I use “tree” loosely, it was really more of a tall shrub, an evergreen column. Her head was turned, cheek to scrub.

Now, there is a woman who really loves trees, I thought, good for her.

Then the light changed and as I pulled away, she stepped back and moved her walking cane from one hand to the other and tapped her way across the street. How awesome is it that she has a perfectly acceptable excuse to hug trees all day? I’m a bit jealous.  

I love trees and have been kind of captivated by their health benefits since I first read about this Japanese study that found men who walked in the forest for 2 hours for 2 days had a 50% spike in natural killer cells (cells that destroy abnormal cancer cells). And the study found that women showed a spike in immune system function that lasted for over a week.

In January a similar study was released. 140 people were instructed to walk though a forest for a few hours while another 140 people were instructed to walk though a city for a few hours. The second day they changed places. The study found that being among plants produced “lower concentrations of cortisol, lower pulse rate, and lower blood pressure,” among other things.

It makes me want to try harder to find places to plant trees in my already full yard. Maybe I’ll find a few more places. Maybe I’ll put in a bat house or two. Maybe the barn swallows will like it too. Maybe they’ll eat all our insects. Maybe they’ll all help us live longer.

Meow

Heaven help us.

The other day, Josie, Norah and I went for a walk. Josie wants to hold Norah’s leash and walk in the middle of the road. I bring her back to the side. Then again. I tell her she can walk on the side of the road or she can ride in the stroller. She walks down the middle of the road. I bring her back to the side. Again. I say it’s time for the stroller. She slips from my hand and runs up the hill into someone’s yard yelling nonononono! I can’t go after her. If I do she will sprint away and she’s too fast. With that much of a lead, I won’t be able to catch her. Finally, I pretend I’m leaving (the only thing that ever works) and she starts sobbing, I put her in the stroller and head for home.

My adrenalin is pumping mad as I push that damn stroller up the hill. A neighbor I have never met comes out of her house as we pass her deck. She has a pan lid in one hand and a spoon in the other. Oh, she says looking surprised to see a screaming red-faced toddler and her glaring red-faced mother. Oh, she says again, I thought the cats were fighting outside and I was going to break them up.

That’s right, me and my girl, like two cats. That’s how we are some days.

Mosquitoes (and Bats!)

Begging for a bat house

The garden is doing well (thanks for asking), so well in fact, that we are awash in broccoli. If anyone comes within 10 feet of the house, I force them to take a crown. I pretty much throw broccoli at passersby. It’s like reverse Halloween over here. I’ve given away so much broccoli that Josie has decided that along with happy birthday, enjoy your broccoli is a standard greeting. She’s also in a no-clothes phase of life so our little naked wood nymph has been running around the yard yelling, enjoy your broccoli! to anyone who will listen (ie: the dog).

And this little anecdote has nothing to do with what I really want to write about. Total change of subject. Are you ready?

Mosquitoes! The hysterical’s guide to mosquito repellant (kind of). We don’t have much of a problem here in the northwest with bugs so I’m really not qualified to comment but, as usual that won’t stop me. I came across an interesting article that says wind, even a small amount from a house fan, is an effective deterrent. Mosquitoes are attracted to the carbon dioxide we exhale, sweat, lactic acid and body heat. The fan works not just because it makes it hard for the lil’ buggers to land, but because it disperses our breath and cools us down. So get an extension cord and move that fan outside.

Also bats! I love bats. Really. I’m fascinated by them and collect odd bat facts. I don’t know why. I keep thinking I will write something that has to do with bats someday but it never happens. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is my big bat story. Did you know that the Brazilian Free-tailed bat consumes 200-600 insects per night? And, the bats of Texas consume 6-18,000 metric tons of insects each year. You’re welcome for that. Anyway, buy them a house. (You can even buy one that looks like a castle.) Paint it black. Maybe it would be tough to carry with you when you go hiking but it could help for those nights on the back deck.

Okay, seriously, this is probably no help at all. It’s definitely no help for those of you who want to leave your yard. Any of you peeps living in mosquito-laden lands have suggestions on keeping them away without harming your children or the planet?

