During a conversation with my newly employed, recently minted college graduate, she shared an office observation. “The 30-year olds seem impossibly mature and together. How will I ever get there?”
This was precisely the same thought my husband and I had the day she was born. I lay against the pillow in my hospital gown; my husband sat gingerly cuddling our newborn daughter in his arms.
Into the room ran my 3-year old niece, a cracker in each hand excited squealing, “I hold the baby!”
Our eyes darted to this capable 3-year old who could walk and talk and eat crackers. Then we gazed at our swaddled infant and thought, “how will our daughter ever get there?”
So when our younger daughter turned 21 and could walk, talk and eat crackers as well as drive a car, use a debit card and even mow the lawn, we said to one another, “well done on the parenting!” with the emphasis on done, our children were now capable, self-sufficient adults.
When I was in college I took a number of complex math courses. The classes always seemed to be late in the afternoon, and as the low sun angled in the windows, a room full of 20-year olds frantically attempted to follow the instructor as he scribbled out a proof on the blackboard. Invariably he would run out of room on the chalkboard or run out of time in class or both, and so would quickly scrawl, QED. To the lecturer this meant the rest is obvious, I have demonstrated the hard part.
And now, 30 years later, the roles were reversed. It was as if I were the lecturer, and the time in my classroom had drawn to a close as my youngest child turned 21. From there to 30? QED, or so it seemed to me.
I could see my daughter turning over in her head the concept of 21 to 30 being obvious. Like me and my fellow classmates gathering our notebooks in math class so long ago, QED only meant one thing to her, how in the hell do you get there from here?
Turning to the School Yard to Solve a Peruvian Driving Conundrum
The Problem:
Peru seemed to be dominated by roadways that were developed before vehicles. And, it turns out they were. From the old section of Cusco, to the rural countryside, we frequently observed two-way roads that were only barely wide enough for one-way traffic.
We walked along a sidewalk wedged between the storefronts and the street. The sidewalk was so minimal that not only were two pedestrians unable to pass without one stepping into the road, even a single pedestrian needed to carry parcels in her street-side hand, or more commonly on her back, to keep them from rubbing against shop windows. Seemingly as an afterthought, squeezed between the facing sidewalks was a cobblestone street nearly too narrow for one small car to negotiate. Yet the streets were all considered two-way. Consequently, when two cars met traveling in opposite directions, one needed to reverse to the preceding intersection to get out of the way. But not always. We watched as two cars crept past one another, each with two tires on the sidewalk, side mirrors nearly scraping as they passed.The Solution:
While some municipalities might solve this problem by widening roads or designating some streets as one-way, Cusco leadership seems to have thought out of the box for a resolution: driving classes during elementary school recess. Yup, as we wandered up the narrow streets, we spotted a large school yard with several dozen kids at play. A few were enjoying a game of soccer while the vast majority were eagerly pedaling Fred Flintstone-style cars around roadways painted on the playground asphalt. This wasn’t simply an oval track. This road system included traffic lights, stop signs, crossing guards, pedestrian crossings, left turn lanes and lots of pint-size cars all driven by 8-year olds. 
You Got This Mom!
“Vamos!”
While offered with a cheery inflection, “vamos!” none-the-less conveyed a command to resume planting one foot in front another as we climbed to the 15,200-foot pass. My footfalls were slow and consistent. With each step I repeated to myself one word of a four-word phrase: Step, “you”, step, “got”, step, “this”, step, “mom.” However, as I continued up the incline inching closer to our goal, my pace slowed dramatically. I adjusted my mantra to: right foot, “you… you,” left foot, “got.. got”, right foot, “this… this,” left foot, “mom… mom.”
I looked ahead hoping to spy horses coming down the trail. Turns out that the best course of action when meeting a horse train while trekking near Salkantay in Peru is to stop, move to the side of the trail and let the horses pass, which offered easily a minute’s rest. Unfortunately, no horses were in sight.
An alternative hope: perhaps our guide Dalmiro would spot a flower or snake or point out a butterfly to us. Any educational stop offered more than sufficient time to regain steady breathing and simultaneously gain insight into the flora and fauna of Peru. For instance, one morning Dalmiro actively poked a snake with his hiking poles as he informed us it was indeed poisonous.
“Why are you poking it then?” I questioned.
“To catch it so everyone can see it!” Dalmiro responded enthusiastically.
Fortunately, the snake escaped into the undergrowth neither poisoning someone in the group, nor having its head chopped off.
During our downhill walks, our group’s conversation would be filled with laughter and plenty of games of broken telephone.
Just yesterday as we returned to our lodge, I found myself defining prophylactic for our Peruvian guide, who offered an animated analysis of why sexual drive is much stronger among jungle inhabitants than up in the mountains. His analysis—it all comes down to the amount of skin showing.
However, as we slowly progressed uphill, no voices broke the still air. The only sound was heavy breathing and, wait? What was that? An avalanche?
I looked toward Salkantay Peak and pointed with my hiking pole. My husband stopped and looked in the direction I was pointing.
“What do you see?” he asked.
As his question wasn’t of the yes or no variety I was unable to answer, having absolutely no spare breath to form words.
He seemed to catch on and followed up with, “An avalanche?”
To this I was able to actively respond with a nod of my head.
By the time we had paused a minute looking for the telltale puff of snow on the peak, I had regained my ability to speak and even pulled out my water bottle for a few gulps.
