Scoville Therapy

So I am addicted to heat.  One of those people who requests hot sauce at any restaurant, orders Thai food as hot has they can make it, goes through crushed red pepper so quickly I buy it in bulk.  I think it was the years I lived in New Mexico that made me this way.  I don't remember being a spice hound before that, but boy, I'm hooked now.  Anticipating the summer is exciting because it means I can grow a new batch of habanero peppers, and make more salsa!  I went through my frozen supply from last year in record speed, and haven't had any really hot stuff since December some time.  I want more!
Like many things in this world, the love of spice has become a topic folks bond over.  There are TONS of blogs and websites devoted to all things hot and spicy, countless makers of super hot sauces, and there is even a heat scale devoted to the spice found in peppers.  The Scoville scale was founded by a man named Andrew Scoville back in 1912, it starts with sweet peppers (0 Scoville units) and goes as high as 16,000,000 Scoville units found in pure forms of capsaicin.  Should you want to judge your own heat tolerance, check out this ranking of common hot peppers.

My older son is a spice hound in training as well.  He really wants to be able to take the heat, and will follow my lead adding hot sauces and chili powders, with a lighter shake or pour.  More times than not, he still finds himself tearing up and struggling to eat his heated up fare, but he has come a long way from the early days when even black pepper was a bit too spicy for him.

His motivation is in part related to me and my love of all things hot and spicy, but it's also a way for him to feel a connection to New Mexico, and thus, his dad.  This is a hard subject for me to talk about because I don't want to violate any confidences, or bring things to a public forum that don't belong there. Still, having a child with an ex is tricky business, and supporting your young one as they find a way to navigate that mine field of emotion is always a challenge.  I'm sure my navigating hasn't always been perfect, but for the most part I am confident I've followed the path with my son's best interests in mind.  Still, he clings to every shred of connection he can make to dad, and the culture of New Mexico, it's foods and it's environs have become part of that clinging.  Plans for college are set in his 10 year old mind-- he wants to go to Albuquerque and study geology- and eat hot food.

Humans are such interesting beings.  We can be so deliberate in our actions and simultaneously oblivious to our motivation.  My son is such a bitter sweet example of this, as he jumps at any piece of life that might bring him closer to a man who has dropped the ball in some really difficult ways.  Watching a child who you love more than anything in the world try to come to terms with that experience is so painful, but in a way, encouraging his love of hot food is an easy way for me to support him in his search for connectedness to dad, and I appreciate that simplicity.  Spicy food has long been my remedy for a runny nose, or a cold, it warms me up on cold days, and strangely cools me down when it's really hot outside.  Why should I be surprised that it is has powerful therapeutic effects as well!  Long live hot peppers!!

You Call That a CITY?

My favorite street sign of all time is posted as you near Portsmouth from the south on Islington St.  I've never seen another- anywhere.  It reads: 'THICKLY SETTLED'.

The first time I passed it I laughed out loud.  I don't know why I found it so funny, but it struck me as being completely hysterical.  It seemed like a classic new england approach to saying slow down.  I'm sure I risk insulting some old school new englander, but seriously, it epitomizes the 'polite to the point of being rude' demeanor that exists up here.  A town where it is entirely acceptable to stop your car in the middle of a road to chat with the mailman as he walks by, but is absolutely offensive if the driver stuck behind you toots on their horn because of it. When a driver passes this sign they are being told that folks around here have solid vocabularies and have built quite a few houses to boot!  Of course, this particular sign is also seemingly out of place.  The stretch of road where it is posted is not a particularly thickly settled area.  At best it feels suburban for the mile or so past the sign.  Needless to say, I love the sign and always smile when I pass.

Today, we were at the pocket park down the road from our house, as is the case most days, when I started thinking about another perspective on that sign, and on the mentality of this town as a whole.  Something that I really love about Portsmouth.  That sign says: We are a city.  "Booming metropolis" of about 20,000 people actually, which is the same population as the town of Setauket, where my family's farm is on Long Island, but Wow, what a difference there is between those two places.  Setauket is place I hold close to my heart. I grew up there, know many wonderful people, love its history, beaches and of course, our amazing little family farm.  Still, it is basically a stretch of houses that run from the edge of Stony Brook to the edge of Port Jefferson. It doesn't have a centralized feeling, there is no downtown, there are few public gathering spots.   It is devoted to being the suburbs, because it was developed as suburbs, and they just weren't thinking in the late 70's and early 80's-- or at least not thinking about the right things.  Portsmouth, on the other hand, is a historic port.  It has always been a place designed for public gathering.  It is a city because it has always been a city.  It's not about size, it's about attitude.