The Reward

Ah, vacation… It’s not an easy thing to get a family, especially one with a young child, out of town. There’s so much preparation. There’s the food planning, the grocery shopping, the packing (you have to make sure you have cute yet practical clothes for all weather conditions, the good sunscreen, the sun hat, and for goodness sake don’t forget Baby Chloe and Monkey).

Then there’s the drive and the screaming when the girl decides she’s bored and had enough. There’s the running around at the rest stop. There’s the car snacking and the tears when you run out of ‘ting cheese (string cheese). Then there’s loading everything onto the boat, bribing the child into the life vest, leashing the dog and trying to keep her from pulling you into the water as you walk down the dock. There’s the boat ride where you’re trying to keep the kid awake because you know if she drifts off the real nap will not happen. There’s the unloading of the boat and the loading of another car and the driving to the house.

Once you get there, there’s putting the girl to bed for her nap and unloading the cooler and the totes full of groceries and removing sheets from furniture and opening blinds. By then it’s pretty much time to start dinner. There’s the cutting, the chopping, the marinating. There’s packing up dinner fixings and the vitamins and the sippy cups of milk and going to the parent’s house. There’s the greeting of the nieces and the combining of chopped items and marinated meats and there’s kids and dogs and more kids everywhere, running, there’s the running, then there’s the crashing and the crying, and the requisite stealing of toys.

Then, finally, it’s cocktail hour. There’s the pouring of beverages and the consumption of guacamole. There’s the sun as it begins its descent, there are hummingbirds at the feeder, there’s the dying wind and the still water and the one ferry boat passing by the one fishing boat tied to one buoy. There’s a set table and kids around it (or close enough) and dogs sprawled out sleeping in the sun and there’s this family and this gin and tonic and grilled ribs and salad. There’s the sun warming the back of your neck. There’s this perfect moment when everything good and worthy comes together and you sit with your people in the most beautiful place you know and exhale.   

I hope you’re all finding lots of these moments this summer.

Like Me, Like Me!

It’s a mess around here.

I’m going to be on vacation next week which means I’m preparing for vacation this week. I’m swamped, but I have so much to say! Maybe when I get to the beach I’ll be totally inspired to write. Maybe I’ll post every day. It could happen, but it’s more likely I’ll be swimming in the lake, drinking sake and chasing bubbles in the forest with my nieces (the nieces are coming!). Who has time for hysteria?

Before I let you go: did you see my new buttons (top right)? Pretty nice, no? If you aren’t following HMN on Facebook maybe you could. It would be, like, super-awesome if you would, like, ‘like’ me. I like you. Have I mentioned lately how much I like you?

Enough! I’m off to pack things. I’ll be in touch, maybe, yes, or no, maybe not, but sometime soon, I promise. In the meantime, enjoy the 4th!

Chewable, Floatable and Less Likely to Get Caught in a Tree

The dog chewed her first bumper/throw toy apart almost immediately, but a quick duct tape repair lasted a few months until she recently tore it apart for good. I went to the pet store and bought her a foam ball with a shock cord loop designed to work as a slingshot. She chewed it to bits within days, and I’m still finding mysterious piles of blue foam in the forest (what kind of fungus is that?). This time I bought another bumper like the first because it was my only choice. Paul took that bumper by the rope, wound it up a few times (that champion waffle ball pitcher’s arm of his can really launch a dog toy) before letting it fly off the end of the deck right into the upper branches of a douglas fir. Perfect. Back at the pet store, this time I decide to buy a Frisbee. It’s durable, chewable, floatable, less likely to be caught in a tree and bright orange so it can be located in grass or water. I think it’s a winner.

Norah’s a fast, aerodynamically-shaped dog with nothing between her ears to slow her down. She could really be one of those Frisbee dogs. She could totally pluck that orange disk right out of the air. Go Norah Go! It’s time you make something of yourself! It’s time you start pulling your weight around here. I show Norah her new Frisbee and all I get is her frantic wheresmyball, wheresmyball, ohmygod, someoneispayingattentiontome howcouldInotfindballatatimelikethis, mustfindball reaction. I throw the Frisbee off the deck. Nothing. She has NO interest (wheresmyball). I try several more times over the weekend, again and again. Still nothing.

