Today camp began. Each year our drop-off has gotten a bit less outwardly emotional, although I still return home feeling a bit hollow. But I have come a long in the five years since I first took my older daughter to camp. Preparing for her first summer at camp was easy; meeting the reality of a good-bye was exceedingly difficult. I wanted a bear hug and “I’ll miss you Mama.” She wanted a quick hug and a kiss and a chance to melt into the new found group of girls.
It seemed the snow bank was still knee high at the end of our driveway the day she began packing her trunk. Each afternoon after completing her homework, she’d ask, “Can I go up and pack now?” The first several times she asked, I quizzically responded, “But your trunk is packed.” “Not the new socks you bought me,” she’d reply. Or, “I have a newly sharpened pencil to pack.” And so it went for an entire month of anticipation. Each day pulling everything out and rearranging the entire contents as the newly acquired item always seemed to need to be packed on the bottom of the trunk.
The day before we were to drop her off, she became very quiet. Perhaps the reality was beginning to settle on her. By lunch the day we drove to camp, her vocabulary had diminished to “No thank you” and “I’m not hungry.” I made her favorite meal for lunch— she managed to eek one noodle from her fork to her mouth before uttering, “I’m not hungry.” The butterflies were gathering.
When we got to camp the first stop was a check in with the nurse. The nurse, being friendly, asked what Rachel was looking forward to doing at camp this summer. “Making a friend,” was her quiet reply. Tears filled my eyes; this would certainly be a difficult good-bye. Would she make a friend? Would she be happy? Would her counselor put her covers back on when they fell off at night?
At her cabin she selected her bunk without any fuss and although I wanted to help her unpack and get settled, she simply wanted to change into her uniform and head to the playground with 2 other girls in her cabin. I worried when she only put one blanket on her bed (it gets cold in Maine at night!). I wanted to arrange the photos that she had brought from home and hang up her laundry bag and bathing suits and towel. She quickly changed, selecting footwear to match her cabin mates and headed out as a camper. We followed, her sister and father and I, and although we were close behind we watched her move farther and farther from us, finding her own way, understanding the need to belong and looking for a way to belong.
In many ways that distance has shrunk each year she’s returned to camp. For now, although she retains her confidence and independence for camp life, she also realizes the value of strong family bonds and shares her camping enthusiasm with her family. She may have moved farther from us in her independence, but she has moved closer to us in her need to share her new experiences and see how they fit into the greater web of her life.
House Painting, only House Painting
Our house painter is an outstanding painter; unfortunately he’s a poor horticulturist. At least from his lack of respect for greenery I presume he’s untrained as a gardener; I’ve never actually seen his gardens. This doesn’t matter much when he’s painting the interior, but for exterior work it’s definitely a detriment.
His fastidiousness as a painter extends to the care he shows his employees. For instance, he doesn’t hire cheap labor that will climb unsteady ladders to dizzying heights uninsured. No, he has his father and other relatives working for him, and apparently he cares for all of them as he insists on renting (at our expense) a large cherry picker to reach the highest parts of the house. Okay, so I wouldn’t want to climb up a ladder to those heights either which is one of the reasons I chose not to paint the house myself.
The bright orange cherry picker comes with its own high pitched beep which is activated every time the arm supporting the basket is moved as we and all of our neighbors discovered at 6 am the first morning the painting began. Apparently the painters hold their paint brushes still while moving the basket slowly back and forth to paint. Consequently there is pretty much a continuous beeping echoing around our house.
As I come around the corner to our house, I do a double take. No, that isn’t a 10 ton vehicle parked on our lawn! Yes it is. Well, the painter must have mused, if the cherry picker worked so well above the driveway, it will work equally well on the opposite side—just need to drive it across the lawn. Here’s where his lack of a green thumb is most evident. Did he put down some planking to distribute the weight of the 10 ton vehicle? No, he just drove right over the curb, across the sidewalk, leaving deep welts in his wake, and right on across our beautiful lawn! And then he leaves it parked there overnight as he claims the wear and tear on the lawn will only be intensified if he drives off and on again (why not just drive off and stay off?!) Why can’t I stand up to my painter and tell him I don’t appreciate how he treats the greenery in my yard? Why does he intimidate me just because he knows so much about painting? This is ridiculous.