In a 1/4 mile radius around our house, there are no less than 6 parks.  Maybe more.  I found a new one just the other day when we were meeting up with a friend who lives 4 blocks from us.  Our yard is relatively small, but it is big enough for a garden a grill and a picnic table, so it will do it's job.  The park is a better place to play anyway.  I can throw the tennis ball for our crazy chocolate lab, and she doesn't rip up the lawn, because the park is zeroscaped with wood chips. Meanwhile my little guy climbs across the jungle gym, and my big guy shoots hoops, people in our neighborhood drive by, stop and say hello, wave.  Other kids come and go.  The park creates foot traffic, which creates a feeling of community, which makes people slow down and see one another.  Most of time, cars yield to pedestrians, even when they don't have to.  Foot traffic reigns supreme.

In NY, it sometimes felt like no one ventured outdoors.  There are like minded parents who think there kids should be out of the confines of the back yard on a regular basis, but to find them would generally involve driving.  You could ride a bike to the beach, but there were few sidewalks, and the medians on the side of the road are non-existent in many places.  Driving was safer and easier.  Same for getting to THE park... there was really only one unless you went to a school playground.  No safe way to walk to the grocery store, no corner markets, no cross walks to speak of.  So, it comes as no surprise that in a town with this kind of set up, people don't look out for one another.  In fact, cars would FLY everywhere.  We lived across the street from the farm, which was admittedly quite a busy street, but even when I would stand there with a dog on a leash and two small children holding my hands, cars would roll through the stop sign where we stood and keep on going.  They wouldn't stop!  It became a point of battle for me, where I would stare down drivers as I'd step in front of their cars, daring them to run me over.  More than once I yelled out-loud at someone who was driving particularly recklessly.  What I am beginning to wonder now, is if in some way it really wasn't completely the fault of those obnoxious drivers.  In that town people had willingly or not so willingly agreed to live by the automobile.  There are thousands of towns just like it.  Places that were developed with no consideration towards how to promote foot traffic and community.  When everyone is driving inside their own metal box, and living behind their own picket fence, they don't stop to think about anyone outside that space.  They don't slow down and see their neighbors, they speed past them as their kids watch videos in back seat of the minivan.  Undoing the damage in a place that has been built that way is difficult.  I think, actually, Setauket has a fighting chance.  They recently finished a bike path, there are some really active parents who have taken to the streets with their kids, walking en mass to school in the mornings up busy roads, being visible.  I think the right choices may eventually tone down the manic auto state that has taken over that town, but it is going to be an uphill battle because they now have to undo mistakes of the past.

Portsmouth has her bones in the right place.  The cars are second class citizens, as they should be.  It's EASIER to walk downtown then to drive.  I like that.  And I like our little park.  And, did I mention, the 'Thickly Settled' sign?  It makes me smile.

Community

This past weekend we were down in Boston for Sarah's going away party.  She hosted a small gathering of close friends, and we spent the afternoon and evening talking and laughing and reminiscing on years of history.  We know one another from youth group conferences with the UU church- weekends and week long gatherings where UU teens from all over the east coast would gather, which proved to be a bond that has held tight as we've all gone from being crazy teens to adults.  We've traded in our teenage angst for a more 'mature' version of the same stuff-- concerns about acne and clothes have transformed into how to stay healthy, and weather or not to dye emerging gray hairs- the more things change...

I am always so happy to get a chance to gather with these old friends.  There is something so comfortable and easy about it, a place where you are the best version of yourself, because being with them makes you remember things about yourself that may have drifted away a bit.  Like finding an old sweater you had forgotten you owned and realizing as you put it on, that it is quite flattering.

One of our conversations this weekend was about community.  One of the crew has recently embraced an athletic club and, in the process, lost 70 pounds and also found a community of people, something that he and his wife and kids had been missing up to that point.  I had mentioned that the kids and I had been going to UU church on Sundays and he laughed as he realized that for them, their fitness group was church.  It struck me, because I was thinking the same thing as he had been describing this transformation in lifestyle-- that it happened because he made the choice to change, but also, because he found a community to support that change.  For me, seeking that community of support is precisely why I began attending UU church.  Honestly, I think that is why most people attend church.  I'm sure there are those who would argue-- or at least suggest that community is a side benefit, and that church is all about God, or Allah, or... fill in the blank as you would like.  Still, I think religion is proof of the human need for community more than proof that any particular god exists.  It is a common thread that seems to tie us all together, and whether your particular group shares an interest in movies or music, crafts or cars, it is a community that fills a common need amongst us all.

I loved the UU community of my youth, and, quite honestly, am beginning to love the new community I've found here in Portsmouth.  I immediately loved it for my sons, who were the biggest motivation behind me joining.  But I am not entirely comfortable speaking about it because of that darn 'CHURCH' word.  I don't love the assumptions that people make when they hear it.  I don't like that they assume it means I have a certain set of beliefs, I don't like that the word alone either makes the person want to get to know me more, or less.  I don't like being stereotyped.  On the other hand, saying I have plans on Sunday morning, and not saying what they are, feels oddly secretive.  I struggle with it because, while Unitarianism is certainly a religion- one with christian traditions no less- for me it is all about the community.  I don't go there to pray, I go to talk, to consider perspectives, to explore opinions, and then to pour myself a cup of coffee and mingle with a whole bunch of people who like to do the same thing.  Meanwhile, my sons have a chance to share in a youth group that, for me, was safe and kind and full of self-expression, exploration, and support at a time when life can be really confusing and hard.

