Count 'Em Up

When it's April and still snowing and the pile of snow on the north side of your house is still high enough that, if you stand on it, you can touch your roof, it's a good time to look around and try to find the blessings in your life. I thought of this the other day, as I drove to work in yet another snow squall, and I nearly drove off the road at the sight of snow geese in an open field at Simplicity Farm, the organic dairy farm just a few miles from my house.

Last year's corn stalks are poking through the shrinking snow pack and, in among them, I have seen for some days a flock of Canada geese. But the other day, white geese with black-tipped wings milled about in their company. Snow geese have made western Vermont one of their stopping points on their southbound journey each fall. In years past, another lifetime it seems, I made fall journeys over the Green Mountains, from my eastern side of the hills, to the Dead Creek Wildlife Refuge to welcome their arrival. They are a spectacular sight when they number in the hundreds or thousands. The other day, I saw only a handful which, in a way, seemed somehow more magical.

I don't know too much about snow geese, but I do know they mate for life. I know they spend their summers in the Arctic tundra. And, I know they are beautiful.

The snow geese at Simplicity Farm briefly expanded my sense of space to the bird's eye view and to migratory distances. I swirled around above all of the murky weather and mud for just a moment or two before landing back here in the Mad River Valley. I drove on thinking about this place where I live. The people who make it what it is. The reasons I've chosen to live here…

I thought about the early phase of committing to it all. Sam had just bought our little 5.8 acre lot and we were living as dorm parents in order to save money to build a house. We spent all of our free time up on the land, cutting trees, pushing the woods back to create a bit of space, excavating the old stone walls that surround us on three sides. We built a tent platform where we thought the house should be so we could try it out...see what the view was like, see how the sun hit at different times of day and different seasons. 

At the end of a work day, we'd sit on the edge of the platform and drink a beer, admire our progress. Suspended as it was in the trees, we could hang our legs over the edge. It felt good to be up in the air. Our house is now where the platform used to be. The trees that held it up are built into our timberframe, still holding us up. 

It was, and is, the right spot.

During that process, we also planned our wedding. That ritual was about our relationship, of course, but it was also about this place…our land, our town, our valley beyond. It was about building a life together, and about building that life here among the mountains and rivers we love, in the company of friends and neighbors we value.

So, when I heard that one of our neighbors on our hill was a justice of the peace, she seemed like the perfect person to marry us. I hadn't met her yet, but I knew where she lived. We'd pass her house a mile before reaching our land. She has the best view of Camel's Hump in the entire state. I started looking for her every time I drove by in hopes that I might meet her. One warm morning, she was sitting outside in front of her house. She was in her nightgown, eating a bowl of oatmeal, the gallon can of maple syrup on the table next to her…my kind of gal.

I might have driven a bit fast on our road, in those early days, always eager to get to our land and never fully appreciating the scenery on the way up. So, that morning when I saw Stephanie, I was almost past her when she came into view. I slammed on the breaks and kicked up a cloud of dirt from the road. I jumped out of the car, amazed to finally see her, in the flesh, after all those months of stalking her.

"Are you Stephanie?" I blurted out.

"Yes," she replied slowly, eyebrows bent in a "who the hell are you?" sort of way, seeming to suggest that I should, first of all, slow the hell down, and second, have a damned good reason for interrupting her early morning solitude.

"My name is Kerry and my partner and I are wondering if you'd marry us!" As if she knew our whole story. As if she cared. As if I hadn't just put dirt in her oatmeal. I don't remember her exact response, but I think it was essentially a "Yes…but let's get to know each other a bit first" kind of answer.

From then on, I drove by slowly and always made sure to wave as I passed—whether I could see her and her husband Louie or not. (Some time later, when I was visiting in their living room, they told me they always saw me wave and appreciated it. They also suggested I convince Sam to slow down.)