Then, miraculously, the lost hanging-from-a-tree-like-its-a-Christmas-ornament dog toy drops from the sky. We’re back in business. Until… Norah tears off the outer layer of fuzz and cracks it open like a pistachio. Done.

I’m not even going back to the pet store because I know they don’t have anything else. We’re out of options. Anyone out there got any ideas for me?

Maybe I don’t need a pet store at all. Maybe I need an athletic store where I can buy cans and cans of tennis balls. She can chew right through them and we’ll always have another. Or maybe we don’t need any store at all. Maybe we just need a beach with sticks. Only driftwood for this dog. Or, maybe I just need a kitchen and a few strips of (nitrate-free) bacon. Yes, that’s it. Next up: frying the Frisbee in bacon grease. To be continued…

Something You Should Know About Us

Maybe this will be one of those moments.

When we were little my sister and I liked to eat chapstick – any flavor or even plain would do but my favorite was orange. There was something about the smell that I loved so much. If we were in the mood for nighttime snack, we’d sneak stealth-like into my parent’s bathroom and rummage around in the bottom drawer until we came up with a tube of whatever we could find.

We’d talk in what we thought were whispers, while we snacked like little chipmunks. I don’t know how old we were, but I do know my sister (who is two years older than me) was old enough to feel guilty. As a penance she smothered Dad’s toothbrush, we assumed the balm was Dad’s because Mom used lipstick, with toothpaste and left it, bristles up, next to the sink. Such a good helper. 

One morning Dad said something like, “you guys can eat all the chapstick you want but please don’t put toothpaste on my toothbrush.” Apparently it dried and hardened and in the morning he had to chisel it off. Sorry Dad. Oh and, sorry Mom for eating your chapstick.

The other night while getting into bed I notice red streaks that look like blood on a crinkled tissue stuffed into the top of the Kleenex box. I pull it out to throw it away and smell something sweet. That’s not blood. I smell again. Definitely not blood. In my night stand drawer, you guessed it, the lid is off and the balm has been scraped out with a tiny finger. The Dr Pepper Lip Smackers has been compromised.

Don’t even start with me about all the chemicals Lip Smackers. I should have thrown Dr Pepper away long ago, replaced it with my 100% organic food-grade quality (perfect for eating) premium shea butter, encased in a BPA and phthalate free tube, but it’s a relic from my past. It was hard to let go.  

That’s all beside the point. Suddenly, I realized we’re here: she’s reaching the age where tangible memory begins. It’s possible she’ll remember some of these days, some moments, not as a general feeling, a haze of babyness, but as specific moments that have, I don’t know, quotation marks. Maybe this isn’t exactly what happened, maybe I haven’t remembered Dad’s words correctly but that’s the way memory works. What’s important here is not the accuracy but the solidity.

On one hand, this is terrifying. What about all my mistakes, the times I get frustrated, I do the wrong thing? She’s watching, remembering, cataloguing, probably with the dewey decimal system, saving all these moments for her teenage years.

But this new phase of tangible memory is also a relief because here we are, mother and daughter (both with an appetite for lip balm), making it though our days and our nights. Working it out. We’ve made it this far and hopefully, if our luck continues, we’ll have a lot more time together, good and bad, to remember.

Good News for Friday

No, it's not a cow, but it is a farm animal.

We need some good news around here (rain! more rain!), and guess what? I found some. The Oregon Physicians for Social Responsibility reports that:

“Use of genetically engineered bovine growth hormone (rBGH) to induce more milk production in dairy cows reportedly has declined over the past few years. …the number of U.S. dairies using rBGH is now about 9 to 12 percent, down from 15.2 percent in 2007. The number of cows injected is 10 to 14 percent, down from 17.2 percent.”

We don’t want it, we don’t buy it, they stop using it, or they use less of it. Isn’t that wonderfully simple?