So, there you have it.  I go to church-- but...    It's the price you pay for community, I guess.  Whether your community is the parents on the side-lines at soccer, or your fitness club, by becoming a part of that group you are taking on the stereotypes that come with it.  Maybe even embracing them.  You become a soccer mom, or exercise-crazed.  In my case, someone out there thinks I'm religious.  I guess that's ok, or at least I think having the benefits of community outweigh the nuisance of being typecast.

Beginnings

It finally felt like spring this week.  Sun shining, snow nearly melted away, warm enough to wear a sweater and not need a jacket. The arrival of spring is one of the things I love most about winter-- it is so perfect and so treasured because if follows a long cold season.  It is like an unveiling that you were beginning to think might never arrive.  In a year like this when we were buried deep in snow, spring is a well earned reward.

Pussy Willow bunches were for sale on the side of the road as I drove home from work at hubby's office on Wednesday.  I saw a bunch of crocus blooming on a neighbors sunny corner (croci?  crocuses?).  Kelan rode his bike to school on Thursday, I started digging up the site for my new garden, and planted a bed of spring bulbs next to the back stairs.  The windy warmth of Friday was the perfect backdrop to a trip onto the roof to re-caulk the leaky skylight.  Then, as the kids and I drove down to Boston for the weekend, I saw a semi-truck pulled over on the side of the road.  The driver had found his way up the hill on the side of the road, and was laying on his back staring up at the sky (or sleeping, maybe?).  The sun was bright, the grass just starting to turn green.  Exactly, I thought.  Exactly.

Nesting

When we arrived in Portsmouth last fall, we bought an old New Englander on the edge of downtown.  It was built in the mid 1800's, and is full of character and details that I absolutely love.  The house is a project that will easily last the duration of our 30 year mortgage,  assuming we're here for good.  The wood floors are in good shape, but need to be refinished, everything needs paint, the kitchen needs a new floor and counter eventually, the list goes on and on.  I am taking it slow, trying to be patient and let thoughts come to me about how I think different rooms will work.  Paint colors are the first step-- I have an urge to build a farmers table for the dining area-- and maybe a built in bench for seating on one side...  I am not at a loss for things to do!

One of the features in our house that I really love is the window seat in the front room.  Window seats are on my short list of favorite house details, a front porch holds rank at the top of my list, but not having a porch on our house is easier to take because of it's window seat.  I am so excited for a quiet summer afternoon laying there with a good book and some sun tea.  I really haven't used it much yet as being right up near the windows is chilly when it's in the 20's outside.  But, as the days get longer and grow warmer, I have begun to anticipate that perch.  After finally painting that room and starting to build a picture of what kind of colors will work in there, I ventured to the fabric store this week and bought some fabric to start getting my nook in order.  Sarah has given me a collection of old linen grain and bakery sacks that she had been gathering at flea markets, and I really liked the idea of using them in the space, because they add a vintage feeling without being too formal.  All in all, I am pretty excited about how far it's come along.  I still need to find the right solid for the bench cushion itself, but the pillows mixed with the grain sacks look so inviting.  Yay window box!

SECRET TIP:  I found an assortment of sizes of feather/down pillows by scouring the throw pillow section at the good will and a local thrift store called Savers.  I was able to gather a bunch of really nice heavy pillows for about $3 a piece as opposed to spending $20-$40 for feather/down inserts at a decor shop.  It doesn't matter what the cover looks like, because you are going to re-cover it!  Save the bucks, and then you can splurge at the fabric store!

The Prophecy Was True?

"Sweet cuddly chunk of joy"

I was teaching a 4th grade special ed class when I was pregnant with my first child.  Spent my days waddling up and down the halls, taking 'field trips' to the faculty bathroom (my class was outside in a portable, so I couldn't leave them alone).  The kids would take baby steps slowly down the hall as I made haste (as much as I could in my enlarged state) to the restroom.  Then we'd all head back to the classroom.  Lots of fun.  What I really remember though, were all the wise grandmother volunteers that milled around the school.  In the south valley of Albuquerque, where I was teaching, almost all the families are hispanic, and grandmothers are a big part of the culture and success of the community.  Abuelas rule the roost, and were also a big part of our school, helping teachers with prep work, reading to kindergarten kids, generally being there when they were needed.  They also shared there wisdom and intuitions, especially when you were pregnant.  They knew I was pregnant before I told them.  They new it was a boy before I knew myself.  And after he was born, they smiled and shook their head and all agreed... "Oh.... mijita, He's a devil baby!"