So instead of saying anything to him, I fume quietly to myself, okay and to my husband, about the deep welts that are now in the middle of our front lawn and will likely need reseeding come fall. Sigh. Yes the painting does look excellent—just don’t get the wide angle view that takes into account the lawn.
Next time he comes to paint I will disallow the cherry picker on my lawn—I will resolve to stand up for my lawn and my garden. I will. I will. I think I will. I hope I will. We’ll see.
His fastidiousness as a painter extends to the care he shows his employees. For instance, he doesn’t hire cheap labor that will climb unsteady ladders to dizzying heights uninsured. No, he has his father and other relatives working for him, and apparently he cares for all of them as he insists on renting (at our expense) a large cherry picker to reach the highest parts of the house. Okay, so I wouldn’t want to climb up a ladder to those heights either which is one of the reasons I chose not to paint the house myself.
The bright orange cherry picker comes with its own high pitched beep which is activated every time the arm supporting the basket is moved as we and all of our neighbors discovered at 6 am the first morning the painting began. Apparently the painters hold their paint brushes still while moving the basket slowly back and forth to paint. Consequently there is pretty much a continuous beeping echoing around our house.
As I come around the corner to our house, I do a double take. No, that isn’t a 10 ton vehicle parked on our lawn! Yes it is. Well, the painter must have mused, if the cherry picker worked so well above the driveway, it will work equally well on the opposite side—just need to drive it across the lawn. Here’s where his lack of a green thumb is most evident. Did he put down some planking to distribute the weight of the 10 ton vehicle? No, he just drove right over the curb, across the sidewalk, leaving deep welts in his wake, and right on across our beautiful lawn! And then he leaves it parked there overnight as he claims the wear and tear on the lawn will only be intensified if he drives off and on again (why not just drive off and stay off?!) Why can’t I stand up to my painter and tell him I don’t appreciate how he treats the greenery in my yard? Why does he intimidate me just because he knows so much about painting? This is ridiculous.
So instead of saying anything to him, I fume quietly to myself, okay and to my husband, about the deep welts that are now in the middle of our front lawn and will likely need reseeding come fall. Sigh. Yes the painting does look excellent—just don’t get the wide angle view that takes into account the lawn.
Next time he comes to paint I will disallow the cherry picker on my lawn—I will resolve to stand up for my lawn and my garden. I will. I will. I think I will. I hope I will. We’ll see.
Trailer Wife
Today was boat launching day and I fulfilled my role as trailer wife. Meaning no disrespect to the many women who are quite capable of launching a boat from a trailer, it seems that the preponderance of small boat launchings I’ve witnessed end with the wife getting into the car’s driver seat and pulling the empty trailer from the lake. This afternoon as we patiently waited to launch at the public boat launch, we witnessed this stereotype in action. Included in the couple’s car were two daughters who shouted words of encouragement like, “You’re going to hit the dock daddy!”
We were more fortunate, as not only has my husband perfected his boat launching since his impact with a large construction vehicle, but also we had no observers on hand beyond those in the car. True to form he easily manipulated the boat into the water and even avoided getting his feet wet as he floated the boat off of the trailer.
Like other trailer wives, I slid in behind the steering wheel to pull the empty trailer back up the ramp. My checklist was short— take off the emergency brake and pull forward. I pulled next to the curb, and waited a few moments to see if our boat was filling with water—a wait we’d neglected to include in our procedure last summer and which we’d regretted. Anyhow, this year no water poured into the boat, so I was waved on. I pulled onto the road for the drive home. The tension began creeping across my back as I attempted to accelerate nearly to the speed limit.
