Category Archives: Parenthood

Where Did the Summer Go?

September 8, 2015 Wildtrumpetvine

It’s happened again: another summer has vanished in a blur. It doesn’t seem possible that nearly twelve weeks have elapsed since the school year ended on June 18. My daughter’s homemade chalkboard hasn’t been updated since then. It still looks like this:

But it’s September 7. While the weather remains hot and humid, it’s beginning to look like fall. Yellow-gold leaves are fluttering down from our neighbors’ cherry trees.

Here in Northern Virginia, it’s the first day of school. My daughter begins her junior year. Junior year! Really? She, my husband and I all feel unprepared.

If I were a kid, faced with writing one of those dreaded first-day What I Did Last Summer essays, I would sit, staring blankly for a while, wondering, What did we do? Seems like I wasn’t paying attention.

I remember the last half of May, however, with a sort of surreal clarity. My father had emergency arterial bypass surgery, and I flew to Atlanta. One minute I was dawdling contentedly over a late breakfast and talking easy nonsense to the dog. The next I was amidst a teeming crowd at Dulles Airport waiting to board a plane. Waiting. Anxiously waiting. Still waiting. If you’re in a real hurry to reach a sick loved one, you can count on extra-long airport delays. I arrived at Piedmont Hospital late that night, just after Daddy was wheeled to his room after several hours of complicated surgery. He had a nubby cotton blanket loosely draped around his head and shoulders, giving him the appearance of an old shepherd from a live nativity scene. His face was frighteningly pale and drawn, but already he was talking, joking. He was lucid, he was funny. He was my sweet Daddy, upbeat and happy. What a relief.

Mama wouldn’t leave Daddy’s side, except very briefly, to get a bite to eat or take a quick shower. She slept on a narrow pull-out chair beside his hospital bed. Evidence of the truest of true love, after nearly sixty years of marriage, doesn’t get any clearer than this. I spent days with my parents in the hospital, and nights alone in the house I grew up in. What an odd feeling. I can’t remember spending a night totally on my own there before. During those rare times in my teens and twenties when my parents left town without me, it was a good excuse to have friends over. There may have been one night when it was just me and my childhood dog, Popi. He’s been dead far longer than he was alive, but I still hear his soft footsteps, or his nose pushing open a partially closed door. I heard him last May. As the old, familiar house creaked and groaned around me, I wished he were there with me again.

It was slow, slow going, and very scary at times, but Daddy got better. For a couple of weeks before the surgery, he’d complained of leg pains. Turns out he’d had almost no blood flow in his lower legs; he was lucky he didn’t lose one foot, or both. He left the hospital after nine arduous days, still quite weak. Being home was a great relief to my parents, but it meant Mama would be mostly on her own to care for Daddy. There would be visiting nurses and physical therapists, but her duty would be full time, non-stop. A daunting prospect. Fortunately, kind and loving neighbors made it possible for me to return to my Virginia family, who were missing me by that point.

Maybe because Daddy’s surgery and ongoing recovery has loomed so large in recent months, other events have seemed less substantial, less deserving of my complete attention. When I look back over my calendar, I see proof that we were busy: there were neighborhood parties, doctor appointments, church meetings, Friday night dinners out, a first-time ever solo trip to Florida for my daughter to visit a friend, our annual Cape Cod vacation, a busy week of Vacation Bible School, and the transformation of our little-girl playroom into a more grown-up TV/entertainment room. In late August, my daughter had all four wisdom teeth extracted, much against her will. Given her choice, she would have preferred to postpone indefinitely and take her chances with future pain and inconvenience. She felt far more miserable than I had expected. I went through the same thing at fourteen, but have forgotten my level of discomfort. It couldn’t have been too extreme, because I recall being out with a friend’s family and attempting to eat a Varsity hotdog only a couple of days later. Once my daughter was feeling good again, summer was over.

And now, the last minutes of this first day of the new school year are ticking down. My eleventh grader will be home before long. I know better than to ask about her day in a cheerful tone. I’m bracing for a litany of hardships and grievances. Maybe I’ll be pleasantly surprised.

Family, Nature, Parenthood

This is the Way the Roses Grew, (And a Daughter, Too), Part III

July 16, 2015 Wildtrumpetvine 2 Comments

By the spring of 2013, four years after planting, the red double-knockout roses along the fence had grown quite dense and bushy. In early May, they were bursting into explosive bloom.