Don't be alarmed.  This wasn't a Rosemary's baby kind of prophecy.  What they meant was that my first born was dangerous because of how calm and easy he was.  He slept (a lot) smiled, cooed, and would lay in his bouncy seat and stay happy for long periods of time.  He loved being held by anyone, ate like a champ... you get my drift.  He was the kind of baby that lured you into having more, by giving you the sense that having babies was easy, that you could easily handle several of these sweet little cuddly chunks of joy.  Apparently, the devil baby is the one who inspires parents to take the leap again, and it was my first born without question.

For 6 years I forged through life with Kelan and his sweet, honest ways.  This was the boy who's favorite dessert for many years was an apple.  If someone offered him a candy he would stop and look for me to make sure it would be ok for him to have it.  Even if I wasn't there, he'd say things like, "I'm not supposed to have a treat until I finish lunch".  He was earnest.

There is a confidence that builds when you are a parent for a while.  That feeling the first day you come home from the hospital, the "Really! They're just gonna let me take this baby home with me?!" feeling is slowly replaced with a certain degree of 'I can do this'.  I don't know if I realized that I had that confidence until number two was on his way.  I knew what supplies I needed for when he came home, how to set up his room and the bassinet in my own room, what a contraction felt like, and when it was time to head to the hospital.  I was ready.  I thought.

The birth was fine, very similar to my first.  I got through both without any meds, by writhing like a crazy person, flipping around, whimpering about lower back pain, feeling hot and hating the monitor around my waste.  Reilly was lovely and healthy and ate well pretty much from the start.  But from that point on, Reilly changed the game. Reilly taught me about colic, about REAL child proofing (and how to get sharpie marker off of kitchen cabinets), Reilly could climb out of anything, would hide at a moments notice and scare the pants off of me as I ran frantic trying to find him (he was always perfectly quiet when he did this).  Reilly would see a tub of icing on the counter ready for a cake we were making, and he would take it and sneak off to a closet to eat it by the spoonful until he was found out.  With my first born, tears would pour out at the first sign of trouble.  He would cry for spilling milk, or accidentally breaking a dish.  Reilly, on the other hand, would do it on purpose and then just stare at you while you reprimanded him.  He accepts punishments, like the loss of TV or dessert, but with a shrug and indifference that absolutely baffles me.  Who is this boy?  How can two people who both grew inside of me be so COMPLETELY different?

In a lot of ways I think it's great.  They definitely have their own identities, and they complement one another (sometimes).  But, as time goes on I realize that there is little advantage to the experience I've racked up with my first born, because number two plays by a completely different set of rules.  Yesterday, he decided he didn't like the lunch I had made him, so he put it on the floor and fed it to the dog.  "What?!"  This never happened with Kelan.  He may have decided he wasn't interested in the food I was serving from time to time, but feed it to the dog?  What's the natural consequence here?  I can't put the plate in the fridge for when he gets hungry later.  Do I just refuse him food until dinner?  How could he think it was ok to feed it to the dog?  I can't think of the last day that went by when he didn't leave me scratching my head.  So I am having to navigate the uncharted sea of pre-teen confusion with one boy, while re-writing all the charts I thought I'd already fine tuned.  Oh devil baby, you got me good.

Peer Pressure is Lame

My heart is a little broken tonight.  My 10 year old decided to cut his hair.  The reason?  He said this kids at school were teasing him and he was tired of being teased.  Apparently, according to his classmates, his hair was 'girly'.

He has been sporting an old school skater cut for more than a year, and always loved it.  Family and friends have always made a point of complementing him on the cut, and it was one of the first really notable ways that he had begun to carve out his own style- it was his idea and he rocked it.  When it was time to trim it, he was always very concerned that I would cut too much off, or 'mess it up'.  Any suggestion that I would make about changing it would be met with a flat No.  But fifth graders are a tough crowd.  I remember that age, and I remember how cruel they could be.  I get it-- his reason for cutting his hair, but it still makes me sad.  Life too often demands that we conform, that we follow the rules, meet the expectations or pay the price.  The fact that he is already learning that lesson makes me want to scream.  As we sat together and I slowly snipped away the long strands, I talked to him a little about the teasing.  I told him how great he is, and how cool his style is.  I told him that he should always keep in mind that it's HIS choice to change something like his hair, that he can always stand his ground and say no if someone is teasing him.  That being different is great, even if it's sometimes hard.  He listened, and he understood what I was telling him, but still, it all felt so impossibly wrong.  How could anyone not see this kid and just love him!?  Why does growing up have to be so harsh?

When we finished his haircut and I looked at him, he looked older.  (Actually, he looked exactly like my older brother circa 1984 or so.)  He's still perfect, and he likes his new 'doo', and he's off to hang out with his Friday night Sparks group (UU youth group), who I'm sure will make him feel great about his new look.  Monday at school will be fun for him too as he gets to be the center of attention because of his new look (I know he's thinking about that because he wouldn't let me take a picture, lest word leak out that he's cut his hair... he really wants it to be a surprise!)-- Point being, this hasn't been a traumatic decision for him, just another haircut.  And I suppose that's good.  Life goes on.  I think I might need a glass of wine.