For me, driving the empty trailer home is like a trust fall. I trust my husband has securely attached the trailer to the hitch where it will stay until removed. Of course, unlike in a trust fall, if my trust is misplaced, there will be no one around to pick me up off the ground and see if I’m okay. Every bump seems to toss the trailer behind me—the rattles resonate through every nerve in my body. “This trailer rides so much quieter than our old one,” my husband had just commented on our drive to the launch—well that was before we unloaded 3500 pounds of ballast pushing down on it! The road is covered in frost heaves, oh, and joy, ahead I see a warning barrier where much of the roadway has been washed out—maybe I can accelerate and sneak through the middle before the on-coming car. Tension grips my whole midriff. Breathe; just breathe and relax, I remind myself.
I glance into my rearview mirror—a pickup truck is closing in. Drivers around here don’t like going 40 mph in a 50 mph zone—I accelerate up to 48, maybe I’ll make my turn off before he’s on my tail. I can feel the tension radiated from my spine embracing my rib cage. None of my relaxation techniques seem to be taking effect.
Finally, the turnoff for our road, I gracefully make a sweeping turn and I’m happy to note that the pickup doesn’t also turn. Now I can relax. I near our driveway. I spot our mailbox and breathe out the last bit of tension. I turn into our driveway—perhaps I should have held onto some of that tension— I take out a portion of the lilac bush.
We were more fortunate, as not only has my husband perfected his boat launching since his impact with a large construction vehicle, but also we had no observers on hand beyond those in the car. True to form he easily manipulated the boat into the water and even avoided getting his feet wet as he floated the boat off of the trailer.
Like other trailer wives, I slid in behind the steering wheel to pull the empty trailer back up the ramp. My checklist was short— take off the emergency brake and pull forward. I pulled next to the curb, and waited a few moments to see if our boat was filling with water—a wait we’d neglected to include in our procedure last summer and which we’d regretted. Anyhow, this year no water poured into the boat, so I was waved on. I pulled onto the road for the drive home. The tension began creeping across my back as I attempted to accelerate nearly to the speed limit.
For me, driving the empty trailer home is like a trust fall. I trust my husband has securely attached the trailer to the hitch where it will stay until removed. Of course, unlike in a trust fall, if my trust is misplaced, there will be no one around to pick me up off the ground and see if I’m okay. Every bump seems to toss the trailer behind me—the rattles resonate through every nerve in my body. “This trailer rides so much quieter than our old one,” my husband had just commented on our drive to the launch—well that was before we unloaded 3500 pounds of ballast pushing down on it! The road is covered in frost heaves, oh, and joy, ahead I see a warning barrier where much of the roadway has been washed out—maybe I can accelerate and sneak through the middle before the on-coming car. Tension grips my whole midriff. Breathe; just breathe and relax, I remind myself.
I glance into my rearview mirror—a pickup truck is closing in. Drivers around here don’t like going 40 mph in a 50 mph zone—I accelerate up to 48, maybe I’ll make my turn off before he’s on my tail. I can feel the tension radiated from my spine embracing my rib cage. None of my relaxation techniques seem to be taking effect.
Finally, the turnoff for our road, I gracefully make a sweeping turn and I’m happy to note that the pickup doesn’t also turn. Now I can relax. I near our driveway. I spot our mailbox and breathe out the last bit of tension. I turn into our driveway—perhaps I should have held onto some of that tension— I take out a portion of the lilac bush.
Dandelion Memories
Carefully loosening 
the soil all around the stubborn dandelion, I slowly attempted to pry that tenacious root from its bed of soil. What could possibly be pulling against my efforts so resolutely? Was there a contingent of earthworms strung end to end through the dirt holding fast to the root? Perhaps the root had managed to curl itself around a large rock, plentiful in my New England yard. Whatever the cause, my efforts were futile; I pulled firmly and sure enough out popped the dandelion leaving its root behind to grow again into an even stronger nuisance.
Continuing to my next opponent, dirt pressed beneath my fingernails, my thoughts flitted to my childhood, where I sat watching a neighboring puttering across his lawn in pursuit of every last dandelion. His lawn was flat and green, free of dandelions and other minor inconveniences like prickly beechnuts. My friend and I would ring his doorbell many a sunny afternoon and ask if we could borrow his lawn for our gymnastics stunts. Every time he’d respond, “as long as you bring it back.”