Stephanie eventually did marry us, but only after she came up to our half-built house on a warm fall day and sat with us on our back porch. She asked us a bunch of questions—about why we wanted to marry, about why we wanted to live here on this shared hill, about how the hell we planned to get up and down it in the winter! We talked with her about our families and our values and our goals and, when the talk was over, we had a better sense than we ever had before of why we were doing what we were doing.

Stephanie took that conversation and turned it into the most lovely wedding ceremony I could've imagined. I dreaded standing up in front of everyone to say our vows; I was nervous and embarrassed for some reason. But, in the end, the ceremony itself was my absolute favorite part of the whole event. We were surrounded by loved ones—a small group by most standards, only about sixty family members and just our oldest friends. We didn't have a fancy alter or arbor or anything like that. We didn't even have flowers up there. It was just me and Sam, our friend Jim and my sister Amy standing up with us, and Stephanie with her music stand to hold her prepared words. 

Sam and I wrote our own vows—you would expect that of two English teachers, I suppose. We wrote them separately, with no guidelines, and they turned out to express nearly the exact same sentiments—the same themes of respect for each other's independence, desire to share adventures together, devotion to one another and of course a promise to love one another through all the highs and lows. Stephanie's additions were about a sense of place, about our shared hill, about the community we were coming into and which we would help shape.

When I was growing up, my family moved twice, once when I was in third grade and again after ninth grade. I never felt rooted anywhere. I never felt that I had a real home, a sense of history or continuity. I always felt like the new kid, from somewhere else. My whole life I craved home. I have always wanted to belong and have been envious of those with real roots. 

Seeing the snow geese the other day, I was reminded: this is my arctic tundra. I have chosen this place to build my home, set down my roots. So now, as I wait for the snow to melt, and I take stock of my life, I take solace in the blessings I can count. Underneath two feet of snow, there are snow drops working their way toward the sun. My friend Tei gave me the bulbs. And there are tulips and daffodils from my friend Mike; they're on their way too. I have strawberries from Sam's mom and dad's garden, and rhubarb from our friends the Stetsons. I have perennials galore from Char and Jean and neighbors here on our hill. I have a crab apple tree given to me by my friend Bernie on my mother's birthday, to plant for my mom. I have a new stone wall, holding up a new curved garden bed, built by Sam late last summer, that's just waiting for me to decide what to plant…what roots to set. And I have neighbors who appreciate when I wave.

In these seemingly interminable late winter days, it is easy to think about the lingering darkness that is both real and metaphorical. It is easy to feel sad when I think about Japan, or anxious when I think of Tik, another recent student who just spent two weeks in a Syrian prison. It is easy to feel profoundly vulnerable when I think of my current students who have, in the past week, had seizures and been diagnosed with cancer. Even as I look forward to going on our first vacation with Quinn next week, I am reminded of the panicky phone call I received from my friend Mary years ago; she was about to get on a plane and she called to ask if I would take care of her daughter Claire if anything happened to her and her husband.

I have my own panicky thoughts now. I do not want my daughter to be motherless as I am, especially as young as she is. Sam and I spent yesterday afternoon filling out our application for life insurance. But, what value do you put on a life? Who will we ask to raise our daughter? Will our daughter grow to adulthood without having seizures, without cancer? All of this is an exercise in self control.

How does one make it through life with all these hazards to navigate? Is it even possible to navigate them? Believing so is magical thinking…as much as I plan and organize and arrange all the details, there is no controlling it all, there is no controlling what hasn't happened yet.  And, when you are me and control is important, some of these late winter days of darkness and cold are really dark and really cold.

And so, you do what you taught yourself to do years ago: you interrupt yourself even though interrupting is technically not polite; you do it because you have to. You interrupt the dark thoughts by counting up your blessings. You lift yourself up above it all and you look around from the bird's eye view and you see your neighbors' houses which are actually much closer than they feel when the road is blocked by snow, and you see your gardens starting to reveal themselves, and you imagine the taste of fresh strawberries and the feel of sun on your skin, and you feel lucky to have seen the snow geese because they may have been some crazy fluke here in this valley, and you were there to see them and you can tell your neighbors about it the next time you see them because this is where you live. You have a home, a place to set down roots, and so many people who have shared a bit of their world to help you create yours. And, you have Quinn, sleeping on the bed next to you, to hand it all over to someday.