Blogger Block

A friend recently suggested to me that blogging was a sign of desperation.  I get where he was coming from when he made the joke (and he was joking- kind of).  Sometimes I agree with him.  More often not.  Writing a personal blog has two undeniable benefits in my opinion.  One, it is a journal which helps you focus your thoughts and reflect on them, allowing you to develop your own perspective and grow as a person (cheesy but true).  Two, by existing in a public forum, a blog also immediately becomes a part of the new great social experiment, so that, while you are growing and exploring your own thoughts, you are also inviting others to join you in a conversation.  For me, this second element, this 'invisible' audience, provides the added benefit of keeping me at my keyboard- I have always been more productive when I imagine accountability. 

http://online.kitp.ucsb.edu/online/resident/ouellette2/

So, it is all the more frustrating when I arrive at a place like I have this evening, with some spare time to sit down and write, but absolutely no idea what I should write about.  If I were writing in a personal journal, nights like this would end in an annoying entry describing my irritating day of car issues, a run away dog, and a four year old with a LOT of snot pouring from his nose.  I would come back to that entry and find it annoying and that might be the beginning of the end of my journaling for a while.  With a blog, I find I don't go as far as to finish what seems to fall in the annoying, pointless category (this, of course, being completely subjective- you're probably trying to will me to go on about the car troubles, right?)  Instead, I start to type on a topic, then delete, start anew, delete.  Needless to say, I feel stuck between wanting to build on this thing I've started, but not knowing where the next block should go.

So is this what real writers go through?  Does pushing through this feeling make me a little bit more of a writer myself?  Does blogging count?  

http://online.kitp.ucsb.edu/online/resident/ouellette2/

I really never sat down and wrote much of anything beside a few angst filled songs in my teens until I moved back to the farm and started writing articles for the farm newsletter.  [Click here for most recent]  I didn't like it very much when I first started writing those articles either, but somehow over the years, I began to look forward to the opportunity to write for a purpose.  Lately, I even started longing for it.  So, the urge to write, and (maybe?) desperation, have made me a blogger.  New town, aimless feeling, could this help?

Apparently, I'm not the only one who thinks this might be productive.  There are something like 65 million blogs in existence-- maybe more.  Somewhere, right now, someone else is sitting frozen at their computer, trying to figure out what to say tonight.  Someone else is clicking away, getting down their inspiration as fast as their fingers will allow.  People reference their blogs on resumes and websites, print out blog business cards, sell movie rights to their blog stories.  So, the answer?   I think the blog is helping me find my voice and that it might become a great resource for me.  The blogs I follow tend to be more purposeful than this hodge podge that I'm throwing out, but I think that might be part of my process.  Whether or not it makes me a writer?  Meh.  For now, I'll just be a blogger.

P.S.  For some reason I can't get the image of Jean Luc Picard in his quarters at then end of a Star Trek episode,  Check it out Captains Log

A Fresh Coat of Paint

One of the best things about moving up to New Hampshire last year was that it brought me within an hour of my best friend, who lives in Boston.  She came over yesterday and clapped her hands together as she declared that we should paint the front living room in my house.  "Really?"  I asked.  "You want to spend the day painting?"  And she confirmed that she did.  I had been planning to do this, so I showed her the paint samples of the colors I'd been thinking about and we chose the one we thought would be best... which was the shade my 10 year old had chosen as well (Burnished Metal-- a pale gray/blue).  Then we were off to home depot to get the paint, and home again within a half hour ready to start.

Painting with your best friend is fun.  Seriously, don't knock it unless you've tried it!  It means there is someone in the room to commiserate with when you first open the can and second guess your color choice.  Someone else to plow forward with even after the first section of wall seems less than perfect in it's new shade... "remember, the color from the opposite wall is still reflecting on the new color", or, "don't worry, it will dry a little darker, you'll see".  It also means there's another person to sit back and say wow when the color really starts to set in, and it looks good.  Having her there made the whole process richer and more entertaining.  Did I mention all the caulk jokes we told each other as we caulked the ceiling trim?  Man, they were funny!

But to get a little deeper, yesterday was special for a completely separate reason as well.  She is moving.  The person who I call first, cry with most, depend on, lean on, count on for so much I can't even pull it apart- is moving to California.  Painting yesterday felt a little like she was spreading a small layer of her love across those walls.  Maybe I cope in bizarre- home remodeling ways- but it was like she was leaving something that will sooth me when she's gone.  All the joy of that process; the talking, the cheesy country music she snuck in on pandora, even the really crass caulk jokes were seeping into the walls along with that lovely cool blue gray paint.  The kids crashed in and out of the room and she stopped and watched them with the heightened awareness that she would be missing there voices soon.  She touched there faces a bit more, hugged them a little longer than usual, moved around trying to soak us into her as much as I felt like she was leaving bits of her for us to have.

This month is hard for me.  A countdown to the day when I can't get in my car and go meet her for dinner, or make plans to go thrift store shopping.  Days like yesterday are pieces of treasure that are helping keep my head on straight.  I know they are numbered, but I am so grateful for every one.