By late May, the same was true for the pink trellis roses.

The trellis roses had become our favorite photo backdrop. Above, our daughter poses in a high-low dress, a style that enjoyed a longer period of popularity than it merited. At this point, D’s blink-and-you’ll miss it middle school career was nearing an end. It had been an enjoyable and satisfying two years. With her involvement in drama, she’d found her niche. She loved performing in two musicals, both pretty good for middle school fare: Thoroughly Modern Millie (ensemble) and Guys and Dolls (at last, a small named role as Agatha the Mission Girl). While she’d never been exactly shy, with all but her closest friends, she’d been more reserved than outgoing, a characterization that was no longer consistently accurate. As for her core group of elementary school buddies, she’d drifted apart from some and strengthened ties to others. Despite her ongoing tendency toward extreme procrastination, she managed her coursework. She was on the cusp of high school. At thoughts of the new school year, she was understandably a little anxious. But she was ready to leave middle school behind.

Before the eighth grade dance (an event of far lesser significance than the sixth grade dance), our daughter sits with Kiko, who exhibits his typical nonchalance.

In 2014, the roses were still denser and more luxuriant. This is despite the aggressive pruning my husband gives them every year in late summer. If he didn’t do so, the fence and garage might well be invisible by now. They could, conceivably, pull a Sleeping Beauty’s castle number on us if we got very lazy. Otherwise, these hearty, disease-resistant roses need little care. From now on, the challenge will be reining them in.

As for our daughter, as with any teenager, we face a constant choice: when to pull the reins, when to let her run free. Like our roses, she’s easing quietly but speedily toward maturity. Once she began high school, it’s been one milestone after another, toppling like dominoes in quick succession. I remember very vividly her concerns as the first day of high school approached. Could she learn to navigate the confusing corridors of a much bigger school? Would the coursework and homework be overwhelming? She second- and third-guessed her decision not to go out for field hockey, as so many of her friends did. Try-outs would have interfered with our sacrosanct vacation time in Cape Cod. Would her participation in drama be enough to give her a sense of belonging? All those worries proved unfounded. Her freshman year brought many firsts. She took them in stride.

The summer after freshman year, right on schedule as she had hoped, she got her driver’s permit. On Day 1 as a new driver, she attempted the most notoriously narrow, winding road in our neighborhood. (I was cringing.) She was determined to drive as often as possible so she could get her license on the very day she became eligible.

Soon she was a sophomore. There were more firsts.

On April 1, right on time, she became a licensed driver. The day fell during our spring break visit to Atlanta. D was able, at last, to take my parents’ iridescent gold PT Cruiser out on the streets legally; she’d been circling the church parking lot in it since she was eleven.

That day she drove us to Callanwolde, an arts center housed in one of Atlanta’s several historic mansions associated with the Candler family.

Now sophomore year is over, too. Our daughter is halfway through high school.

This summer, more often than not, she’s out with the car, among friends. It’s just me and Kiko at home. His day is as full as he wants it: a morning walk, followed by sleeping in the sun, moving to the shade, then back to the sun.

And while our dog loves a ride in the car, he’ll never require his own vehicle.

Family, Nature, Parenthood

This is the Way the Roses Grew (And a Daughter, Too), Part II

July 3, 2015 Wildtrumpetvine 2 Comments

By early May of 2011, two years after planting, two of the three climbing roses had reached the trellis. The shrub on the left lagged a bit behind. Narrow vines were bursting forth with bright green leaves, and buds had formed.

The red double knock-outs by the fence and the porch were nearing peak bloom in the photos above. They had filled in considerably and surpassed the nandina in height.

This view from our neighbors’ yard shows the dense barrier formed by the red roses along the iron fence.

At this point our daughter was twelve and nearing the end of sixth grade. She was more than ready to be free from the annoying constraints of elementary school, with its hallway stop signs and arbitrarily awarded stickers for standing quietly in line and not acting the fool. That April, she and I had accompanied my parents on a Danube River cruise. She’d been more like a sister or friend than a daughter on that trip, a capable, fun companion with whom to explore Budapest and Passau while my parents remained aboard the ship. She’d certainly seemed older than twelve. Somehow it’s comforting that, at least in the photo above, she looks much as I think of her today.