Last spring on May 4th

The Pussy Posse

One day, when I was complaining about a man I know who was being a bit vulnerable, possibly even a bit dramatic, my friend Mollie cut me short: "Women have pussies. Men just act like them." Mollie doesn't mix words; she's one of my Scorpio friends. And, though her theory doesn't always hold true, it did on that particular day.

Do you know that after a woman pushes another human being out through a very small opening in her own flesh, the people at the hospital tell her to "take a couple of Tylenol" for the pain? 

Tylenol. And I bet many women don't even bother.

That's what I need to talk about now that I've talked about Crazy Town: I need to talk about women. Or, as my friend Cathy would say, The Pussy Posse. Because, even though I love Sam, and even though he works really hard to be supportive, without the women in my life, I'd still be sitting in the trunk.

I am very lucky to have a wonderful and diverse posse. Some of the women in my life have been hanging around for a long time. Others are relatively new. A bunch showed up somewhere in between, but of course, that part is irrelevant; I am deeply grateful for all of them.

Girlfriends are the people who sit around in a church basement after your mother's funeral and manage to make you laugh. They call you up again and again and invite you to do things even when they know you're trying to sleep a year or two of your life away. Girlfriends bake your wedding cake for you, even though you were too young and too naïve to find a way to even get to their wedding. They come to your parties early, dressed up like they've been invited to some very posh affair, and equipped with incredible food they've prepared just for your event. Girlfriends each bring their own bottle of wine (or ginger beer), and they settle in, undistracted, for as long as the fire's going and as long as your husband is away.

Girlfriends laugh at you when you take yourself too seriously, they call your bluff when you're trying to cover something up, and they tell you to stop acting like an idiot when you are acting like an idiot. And if you're not the idiot, they are happy to join you in lambasting the person who is. Girlfriends walk past the screen door, hanging from just one hinge, and say, "We can fix that," and then they come in for a cup of tea. And they keep coming for tea even though you seem to be developing a habit of trying to demolish your front door.

Anyone who is lucky enough to have a good girlfriend, or two, or twelve, knows what I’m talking about. True friends rank as one of the very best aspects of being alive. As my friend Char says, "friends are the family we choose." And, when you find yourself pregnant, after trying to get pregnant, but horrified by the prospect of being pregnant nonetheless, you need these women friends…you need all the women you can get your mitts on.

You expect your sister to be there for you because she can't really escape you, right? And you expect all those crazy friends who had kids back in their prime to be there for you because frankly they've been trying to get you to join their club for years! Here's the part that surprised me: just about every woman you know, close friend or casual acquaintance, baby-lover or not…women all over the place come to your aid.

I didn't anticipate this. I thought I would be going through it essentially alone, missing my mother and paying for my own past failures to support and celebrate my pregnant friends. But, I was wrong; I had more support than I knew what to do with. One day I was visiting my dad and I sat crying at the kitchen table because I was more than halfway through my pregnancy and my baby-to-be still didn't have a single thing to wear. On cue, my dad's wife Louise produced a gift bag with a bunch of soft little nightgowns. From there, it was as if every woman in the universe heard my plea and the supplies started rolling in. First, it was boxes and boxes of hand-me-downs from friends in Colorado and Connecticut and Maine. Then our basement filled up with swings and seats and play stuff from a friend who, best of all, would need it all back when we were done! 

One night in July, my non-mom friends came to pick me up for a summer girls' night. It was Cathy's birthday that night, but still, they piled out of two cars in my driveway with armloads full of little frilly dresses, fuzzy blankets, hand painted onesies and, for me, wine and a gift card for a future dinner out. These friends, with beautiful bodies that have never been stretched, forced me to snap out of my self-consciousness and embrace my own bulge.