Reflections on a 5 hour commute

My two boys and I headed down to New York for Maple Sugaring last weekend.  Hubby had to stay behind because he was on call, so the three of us hopped in the car Thursday after school let out.  Four actually, as our crazy chocolate lab, Kiki, came along.

This is not my first trip down for work, in fact, it's my second weekend just this month.  It is 3 and 1/2 hours to the ferry in Bridgeport, Conn, then another hour and fifteen minutes on the boat.  The boat time is lovely.  We are out of the car, walking around, there's even a bar where I can get a beer if it's been a long day-- a bloody mary if the kids have been particularly exhausting!  The ferry makes the trip civilized, and is SO worth the extra $51- Especially considering how much gas is these days, and the toll over the Throgs Neck- now $6 or something.  More importantly, it keeps my driving time under 4 hours.  Going through the city adds at least a half hour to the travel time (often much more) and it's all sitting at the wheel, which means back pain and irritation for me, boredom and crankiness for the kids.  When I think about it, I have a lot of friends who commute from Long Island to the city on a daily basis-- to the tune of 3 hours or more- DAILY!  If you work it out, when I head down on Thursday, work Friday and Saturday, and head back Sunday, I don't have that much more time in the car than many 'local' commuters.  At any rate, that's what I think about to keep myself sane.

So, about that work.  This weekend was particularly manic.  Not completely a surprise, but manic none the less.  We had advertised a new program for Friday that would allow scout troops and other small groups to come and learn about maple sugaring in a more intimate, controlled setting than is achievable during our Saturday open hours.  This was in response to years of requests, and looking back, I think it went pretty well.  I have to give a shout out to the weather- which was bizarre, and resulted in more than half the scheduled groups canceling on Friday.  You would think this would be a negative, but quite honestly, we were over scheduled because the response we got from this new program was startling.  In an attempt to accommodate as many as possible, we had booked groups every 45 minutes, all day long.  So that one group would finish listening to my dad's talk on sugaring and head along to the next station as the next group arrived...  It would have worked even if all had braved the down pours and heavy winds, but it would have been really exhausting.  As it was, with half the number of groups, we were busy all day and tired by the afternoon.

Then came Saturday.  2 more private groups in the morning followed by a short lunch break and then the gates opened to the public.  I was out parking cars at 11:45 (15 minutes before we opened) and the parking lot filled up within 10 minutes-- as did the street out in front of the farm.  The lines at the gate wouldn't let up for over an hour, and a constant flow of arriving guests continued for the rest of the day.  In past years, we have had between 100 and 200 visitors come out to share in the muddy sweet sugary day.  This year we passed 650!  That's a lot of folks to handle in our winter state- snow piles from plowing still scattered about, no access to our overflow parking due to mud and ice... Did I mention MUD?  Still the day went surprisingly well.  I have become the maple candy guru over the years- maybe by accident, or because no one else wanted/wants to do it?  At any rate, I generally spend maple sugar days chatting with visitors and firing up my electric deep fryer every 45 minutes or so to show them how maple candy is made.  This year.... I didn't step away from that pot ALL DAY.  For four hours straight I heated up syrup to 242 degrees, back down to 212 (the boiling point of water), stirred till the color changed to caramel, poured into my candy mold of little maple leaf forms, lifted the mold for all to see as the candy crystallized before their very eyes, and then spilled the sweet morsels onto a tray and passed them out to the ravenous crowd of sugar lovers.  Smile.  Send them on their way.  Greet the next group of interested guests, and begin again, and again.

It's funny how your body reacts to unexpected demands.  I was set up outside on the event barn porch with my candy demonstration, thinking I could sneak inside between demos and warm up by the propane heater.  As it wound up, I never got away from that table.  I should have been freezing and miserable, but I was oddly euphoric.  Super chipper and smiling ear to ear as I repeated the same 10 minute dialogue over and over again.  I must have had a pretty big dose of adrenalin going- it's all I can figure- because when my lest demonstration finished at around 4:00, my body temperature dropped almost instantly.  I went from being totally comfortable to shivering, shuddering cold.  It hit me like a water balloon.

Oh, the farm and it's crazy mix of repetition and unexpected moments.  It's a funny place to work because it is so much of both.  In a sense the script is a little bland, but the characters are so unpredictable that you can't help but continue reading through your lines.  Teaching the same process all day long should start to make you crazy (maybe it does!), but each group brings there own set of questions and answers, and comic relief.  It's the smiling and talking and sharing that keeps me interested.  I guess that's part of why I keep heading back for more.  Needless to say, I was happy when we finished canning the last jars of this year's syrup on Sunday night (yep, another whole day of boiling sap awaited us on Sunday.)  Making maple sugar is one of a great many things that I enjoy once a year and am also so grateful to have done till next year.  Bring on the spring!