Kiko was five then. His appearance remains unchanged. By mid-May of that year, the pale pink roses were in full bloom.

As for our daughter, she’d decided to cut her hair, which had grown longer than ever before. (I hadn’t been in charge of her hair for several years.) After great deliberation, she’d made the change, just in time for the sixth-grade dinner dance. In our area, this is a pivotal event that heralds the end of elementary school. It’s orchestrated in minute detail by tireless PTA committees, highly anticipated by parents and sometimes even enjoyed by students. The theme that year was “A Night in the Tropics.” For the girls, the dance meant the need for a new dress, one closer to semi-formal than Sunday School, despite the school’s insistence that it adhere to strict school-day dress code regulations. Many girls, like my daughter, appealed to parents to let them try out higher heels than those to which they’d been accustomed. Photos from that night show her and her friends in that slightly uncomfortable coltish stage: all bony shoulders and long legs, little girls teetering in big shoes on the verge of growing up.

By 2012, the following year, three years after planting, even the climbing rose at left had attained trellis height and begun to wind its way across. In late May, all the roses, red and pink, were in lush, abundant bloom, turning our courtyard into a cozy outdoor room.

Wet dog 005

Our daughter had made the jump from tween to teen, from elementary to middle school, and we could all breathe a big sigh of relief. Just as she’d expected, she reveled in the greater freedom: changing classes, her own locker, electives like shop, news team and drama. And once in a while, the opportunity to walk into town after school with friends. We’d read and heard much about the minefield of the middle school years, a life stage fraught with angst and peril. While I understand that not all kids are so fortunate, for D those worries were overblown. No doubt it helped that she entered seventh grade with a solid group of long-term, likeminded friends and an attitude that helped her forge new friendships.

And then there’s Kiko. Lying in the cool grass of three summers ago, he looks exactly the same today. A dog can be a big help toward denying the passage of time.

Family, Nature, Parenthood

This is the Way the Roses Grew (and a Daughter, too)

June 17, 2015 Wildtrumpetvine

DC Prom 009

During the month of May, our back courtyard is the site of a rose explosion. First the red roses along the fence pop. Then the pale pink climbers on the garage trellis follow suit. Each year our family marvels. We can’t believe these roses. I’ve written about the evolution of the space behind our house from cement wasteland to cozy enclosed garden. See Up From the Concrete, Roses. When I looked back at the photos from that 2012 post, I was surprised to see just how much the roses have multiplied in three years.

On the last Saturday in May we hosted a gathering and hit the weather just right. The evening was pleasantly warm. We were on the porch or in the courtyard from beginning to end, surrounded by roses. Several friends asked how quickly they grew. How long did it take the pink roses to reach the top of the trellis? Seemed like two years, but I wasn’t sure. So I looked back. The changes were dramatic.

This is the way the roses grew.

The porch addition, the courtyard and lawn panel, and the changes to the garage were completed in May 2009. Most of the plantings were in just before Memorial Day. The climbing roses, each shrub almost two feet in height, were planted at the sides of the garage and between the doors. The above photo shows the porch without screens and the yard as yet unfenced.

Along the fence line, we alternated red rose bushes with taller nandina. We didn’t realize then how quickly the roses would overtake the nandina. When the plants were first in, the transformation struck us as spectacular, a vision of instant lushness. Six years later, we’ve grown more accustomed to our leafy flower-filled courtyard, and I’m amazed at how relatively bare it all was back then. Hardly spectacular. So much of the iron fence plainly visible, the unadorned white glare of the garage and the stark, naked trellis.

I also forgot how young our daughter was when we began the project. In this picture, from July 2009, she was ten and just out of fourth grade. Goodness, she looked like a little kid. Maybe because she’s our only child, and we tend to talk to her more or less as we would an adult, she’s always seemed relatively mature. I’ve never wanted to rush her growing up, but I generally think of her as older than she is. Yet on that summer morning in her PJs six years ago, she sure looked like a ten year old, with little-girl bangs and short hair. That was back when I still laid out her clothes every morning, when I could shop for her easily, when my mother would sew full-skirted Sunday dresses for her. Back before pierced ears, make-up and high heels, before she developed her own unique sense of style, very different from mine. Way before she needed a steady supply of long gowns for drama events and prom. That was my little girl. Wow.