And my already-mom friends, the same friends I ran around Burlington with doing all kinds of things that I imagine laughing about someday, when our kids (all but one of whom are girls) are grown enough to sit around and tell those tales to...

…well, those friends bought me all the gifts I didn't want but they knew I would eventually need. And I did need them.

And when I really just needed my mom, my friends even shared their moms. Carol, who bought some of Quinn's most adorable outfits and accessories, called me from North Carolina after Quinn was born and kept me company on the phone for a very long time while I struggled through the early days of nursing. And Wendy, who filled Quinn's room with more wonderful stuff, including her first pair of cowboy boots, has also continued to fill my inbox with just the kind of encouragement my own mom would provide if she were here…even though Wendy has, at the same time, been watching her own mother struggle through the ailments of her old age.

Then there were the neighbors, who sent sleds and beautiful silver bowls and more outfits…the same neighbors whose husbands have had to come out in the wintery dark to pull me out of ditches. And there are the friends from school, and the parents of students from school...who knitted hats and sweaters, and sent books, and little gardening tools, and fuzzy unicorns.

I can't even catalog all the stuff, and all the kind gestures…it would take way too long. Suffice it to say, Quinn is six months old now and I am still writing thank you notes.

My point is this: women are extraordinary, whether they are sisters or friends or acquaintances…they have a sixth sense that detects what other people need. And they provide for one another. They help each other get ready for the big events, and then they help each other recover after the big events. They take your calls and give you the information you need. And, after you confess your insanity to the world, lots and lots of them take the time to write you an email and tell you about the times they went to Crazy Town too.

I can't even really express how humbled I am by them, and how grateful I am for them. And I keep thinking about how I might have been a better girlfriend myself if my mom had been around to coach me in my twenties, and so, as Quinn naps next to me on the bed—our new weekend ritual: she sleeps and I write—I'm trying to figure out how to be sure Quinn gets this coaching, whether I'm here to provide it myself or not. 

So that's what this entry is about: it's about jotting some things down for Quinn to read someday when she is older, and it's about saying thank you…Thank you for the stuff, and the support, and the empathy, and the encouragement and all that magical estrogen. Thank you for being in my posse. A million times and for the rest of time: thank you.

Osmosis

I recognized the woman walking up our driveway this morning. She has the ruddy cheeks of someone who might drink too much, but maybe it's something else. Understandably, the dogs were barking; we never have unexpected guests. I put Quinn down on her mat, and got to the door as the woman started up the porch steps. I held the dogs back with a knee and said hi.

"I didn't realize it turned into a goat path!"  She nodded to her truck, stuck in the snow just beyond our driveway. "I had some time to kill before I pick my nephews up at detention; I thought I'd just take a drive."

"Yeah, that's a snowmobile trail. You're stuck?"

"Ha! Definitely, it looked plowed but as soon as I passed your driveway I sunk right in."

"It's groomed. The groomer went by just last night; that's why it looks so flat."

Quinn. The dogs. New truck. I thought about it all and then thought of Richard. I always think of Richard; he's our closest neighbor who lives ¼ mile down the hill. He has a big truck, a ham radio, chickens, and a lifetime of experiences that are helping us through ours.

I first met Richard the day that Sam and Corey lit the hill on fire. It was early spring four years ago and we were still clearing the land. Sam was eager to burn some of the brush piles down. I came up to bring lunch and drove around the corner into a wall of thick smoke. Sam was running in and out of that cloud with his chainsaw in one hand, dragging small pines out with the other. Corey was at the bottom of the clearing digging a trench as fast as he could. Flames were racing across the leaf litter, seeking out the skinny trunks of evergreens, then lighting them like matchsticks. After the shock wore off, I got back in the car and sped toward the house at the bottom of the hill. I ran to the door and knocked. "Hi! I'm Kerry! Our hill is on fire. Can I use your phone?" Richard pointed to the phone and was out the back door. By the time I finished answering the 911 operator's questions ("No! It's not a small brush fire! It's a forest fire!"), Richard already had his rakes and shovels loaded in his truck. He was out the driveway ahead of me.