SPRING

(My article in this spring's farm newsletter)

The more things change, the more they stay the same. Every spring on the farm is different and unpredictable, while at the same time so very much akin to those that preceded it. Some time this spring, all of the following stories will happen, only differently, unique to their moment.

It is mid-day in late March. Last night’s snow turned first to sleet and now to rain, covering the farmyard with several inches of slush. The animals are hunkered down in their stalls, trying to stay warm and dry on this bitter, miserable day. Sam walks to the farm to check on every- one, refill frozen water dishes, batten down the hatches. He finds Zoe, one of our pregnant nanny goats, out in the yard of the goat house. It’s too cold for her to be outside, but there she is--with two small kids at her feet! This is the moment when everything switches gears. Sam quickly calls Ben, and then me. Together we carry the babies down to the farm house inside our coats. They are so cold. It’s a boy and a girl, and the girl was obviously born first, she seems almost gone. We need to warm them... hair dryers hum, towels warmed in the dryer are wrapped around these new kids. Ben finds some odd advice on the internet and soon we’re placing the babies in trash bags. The trash bags keep them dry as we submerge them up to their necksin perfectly warmed water. It works! They are stronger! The boy is doing well and his sister has come a long way. Their mom is moved to the main barn, a clean stall with a heat lamp. Soon, her son joins her--even suckles a bit. Sam draws milk from mom for the little girl to drink. A few sips make it in and thirty minutes later, a few more. Snow and Ice are named. Babies one and two are born.

On the dining room table, the incubator has been humming for 21 days. Each day Jean and I play tic-tac-toe with these marked eggs. I turn them to X, Jean back to O. Until five days ago, when we both stopped touching them completely. This morning, coffee in hand, I stop to listen to a ‘Tap. Tap... Tap... Tap,’ coming from three eggs. Later in the morning, two more are shaking. One has broken a small hole. You can hear peeping. By 4:00pm there are two tiny, wet, tired chicks laying amidst their shelled siblings. Another one should be joining them within the hour. The peeping is almost constant. The musty smell is so familiar, not entirely pleasant, but also somehow right. The babies spend the night in the incubator, resting, drying and occasionally banging around. By morning there are four fuzzy bright chicks ready to move to the brooder (actually a cardboard box with a heat lamp). A few more make their way out that morning; some don’t make it at all. More than just cute, baby chicks are the fuzziest most wonderful little handfuls of squirmy delight!

Saturday morning, a week before Easter, the front entrance to the farm blooms. Easter flowers are a lot of work, but for Bob they are as much a tradition as they are a part of our business. It’s rainy and cold as he adds spring color to our busy street corner one flat of tulips at a time. He smiles and chats as neighbors and friends return for a pot of springtime blooms. Bob will spend nearly his whole week sitting at the flower stand in his patio chair, listen- ing to the radio with a crossword puzzle while waiting for a friendly face to chat with. He will be ready to find the perfect blooms for Aunt Iris, and have some tips for how to make them last!

Spring break campers have a special ownership of the farm. About 30 kids, they have the place to themselves, and all the excitement of spring babies circles around them! On their first day we check in on all of our animals. Caillou, our Netherland Dwarf rabbit, is due to deliver her litter soon. No luck on day two although she’s pulling fur for a nest. Day three does not disappoint and Caillou births her litter around 5pm. By Friday, I pull out the nest box while Caillou is eating and we peek. When I lift the fur there are three TINY spotted bunnies, maybe two inches long. They have a thin coat of fur, but the edge of their ears and tips of their feet are still new pink skin. Their eyes are shut tight, and they wiggle and twist as the cool spring air touches them.

It is a beautiful April Saturday, and the farm is buzzing. Our barnyard baby class is in full swing with about 20 kids, and families have arrived by the dozen to visit the farmyard and see all the new life. Jean has her eye on two ewes who she thinks might lamb today--and she is usually right! Even though we expect a baby, we leave the mam- mas outside. It’s so sunny and lovely. Sure enough, just as the tractor ride leaves with our class kids, the ewe in the front paddock starts to lamb. Kids and families stop and watch; excited and amazed. We stand by with towels and buckets of soapy water. Our ewe does pretty much all the work. Jean is right by her side. Two hours later, there is a repeat performance and a pair of twins joins our posse of spring babies. The gasps of our farm guests are like jewels in the air. Something they will never forget.