Kiko was nearly two. With relief I note that he looks exactly the same now as he did then.

A year after planting, the climbing roses had nearly doubled in height, but were still a long way from reaching the trellis. The vines were spindly and thin. In this photo, taken in April 2010, our eleven-year old daughter models her classic (she would now call it old-fashioned and babyish) Easter dress.

By July of that year, the red rose bushes were considerably denser and as tall or taller than their neighboring nandina. Our daughter, eating a homemade popsicle, wears the tie-dyed shirt she made for her fifth-grade production of Alice-in-Wonderland. Her hair still slightly wet from the pool, she was a typical, somewhat scruffy rising sixth-grader. I don’t remember it ever entering my mind that she was in an awkward stage. Hindsight is bracingly clear-eyed. Still, compared to the less than stellar preteen me (with glasses that evoked the cartoon character Morocco Mole, braces and an unflattering short hair cut), my daughter at eleven was a personification of tween elegance and beauty. Much like our roses during their pre-adolescence.

To be continued. Next up: Flowers and girl continue the climb.

Family, Parenthood, Walking the Dog

The Dog Loves His Girl . . . The Dog Loves Her Not . . .

March 12, 2015 Wildtrumpetvine

As I’ve said before, our dog Kiko doesn’t go in for expected over-the-top displays of doggy devotion. This may be because, as a Shiba Inu, he believes he’s a cat. The breed is known for its independence and regal aloofness. Kiko likes his own space. Once his needs are meet, he prefers undisturbed solitude. When he decides it’s time for a walk or treats, he beams a persistent, focused stare in my direction. This is a far cry from the loving, entreating gaze of a Golden Retriever. It’s a willful obey-me-or-else eye lock. And it works. I toe the line, because the Shiba stubbornness is a force of nature.

If he’s been left alone for a while, Kiko usually ambles into the kitchen unhurriedly upon my return. Exultant jumping and frenzied face licking are beneath his dignity. After a sniff to determine where I’ve been, he sidesteps me to paw at the door so he can check out squirrel activity in the back yard. As for close human contact, he’s warming up to it somewhat as he ages. (He turns eight this August.) Occasionally I can put him on the sofa with me and he’ll rest his head on my knee. But it’s still generally true that he consents to cuddle only if he’s asleep or frightened. He fears nothing but thunder and fireworks. (See here and here). We knew to expect this sort of temperament before Kiko joined our household. Because simply looking at my little dog makes me smile, I’m content to take him on his own terms. If I need to be gazed at devotedly, I can visit a neighbor’s Lab or Golden Retriever. Or I can get that sweet look from Ziggy the Rhodesian Ridgeback, Kiko’s walking pal.

My daughter has learned to be less offended by the depths of Kiko’s reserve. She still finds it annoying when she lies down beside him on the floor and he gets up and re-settles a couple of feet away. But what may ignite her fiercest ire is his tendency to ignore her when she calls him for a walk. Of course I’m the one who walks the dog most frequently. He’s not sure D means business. Sometimes, hearing her calling, he bypasses her to seek me out expectantly. Typically, by the time she’s out of the house with Kiko on the leash, my daughter is furious and the dog is confused. I’m not very happy, either, although I’m relieved to see them leave.

During the recent snow days she took him into the woods several times. A meandering, exploratory woods walk, whatever the weather, is one of Kiko’s favorite activities. He was starting to hop up quickly at the first sound of her invitation. One afternoon when D got a chance to meet friends for sledding, she realized there wouldn’t be time for a woods walk. I wasn’t up for wading through the deep snow, so Kiko and I would start off with D and then continue on our regular neighborhood walk.

Snow days still find D sledding with the same neighborhood friends today as in years past. Here she is with a buddy in February 2007.

The three of us set off together. All was fine until the point at which D veered off course toward her friend’s house. Kiko couldn’t believe we weren’t joining her. He tugged hard at the leash. He stared at me. Come ON! Why are we NOT GOING? Where is SHE going? I tried to persuade him to carry on with our walk. He splayed his legs and ducked his head. He wouldn’t budge. He sat down.

Surely she’ll come back. I’ll wait right here in the middle of the frozen street.