When it was all over, the volunteer firefighters packed back into their various cars to head out; the Fire Chief had warned them, "15 minutes to NASCAR!"  I went back to town to recover. Eventually, Sam and Richard had a beer or two and had a more civilized introduction. Richard suggested, with what we now know to be a characteristic subtlety, that Sam might want to drop a donation off at the Fire Department. Good advice that we wouldn't have thought of. Then he eased Sam's embarrassment by telling him the story of the time he and his brother-in-law lit a fire that made ours look puny.

Richard always has a story. And he always seems to be watching out his window for our next disaster. The morning after we raised our timberframe, in July of 2007, he walked up to check on it. It had been raining for two days and by the time he came up on his morning walk with his dogs, there were six inches of mud in the basement—wall to wall. He went home, got some hoses and rigged some sort of siphon drainage. When we came up later that day, we found the apparatus and knew the real mess had already been cleaned up. That summer as we were building, Richard would walk up after he finished work every day. Some days he'd grab a hammer and climb up on the roof to start pounding nails.

When winter came we really got intimate. We saw him a lot then. He pulled us out of ditches, talked us out of jams, helped us with an endless rotation of flat plow truck tires and who knows what else; I've long since lost track and this is only our fourth winter. Now and then we bring him beer. I've baked cookies, brought him homemade ice cream, said thank you a million times. It's not enough; we know it and I'm sure he does too, but he's always there, always comes running out the side door of his house, always ready with a tool or a flashlight or some ski poles on icy nights when we have to walk home in the dark.

Sometimes I try to be self-sufficient, just to spare him yet another bail out. Once I got my car stuck when Sam wasn't home and I thought about the "free roadside assistance" that I pay for with my car insurance. I was determined not to need Richard's help, or Sam's. I called for a tow truck. Well, the wrecker got stuck too, far below where my car was. Eventually, after a series of insane forward-and-back maneuvers, the wrecker was out of the way. One of the guys hiked up to my car with me and pushed the front end around so gravity could do the rest. Richard looked on nervously from his driveway, relieved, no doubt, when I didn't launch over the berm and straight into the side of his barn. Glad too that his dogs were safely inside, and probably wondering why the hell I didn't just ask him for a hand. Recently, when I was hiking up with Quinn strapped to my chest, he seemed more nervous than ever. I assured him I'd be fine, not because I felt fine, but because our debt to him is already so massive…and because I really do like to be self-sufficient.

So, this morning I thought of Richard when the ruddy-cheeked woman in the camouflage coat was standing on my porch. I actually called his house. He didn't answer, and I wouldn't blame him if he just didn't want to. Maybe he saw the unfamiliar red truck drive by and then not come back--sure sign that someone didn't know about the road. Maybe he had a long night making snow up at the ski resort, saw my number on his caller id and just didn't have the energy. I kind of wish any of these things might be true, but I doubt they are. I can't imagine he'd ever turn his back if he knew we needed help—in fact, I know he wouldn't. For that reason I was glad when he didn't answer.

I've seen this woman around town. I've noticed her because she drives a huge pickup. I used to drive a pick up too, but mine was small. Still, I felt like a badass in that truck and I've missed it ever since I cashed it in for my practical, fuel-efficient and way-less-sexy car. And as I thought about my old truck and that old feeling, I made my decision: I picked up the baby, stepped into my leopard skin platform shoes and went out the front door.

"My neighbor's not home, but we might still have a tow rope in our old Chevy."

"Isn't she going to get cold? She's really cute."

"She's used to my bad parenting," I explained, "she'll be fine."

I found the tow rope and said I'd be right back; I had to put Quinn in her carseat. The ruddy-cheeked woman asked if she could borrow my shovel and she headed back to her truck to dig out the wheels. I felt a kindred spirit in her few words, her independence, and I felt glad that I was home alone. Quinn and I backed the truck out of the drive and toward her truck. I hopped out and hooked the rope up on her end, laid it on the snow toward mine and got back in to pull a bit closer. When I looked back, she was there holding the loose end, motioning me back.