Looking ahead, I could actually see our destination—we were nearly at the pass—and with a final bit of focus and a couple dozen repetitions of my mantra, I indeed did have this and soon was happily basking in the sunshine at the top of the pass.
Improving My Photography: Wait For the Moment
Tip #1: Wait For the Moment
I have heard this advice repeatedly yet it's been difficult for me to put into practice. One of my biggest obstacles, beyond my impatience, is that I don't make photography my priority. Rather. I take my camera on my walk, or take my camera on my vacation, or take my camera to record the moment; a moment I don't even wait for!
So out I headed with my iPhone and photography as my priority. The following illustrates my best example of the snapshot versus waiting.
Two kids sit looking at books.
The moment when his sister puts a book in a bin outside the door causing the small boy to glance up.
The first is a nice photo without a compelling story. In the second a story is waiting to be told.
9 places to factor into your post-blizzard walking route
Good news, I have conducted a very unscientific survey (while walking, of course) and can provide the inputs for an algorithm to identify the best-shoveled sidewalk route.
For starters there are sidewalks that should definitely be avoided as they are the least likely to be cleared after a storm. For instance:
- Cross-walk access. Yes, definitely the most unlikely of snow-blocked routes, yet time after time while the sidewalk was clear and the street was clear, crossing the street would lead the walker straight into a significant snow-encounter.
- Post-offices— clearly the postal service has enough to do to reduce costs without focusing on clearly sidewalks.
- Gas stations— pretty obvious one here as their only goal is to get cars in and out so the easiest place to pile up the snow is one the sidewalk. Honestly, why would anyone want to walk by a gas station?
- Strip malls— serious uncleared sidewalkoffenders with an economic incentive. All of the strip malls I passed had well cleared passage into their mall. Draw the walkers in and maybe they’ll stay to shop.
- Seriously, in the photo at left, the sidewalk goes to the right of the shrubbery along the street. The cleared walkway in the left part of the photo goes along the strip mall and soon turns left, away from the sidewalk.
While those are spots to definitely be avoided, I need Google to find sidewalks that run in front of the following establishments:
- Places of worship— possibly due to their charitable nature or possibly to help new followers find the path to follow, literally, their sidewalks are among the first cleared post-storm.
- Train platforms— actually train tracks were far and away the most tempting route for my walk other than the high likelihood of meeting a train traveling at far greater speeds and with far greater mass than I, but that’s a physics problem for XKCD. So, Google, no need to include any well-cleared railroad tracks for my route. However, the platforms along train tracks are definitely fair game— well-cleared and wide enough for walking side-by-side with a friend.
- Libraries offer another wide-path alternative— wide enough for a double stroller to easily make it past. Perhaps there’s a high correlation between book borrowers and winter stroller walkers.
- Pizza parlors were a surprising find in the clear-sidewalk category. The sidewalks around the local pizza house were not only well cleared to the door, they were down to pavement all the way around. Shoveling might be a good way to cool off after standing in front of a hot pizza oven.
- Finally, considerate home owners. Identifying who might actually take the time to shovel using only the data available from a Google map is a little tricky.
At first I thought I saw a correlation between homes with porches and shoveled walks, but alas that quickly faded farther from the town center. Perhaps home-owners with driveways would be more likely to shovel their walk as they were already out clearing a driveway. That too proved a dead-end, perhaps they were too tired from shoveling the driveway.
Then I saw it— homes with a front door painted in a contrasting color to the rest of the house are far more likely to have a clear sidewalk out front than other houses. I didn’t come up with a reasonably hypothesis on why this would be, but with Google street view, front door paint color can often be discerned. If the color contrasts with the siding, trim and shutters then voilà! Add that house to my walking route.
So Google, just maximize walking past homes with contrasting front doors, pizza parlors, libraries, train platforms and houses of worship, while minimizing strip malls, gas stations, post offices and major intersections that need to be crossed. How hard could that be?
Downy Woodpecker tummy-to-tummy with Red-bellied Woodpecker
While many people easily confuse the Downy and Hairy Woodpecker when not seen side-by-side, I doubt if there’s much confusion over the Downy (on the left) and Red-bellied (on the right, with no red belly). Regardless, their bird feeder stand-off allows an easy tummy-to-tummy, as it were, comparison.
Night Skys
Picnic, check. Beach blanket, check. Forecast for clear skies and northern lights, check, check! Having read about the fickleness of clear skies and northern lights even when they are predicted, we headed to the beach early to enjoy the rippled sand and sunset. Any northern light sighting would be considered a bonus.
What a show indeed. The deep oranges of the setting sun reflected off every surface and reminded me of one of the pleasures of summer camp— lake sunsets that never grow old.
Every evening campers and counselors drift to the water’s edge in ones or twos or threes to watch the sun’s departing show. While artificial lights creep across our cities and suburbs, camp life celebrates natural darkness where only the occasional flashlight interrupts the moonlight dancing across the lake. Looking up into a star-studded sky and seeing a satellite slowing arcing past or spotting a shooting star or recognizing a constellation by name are gifts campers receive each summer.
These were the memories that flitted through my mind as I sat on the beach gazing north over the dark ocean, waiting expectantly for the northern lights. Was there a green glow above the horizon? Possibly. Was it the aurora borealis? Possibly, or possibly my imagination.
We looked up at the Big Dipper and Cassiopeia, enjoying the darkness and quiet. We may or may not have seen an the northern lights, but like a summer night at camp, we thoroughly enjoyed the delights of the night sky.
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