I don’t see her. But I’ll keep waiting. She’ll come back.

But she didn’t.

If I can’t go with her, we might as well head towards home. But slowly.

If I sleep in the road for a bit, maybe she’ll be here when I wake up.

All the way back home, and still no sign of the girl. So sad.

When my daughter returned that evening, I told her how her dog had so wanted to accompany her. How he had waited, and wanted to keep waiting, there in the snow. How that maybe, in his own narcissistic, catlike Shiba way, he does really love her.

Further proof of Kiko’s devotion to D may be his willingness to remain placidly in the strange places she puts him, as in the knothole of this maple in our yard.

Family, Nature, Parenthood

Winter 2015: The Farewell Tour (We Hope!)

March 6, 2015 Wildtrumpetvine

Seems I was wrong about our biggest snow events occurring in February. That distinction, this year, belongs to March. Yesterday’s storm was predicted well in advance, but it took its time in coming. The school cancellation was announced the night before. Snow was expected to start in the early morning hours. At 6:00 AM, and then at 7:00 AM, not a new flake had fallen. I was beginning to think Snow Day #10 would be a no-snow day.

But just before 8:00, the snow arrived with a determined flourish. It fell steadily until late evening, covering the messiness of the existing clumpy, discolored snow with smooth white fluffiness, artfully frosting foliage and trees.

This time of year, Kiko needs longer legs.

Today, another day off school (Snow Day #11), the sun is out, creating dramatic blue shadows on our lawn.

In a neighbor’s yard, a perfectly frosted blue spruce against a perfect blue sky.

The phrase “winter wonderland” is on the tip of the tongue, even for those (like me) who thought they were sick of the season.

This snowstorm found my husband in town, fortunately. Of course it didn’t keep him home from work. Even after an emergency repair of an outdoor sump pump pipe, he was in the office well before any precipitation began. But he did come home somewhat early, so he could make use of his favorite toy while wearing his electric orange ski jacket.

Community, Family, Parenthood

Days of Dr. Seuss

March 3, 2015 Wildtrumpetvine

I know I’m a day late with a Dr. Seuss post. But with our snow day yesterday, I assume that local schools will be honoring the author’s birthday today. During my daughter’s elementary school years, it was a big deal, indeed. Everyone brought in their favorite Dr. Seuss books. Children, teachers and staff dressed up. There would be an army of Things 1 and 2, and Cats-in-Hats by the dozens roaming the halls. My daughter and I tried to find a character for her that wouldn’t be over-represented.

For the 100th Birthday celebration in 2004, we succeeded.

Can you guess?

Does this help?

Probably not. My daughter returned home somewhat downcast because no one recognized her character. When she was in Kindergarten, she was neither skilled at winking nor bold enough to tell people who she meant to be.

We thought it was so clear. Obviously, she’s a Yink. The Yink from One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish. Maybe you don’t have a lot of ink. Because if you do, you should get a Yink. Dr. Seuss, of course, says it best:

This one, I think, is called a Yink.

He likes to wink.

He likes to drink.

He likes to drink, and drink, and drink.

The thing he likes to drink is ink.

The ink he likes to drink is pink.

He likes to wink and drink pink ink.

SO. . .

If you have a lot of ink,

then you should get

a Yink, I think.

The Yink pages from One Fish Two Fish, as colored by my daughter at age five.

A couple of years later, we opted for a more mainstream character.

This time, we took no chances. In case the reindeer horn, the floppy dog ears and the furry shirt rang no bells, my daughter wrote “Max” in big letters on the red collar.

Today, with a vague pang of regret, I notice that my daughter left for school dressed in the typical clothes of a sixteen-year old urban American girl. My Yink has grown up (thanks to all that healthy pink ink). My little dog Max is no longer so little.

Maybe you look back with fondness on a time when you outfitted a small Fox-in-Sox, a Horton, a Lorax, or a Sam-I-Am. Perhaps you kissed your Sneetch or Little Cindy Lou Who goodbye this very morning. Maybe you worked for weeks crafting an amazing Green Eggs and Ham Costume. Whatever the case, may your day be enlivened by the light-hearted, fresh-faced wisdom of Dr. Seuss.

So. . .

be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray

or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O’Shea,

you’re off to Great Places!

Today is your day!

Your mountain is waiting.