"I'm sorry about this," she said, once we were connected.

"Don't be." I smiled, glad for the chance to help, glad for the sunny day, glad Quinn was in the truck for the adventure too. "My husband will be jealous," I said.

"Oh yeah?"

"We just got this truck," I explained, "This is its first tow."

"Yeah, last night I had to pull my husband out of a ditch. He was plowing with his Jeep and he just went right in."

I got back in and pulled her onto solid ground with little effort. We each unhooked our end of the rope. "I recognize you from around town," I said. "Did you used to eat at Egan's?" I waitressed there and that's where I know most people from in the Valley.

"I ate there once. We had a gift certificate from my brother."

"I must've been there that night." I didn't tell her how I always noticed her in that big truck. And that I wondered about her ruddy cheeks.

I told her my name. "I'm Tony," she said. Of course you are, I thought as we shook hands. I got back into the truck to back down the driveway, and I thought, where are all the boys now? Where are they when you're getting the job done on your own? But, it doesn't matter; the moment was its own reward. And I hoped that somehow it all seeped into Quinn's subconscious. 

There will be many things she learns from us, I'm sure, but I hope among those things she learns to be the kind of woman who can walk up to someone's house, if she needs to, and ask for help. And I also hope she learns to be the kind of woman who looks around and says to someone else, "hang on, I'll give you a hand." I hope she grows up noticing the kindness of others, learning their tricks and wanting to live up to the examples they set.

Most of my challenges in life have been little ones and I've always had a lot of help when I've needed it. For that I owe the universe (and Richard) a lot of favors. And I'm doing my best to live up to the examples that have been set for me, and admittedly, trying to prove wrong anyone who's ever tried to convince me that there are limits in life. I want Quinn's world to be limitless.

I looked forward in time to see Tony's hand waving out the window as she drove away. I hope she has a good day. And I hope Richard is having a good day. And I'm really thankful that Sam found a way to get us this new-used truck. It starts up every time.

Somedays I Make It; Somedays I Don't

(hit play now; you'll know why later)

Step 1: After a long day at work, pick up baby and head home. 
Step 2: At base of hill, scan horizon for hapless dogs or neighbors and make sure the coast is clear. 
Step 3: Step on the gas, hard, and gun it up the hill. 
Step 4: Smile as your car makes it to the top, slides around the corner and seems to be in the clear. 
Step 5: Hold breath as you realize, you are not going to make it. 
Step 6: Ride it out as far as possible, step on brake and regroup. 
Step 7: Glance in rearview mirror and check on baby.
Step 8: Back up to level spot, put it in drive and gun it; slide sideways into ditch. BAM! 
Step 9: Be thankful for bomb-proof car seat and try to convince yourself that you are daring, not an idiot!
Step 10: Repeat steps 7-9 three more times, with particular emphasis on Step 9. 
Step 11: Use gravity to get the wheels pointed down hill, then hope for the best as you careen past aforementioned neighbors’ houses. 
Step 12: Park car, prepare to load baby into pack, try not to curse husband who sent baby off in just pajamas and a hat, then admit to self that you did the same thing yesterday. 
Step 13: Try not to let baby see that you are warm while she is cold. 
Step 14: Hike baby ¼ mile up hill to house. 


Part II
Step 1: It’s a brand new day. Put on empty backpack and sled ¼ mile down hill to parked car. 
Step 2: Load up baby’s gear and strap car seat to sled. 
Step 3: Hike back up to the house and give husband baby gear. 

Step 4: Feed baby, shower, dress for work, then pull sledding clothes on over work clothes.
Step 5: Say goodbye to baby, say goodbye to husband, insert earbuds and hit play on "Blue Mind"

...got no time, got no mind, follow the line in my life, no time to think, 

time for sleep? no! time to sink way into the blue deep...

Step 6: Exhale, get back on sled, enjoy the ride.