When I’d wander across the street while he was weeding, he’d explain that is was critical to nab the entire root—that was the secret of his success for winning against the dandelions. At the time, that seemed a very straightforward process. So many years later as a homeowner, tackling my own dandelions, I was surprised by how difficult was the quest to remove dandelions. Were he my neighbor now, I’d walk over as he stooped with his trowel, and ask for the key to removing the root—should I take a clump of grass with it? Was my trowel the wrong size? Should I wait until after the rain?
Alas, he died some years ago, but yet each spring as I amble around my yard, trowel in hand, his memory comes to mind. What small task of mine will call up a memory of me in years hence? I can only hope that some action I do today or tomorrow or each spring or fall, will someday bring a smile to a future face, picturing an idyllic scene from a childhood afternoon. In the meantime, I think the rain’s slowing, maybe now is just the right time for dandelion pursuits.
the soil all around the stubborn dandelion, I slowly attempted to pry that tenacious root from its bed of soil. What could possibly be pulling against my efforts so resolutely? Was there a contingent of earthworms strung end to end through the dirt holding fast to the root? Perhaps the root had managed to curl itself around a large rock, plentiful in my New England yard. Whatever the cause, my efforts were futile; I pulled firmly and sure enough out popped the dandelion leaving its root behind to grow again into an even stronger nuisance.Continuing to my next opponent, dirt pressed beneath my fingernails, my thoughts flitted to my childhood, where I sat watching a neighboring puttering across his lawn in pursuit of every last dandelion. His lawn was flat and green, free of dandelions and other minor inconveniences like prickly beechnuts. My friend and I would ring his doorbell many a sunny afternoon and ask if we could borrow his lawn for our gymnastics stunts. Every time he’d respond, “as long as you bring it back.”
When I’d wander across the street while he was weeding, he’d explain that is was critical to nab the entire root—that was the secret of his success for winning against the dandelions. At the time, that seemed a very straightforward process. So many years later as a homeowner, tackling my own dandelions, I was surprised by how difficult was the quest to remove dandelions. Were he my neighbor now, I’d walk over as he stooped with his trowel, and ask for the key to removing the root—should I take a clump of grass with it? Was my trowel the wrong size? Should I wait until after the rain?
Alas, he died some years ago, but yet each spring as I amble around my yard, trowel in hand, his memory comes to mind. What small task of mine will call up a memory of me in years hence? I can only hope that some action I do today or tomorrow or each spring or fall, will someday bring a smile to a future face, picturing an idyllic scene from a childhood afternoon. In the meantime, I think the rain’s slowing, maybe now is just the right time for dandelion pursuits.
Whom Do the School Car Pool Rules Benefit
So who are those school car pool rules made for anyhow? When my children attended elementary school, I dutifully read through the list of guidelines for ‘parent pickup’—that snaking line of idling cars lining up each afternoon before dismissal to gather their offspring. Arriving occasionally to pick up one child or the other, I was appreciative of the teacher monitors keeping an eye on the kids and opening and closing the car doors. Naively, I thought that all of those guidelines and the monitors were meant to control the exuberance of the students after dismissal and keep them well behaved and waiting patiently before hopping into the minivans, suburbans and the occasional sedan. Well once I was introduced to the middle school car pool line I found out the truth. Those rules had nothing to do with keeping the kids in line; they had everything to do with keeping the parents in line.
The middle school car pool line is a regular free for all approach to dropping of and picking up students. You would think that most drivers, having come up through the ranks of elementary school parent pick-up lines, would be conditioned to follow some basic guidelines. But apparently this new found freedom is too much of an enticement to create one’s own plan. Like the pioneers establishing their own governance, middle school parents create their own rules in the pick-up line. Our line has the added benefit of being a closed loop with exiting cars frequently choosing to cross over entering traffic. This novel system frequently produces gridlock with all of the cars held up from exiting the loop.
Here are several commonly followed practices you can try that are sure to invoke gridlock each afternoon in the carpool line (while of course simultaneously raising my blood pressure as I watch in disbelief at the absurdity of some of the drivers).