So. . .get on your way!

–Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You’ll Go!

Family, Nature, Parenthood

Blasts from a Past February: The Blizzard of 2003

February 28, 2015 Wildtrumpetvine

Ever since we moved to our home in Northern Virginia in 2001, February has been the month of snow, snow and more snow. We experienced our first Virginia blizzard in 2003, when twenty inches of the white stuff accumulated on February 15 – 16, just before Presidents’ Day. The timing was optimal: a weekend, with no one stranded at work or school. We knew it was coming; we had time to prepare.

Our daughter was in preschool, so there were no worries about schoolwork piling up. There were no crucial extracurricular activities for her to miss. She was overjoyed with the snow, even though it was so deep she couldn’t really walk in it. These were the days when she wore her little red snow suit and could still fit into her baby swing.

For my husband, these were pre-snow blower years. He used a plow attachment for his old riding mower to clear our driveway and the big concrete expanse that later became a real back yard. (See here.) That weekend, he plowed every few hours, but it was still difficult to keep ahead of the rapidly falling snow. My parents were visiting from Atlanta, and their red Camry station wagon is mounded with snow. They used to drive up every six weeks or so to spend time with their only grandchild. This trip was extended a bit beyond their liking due to the depth of the snow. They hadn’t seen this much snow since my babyhood in Kentucky.

Plowing complete, our old porch was enclosed in its own snow fort.

Our daughter had the great pleasure of playing in the snow with her favorite “big girl” friend, Ashley, who lived next door. Ashley was D’s beloved babysitter, and our daughter couldn’t spend enough time with her. Why don’t you and Daddy go out to dinner? Go see a movie, too. Ashley can stay with me! D tried to act as though she was sorry to see us go, but she couldn’t wave us out of the house fast enough. Ashley, now married to a Marine and living in Okinawa, was sixteen at the time, the same age D is now. Gulp.

Another unexpected benefit of the blizzard was that it kept H at home that week. For several years he essentially lived in Cleveland from Monday through Thursday. The storm canceled flights and kept him in Virginia. Here, he and D make Swedish pancakes just the way Grandma Olga taught him.

I must remember: good things may happen when it snows.

Community, Family, Nature, Parenthood, Walking the Dog

Sick of February Yet?

February 26, 2015 Wildtrumpetvine

This month is notorious. Fortunately it’s the shortest. Here in Northern Virginia, as in much of the country, February is all about the snow, or all about the cold, or the wind. Or some uncomfortable combination of the three. I’m trying not to complain. I know it could be worse. I could live in Boston, Buffalo or Sioux Falls. But the frigid whiteness of this mid-Atlantic winter has lost its luster. It has become tiresome.

Here in our area, the last half of the month is the worst. The week before and after Presidents’ Day tends to usher in our deepest snows and fiercest cold snaps. The best-laid plans crumble. Why do we continue to make plans in February?

This year a mini-blizzard roared in on the evening of Saturday the 14th at 6:30, a dirty little trick on diligent Valentine date-nighters. Within minutes, all was white, the air and ground alike. Snow piled up and swirled wildly as the wind howled and the temperature dropped to zero. Typically, in the face of such weather, I would happily retreat to the warmth of the sofa with a movie. But my husband was out of town (that’s another story), my daughter had two parties to attend, and I had said yes to a neighborhood gathering. All activities, unfortunately, required driving. My focus for the evening shifted from enjoyment to getting out and back without injury or incident. When I picked up my daughter and a friend from their final party, the snow-coated roads glittered with chunks of ice resembling broken glass. When the tires lost traction at an especially slick intersection and the anti-lock brakes kicked in to no avail, luckily we were the only car around.

The following icy, windy Sunday morning, Kiko and I suffered through possibly the most miserable dog walk ever. (No matter how inhospitable the weather, my fastidious little dog requires three walks a day for his mental and physical health. See here.) I wondered if we should brave the roads for church. A blinking light on the answer machine put that worry to rest: church was canceled, despite special preparations for a one-of-a-kind community children’s service.

Monday, Presidents’ Day, was a holiday and day off school. We managed to get in a dentist appointment for my daughter before more snow began falling steadily that afternoon. Storm Watch Accu-Weather-on-Your Side teams were breathless: this storm would be the Big One. No doubt there was not a gallon of milk or a loaf of bread to be had on any grocery shelf in the DC metro area.