May arrives with it’s suddenly warm weather. Bob sees an opportunity, and he and Jean begin to prepare. A 5 foot square of cardboard is retrieved and laid out by the rabbit hutches. It is stained with years of oil, dirt, sheep poop, and who knows what else. Bob would say it has a perfect patina. He sets a wooden tool carryall on the cardboard, you might have seen a woodworker carry one of these at the turn of the century. It holds an old shiny oil can, some vintage steel nail clippers, a pair of ancient hand shears, and his circa 1979 sheep shears. Bob sits on a 4-legged milking stool so low that his knees rise well above his waist as he ties a bandana across his forehead. Meanwhile, Jean and Sam catch the first sheep for shearing. They start with the boys. Big and feisty, they’re the hardest to shear so it’s best to get them done before back aches set in. Jean holds the Ram’s nose (which causes sheep to evacuate so they don’t do it while they’re being shorn) and then they all work together to flip the Ram off his feet onto his back--where he is much more cooperative. Shearing on the ground is hard on the body. Bob grunts and grumbles a bit as his shears negotiate the heavy winter coat. Even on the hardest sheep, he and Jean work together in a synchrony that only comes from 30 years of practice. Today, Daniel gets a small cut. Sam squeezes some iodine on it as mom gives Daniel his de-wormer. Bob clips his toenails. In 45 minutes, Daniel is up and headed back to his pen. Laying on the cardboard is his fleece with the glistening golden underside facing up, ready to be washed and put to use.

It’s a Wednesday in mid-May when Jean gets a call from the county farm. They have two runts. Would we be interested in taking them in? We are in the midst of our spring classes and Jean jumps at this squealing surprise for our farm kiddos! Squeaky and pink in the bunny nesting box, the piglets weigh 6 pounds between the two of them. Bottle feeding begins anew. Our goat babies had finally outgrown the need for night feedings, and now we’re back to square one. But piglets grow fast!  Soon they will drink from a pail, and before you know it, they’ll be too heavy to lift. For now, they’re up in their new stall, well-fed, and sleeping under a heat lamp.

Kelan and Reilly come running into the barn with joy filled faces. They’ve found the first strawberries in the field! Summer is right around the corner.

Pre-Teen bliss

Let the door slamming begin.

I keep finding myself muttering, "Really? Already?" But it's the only explanation I can fathom for the new level of drama and indignation that seems to pour from my almost 11 year old boy.  He is a wonderful person, and I adore him, but, wow.
Most of the conflict currently revolves around 'being right'.  This is no shocker, I still struggle with this myself.  Surely that is why it drives me crazy when I see the same self certitude in my offspring... it is the things that are most like you, that make you crazy, yes?  My best friend is thoroughly entertained by our bouts-- she is sure that parents are intentionally gifted with children that can push their button like no other.  That there is some sort of an evolutionary benefit for such button pushing.
My husband sees the behavior too.  Recognizes it's an issue, but doesn't struggle like me because he is so much more directive in his parenting.  He doesn't have a routine of talking things out with the kids.  If they do something wrong he tells them, explains the punishment, and that's it.  Rarely is there any discussion.  With me it's a whole other story.
I have always talked things out- especially with my big guy.  He expects dialogue.  He knows that I like to talk things out, that I believe in getting to the bottom of an issue, and so he drags me in.  But, this is not a conversation with a conclusion, it is an irrational and circular argument.  It comes from the emotion of wanting to be right and knowing that you aren't, and that, my friends, is a mean and ugly place.  In any given encounter there are, inevitably, lots of tears and hitting of pillows, or kicking of snow piles... venting in the most physical way he can without crossing the line of acceptability.  The verbal formula is simple:  If I say, "You are not listening to my words."  His reply would be, "YOU'RE not listening to MY words!"  Surprisingly, this works with almost any sentence.  

Today's battle blazed on the walk home from the library.  Our backpack packed with books, a few movies and the Muzzy language tapes that R is currently obsessed with.  K started to wander across the street and I called him back sternly.  I was concerned that his careless wandering across the street would register in the mind of R, his four year old brother.  In his mind, I was speaking sternly to him for no particular reason.  He leapt for my jugular.  In moments we were rolling down the sidewalk- teeth gnashing.  By the time we got home, he flew up to his room and slammed the door.  An hour later I went to bring him his new library books and offer him some lunch and found him laying against the door to keep me out.  An hour after that he finally crept into my room to talk.  An hour after that he crawled into my arms and let me hug him.  Assuring him that this would pass, to which he replied, "It doesn't feel like it will pass ever."  "It will", I said, "and twenty five years from now, you'll find yourself holding your 10 year old son or daughter as they cry about the same things."  He has finally wiped the tears and snot from his face and headed down stairs for a late lunch.  I am exhausted.

At the end of the OWL class at our UU church a few weeks back, the DRE (Director of Religious Education) handed out this poem.  I have it taped to my mirror.  Somehow knowing that this is a shared experience helps you get through it.  I know that's true for me, but I suspect it's also true for my son-- even more true, perhaps...

"There is Something I Don't Know"  by R.D Lang

There is something I don't know

That I am supposed to know.

I don't know what it is I don't know, 

And yet am supposed to know.

And I feel I look stupid

If I seem both not to know

And not to know what it is I don't know.

Therefore, I pretend I know it.

This is nerve-wracking

Since I don't know what I must pretend

To know

Therefore, I pretend to know everything.

I feel you know what I am supposed to know

But you can't tell me what it is

Because you don't know what I don't know

What it is.

You may know what I don't know, but not

That I don't know it.

And I can't tell you. 

So you will have to tell me everything.