- Do not move forward to fill all available space. Instead stop directly next to your child who certainly wouldn’t want to walk 40 feet to the car.
- After loading passengers, be sure to rearrange the entire contents of your car before moving forward out of the line.
- Talk on your cell phone in line becoming completely distracted and don’t even bother moving forward with the line of cars.
- Simply avoid going in the line in the first place. Your child is clearly more important than any other student and your time is more valuable than all of the other parents’ in line. Pull around all of the other cars, and proceed to impede all traffic flow while your child saunters over to the car.
And these are only a few of the myriad of the approaches to creating gridlock that have indeed been attempted, often successfully, by middle school car pool drivers. Perhaps we need an extra year or two in the elementary car pool lane.
Trunk Day
Apart from the dull green of the unbending evergreens, the whole world appears monochromatic. Shades of grey along the hills are sandwiched between the dull white of the snow and the grey-white of the low hanging clouds. Wisps of clouds like melted cheese ooze through the hills obscuring where the hills end and the sky begins.
Yet despite the dim day, the smiles couldn’t be bigger in my hallway. For today is the day the trunks come out! One of the wonders of camp is the connection to place that is quickly brought to life when the latch of the trunk is opened and the lid is lifted to reveal the memories of a summer past and the possibilities of a summer future.
As my daughters pore through the contents of their trunks, packed away since last August, there is a constant patter of “I’d forgotten about this,.” or “okay, does this still work?” and “let’s see, I have my can of pencils, some need sharpening.”
As a parent, I was most concerned with whether last year’s uniform would still fit and whether we’d need to purchase any new shirts or shorts. Apparently that was not even on their check list. For when I asked how their shirts fit, I heard quizzically, “I’m not trying anything on.” Somehow my daughters’ goals for getting their trunks ready for camp are not in the same plane as my goals. Truly, does it really matter if their sweatshirt sleeves no longer come down to their wrists or if their shirts have a few holes and paint stains—hey shirts are even better that way!
Then eventually, “So now do I need to put everything back in?” I always wonder at queries like this. Are they meant to be rhetorical or does a 10 year old truly believe that having the contents of her trunk strewn across the hallway is the optimal way to leave things before heading on to her next activity?
Yet despite the dim day, the smiles couldn’t be bigger in my hallway. For today is the day the trunks come out! One of the wonders of camp is the connection to place that is quickly brought to life when the latch of the trunk is opened and the lid is lifted to reveal the memories of a summer past and the possibilities of a summer future.
As my daughters pore through the contents of their trunks, packed away since last August, there is a constant patter of “I’d forgotten about this,.” or “okay, does this still work?” and “let’s see, I have my can of pencils, some need sharpening.”
As a parent, I was most concerned with whether last year’s uniform would still fit and whether we’d need to purchase any new shirts or shorts. Apparently that was not even on their check list. For when I asked how their shirts fit, I heard quizzically, “I’m not trying anything on.” Somehow my daughters’ goals for getting their trunks ready for camp are not in the same plane as my goals. Truly, does it really matter if their sweatshirt sleeves no longer come down to their wrists or if their shirts have a few holes and paint stains—hey shirts are even better that way!
Then eventually, “So now do I need to put everything back in?” I always wonder at queries like this. Are they meant to be rhetorical or does a 10 year old truly believe that having the contents of her trunk strewn across the hallway is the optimal way to leave things before heading on to her next activity?
It's The Feeling Not the Food
While the Israelites may have fled with unleavened bread to hasten their departure, finding Matzos these days requires significant preplanning. I would have thought that by now I’d know how much Matzo our household would consume during Passover and be prepared by buying it all in advance. But no, I remain a just-in-time shopper, and consequently we are down to our last morsel of Matzo with Passover not even half over. Scouring the shelves of two different supermarket chains brought no signs of unleavened bread beyond the bagger at the check out commenting that ‘the stock was looking pretty low yesterday so we’re probably all out by now.”
Oh well, if our menu doesn’t provide sufficient reminders of the Exodus, then perhaps I can recreate the feeling of the Exodus with my last minute preparations. While my mother-in-law is the consummate prepared hostess, my food planning is consistently last minute. So when I still hadn’t made the brisket the morning of Passover, even though my mother-in-law's recipe clearly recommends making it the night before in order to simplify dinner preparations, my walking partner suggested instead that I could recreate the mood of the Israelites grabbing what provisions they could as they headed out in haste. I mean really, were any of them writing up their shopping lists days in advance in order to allow their meat to rest overnight for optimum taste? This sounded like just the plan I needed to make my Passover dinner work.
You see, I have only hosted a handful of Passover dinners, and just as the first three Christmas trees my husband set up in the early years of our marriage crashed to the floor in the middle of the night, my Passover meals have been somewhat less than traditional. For instance, the first Passover I hosted, I drew upon the traditional Thanksgiving dinners I had grown up with, for in essence, Passover is both a remembrance and a giving of thanks. So I dutifully made every recipe listed in my Passover book, set the seder plate, and then, before calling everyone to the table, set the table with the steaming how dishes of brisket and kugel and beans—thankfully I at least knew enough to not make biscuits. Not only did the food all grow cold while we read through the Haggadah, but we could hardly hear one another over the growling of our stomachs as the aromas curled around our empty plates and our eyes drank in the feast set before us.
Several years later as I was shopping for Matzos, I found the end cap at the grocery stocked full with Manischewitz Matzos. Upon closer review, I noticed that every box had a large orange ‘unsalted’ banner plastered across the front. Was this what I was supposed to buy? Would everyone notice and wonder why I hadn’t tailed a Jewish shopper around the store to find the regular Matzos for those in the know? Confused, but not heading home without Matzos, I put a box in my cart. My husband found my confusion amusing, “They never have salt,” he told me, “must just be a new marketing tactic for health conscious consumers.”
So next year I’ll know not to put the serving dishes on the table when we sit down, that all matzos are unsalted and that I need to purchase all the matzos I’ll need well before Passover. I wonder what new lesson will come my way.
Oh well, if our menu doesn’t provide sufficient reminders of the Exodus, then perhaps I can recreate the feeling of the Exodus with my last minute preparations. While my mother-in-law is the consummate prepared hostess, my food planning is consistently last minute. So when I still hadn’t made the brisket the morning of Passover, even though my mother-in-law's recipe clearly recommends making it the night before in order to simplify dinner preparations, my walking partner suggested instead that I could recreate the mood of the Israelites grabbing what provisions they could as they headed out in haste. I mean really, were any of them writing up their shopping lists days in advance in order to allow their meat to rest overnight for optimum taste? This sounded like just the plan I needed to make my Passover dinner work.
You see, I have only hosted a handful of Passover dinners, and just as the first three Christmas trees my husband set up in the early years of our marriage crashed to the floor in the middle of the night, my Passover meals have been somewhat less than traditional. For instance, the first Passover I hosted, I drew upon the traditional Thanksgiving dinners I had grown up with, for in essence, Passover is both a remembrance and a giving of thanks. So I dutifully made every recipe listed in my Passover book, set the seder plate, and then, before calling everyone to the table, set the table with the steaming how dishes of brisket and kugel and beans—thankfully I at least knew enough to not make biscuits. Not only did the food all grow cold while we read through the Haggadah, but we could hardly hear one another over the growling of our stomachs as the aromas curled around our empty plates and our eyes drank in the feast set before us.
Several years later as I was shopping for Matzos, I found the end cap at the grocery stocked full with Manischewitz Matzos. Upon closer review, I noticed that every box had a large orange ‘unsalted’ banner plastered across the front. Was this what I was supposed to buy? Would everyone notice and wonder why I hadn’t tailed a Jewish shopper around the store to find the regular Matzos for those in the know? Confused, but not heading home without Matzos, I put a box in my cart. My husband found my confusion amusing, “They never have salt,” he told me, “must just be a new marketing tactic for health conscious consumers.”
So next year I’ll know not to put the serving dishes on the table when we sit down, that all matzos are unsalted and that I need to purchase all the matzos I’ll need well before Passover. I wonder what new lesson will come my way.
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