We got snow, perhaps six inches or so. It was too bad that H wouldn’t be around to clear our long driveway with the powerful snow blower he bought after the blizzards of 2009 and ’10. As a boy growing up in Rochester, New York, he made money shoveling driveways and the occasional roof. He dreamed of one day owning a truly prodigious snow blower. That dream had come true, but once the big red contraption took its place in our garage (alongside a variety of mowers and other items for suburban lawn and garden maintenance), the snows stopped. Last year they resumed, in a big way. On most powdery white mornings H is out with his monster of a machine. He clears our driveway; he clears neighbors’ driveways. He’s a local Snow Day hero.

But this time he wasn’t here. I have to say it: he was in Aruba, perfecting a windsurfing move, the elusive jibe, a complicated change of direction done while continuing to skim the water. It was something he’d been wanting to do for years. It required perfect conditions, namely strong, steady wind, which can’t be found just anywhere. We’d agreed that he should take the long Presidents’ Day weekend and just do it. But I hadn’t considered that he was leaving D and me here to face the dastardly February weather on our own.

H suggested we FaceTime him so he could coach D on using the snow blower. He’d shown her how to work it last winter, but the details were hazy. Numerous attempts to start it up failed. We were about to give up when H realized that one little knob wasn’t turned in the right direction. That done, the machine roared to life and D set off down the driveway. Thank goodness she’s her father’s daughter.

And while the accumulation wasn’t as dramatic as expected, it was more than enough to shut us down. Further cancellations rolled in. No school on Tuesday. No Fat Tuesday Pancake Supper at our church. No school Wednesday, and no Ash Wednesday service at our church and many others.

That was just the first series of February snow cancellations. Since then, they’ve continued, requiring the ongoing reshuffling of plans. Today, for example, with snow beginning early this morning, school was first delayed, then canceled an hour later. With so many days off school, extra-curricular activities are postponed repeatedly. Rescheduling is tricky, as events pile atop one another. During my daughter’s elementary school years, snow days for her were exactly that: unstructured free days to play in the snow. Now they involve the stress of wondering if and when the student-directed One-Acts will take place. How will they impact previously scheduled activities? And then there’s the thorny problem of when to do AP World reading and pre-calculus problems when there’s a beautiful snow on the ground and friends who want to take the day off to meet for lunch in town.

Oh, February, aren’t you over yet?

Family, Parenthood, Travel

Key West: Getting There Was Not Half the Fun

February 5, 2015 Wildtrumpetvine

You’ve probably heard what a life-enhancing pleasure it is to drive from Miami down to the Keys. That Route 1A drive is a perennial bucket list favorite. You know the comments. You may have heard them uttered with a breathless urgency and a firm shoulder grip for sincerity: You have to do the drive. To really experience the Keys, you simply must!

And it always sounded wonderful. That the Keys are reachable by road strikes me as a near miracle. Yes, I could see our family cruising along that narrow ribbon, the Overseas Highway. We’d shoot South, South, South, warm wind in our hair, the glistening blue Atlantic stretching out around us. We’d drive until we could go no further, and then we’d look across the water toward Cuba. Yes, we must do that drive. But first we had to get to Miami.

Our trip began inauspiciously. We were running a tad behind schedule when we arrived at Dulles Airport. The agent at the counter eyed us pointedly, looking as though we’d slighted him in some malicious way. He rolled his eyes, sighed mournfully and scolded: You better hurry if you want to make your flight. My husband, who travels frequently and was certain we had more than enough time, was silently indignant. Of course, when we reached the gate, we had plenty of time. There’s always ample time, it seems, to wait at the gate for boarding.

The flight to Miami was, thankfully, uneventful. At baggage claim, my bag and H’s were among the first to plop onto the carousel. We waited, and waited, but there was no sign of our daughter’s suitcase. You know the thought process: No need to worry; it will appear soon. Let’s be patient. Then suddenly, patience is serving no purpose. There’s clearly a problem. Everyone else from our flight has picked up their bags and moved on.

We moved on to the lost luggage counter. After some investigation, the agent told us that D’s bag seemed to be on its way to Los Angeles. Or somewhere else. Definitely somewhere besides Miami. My husband suspected foul play on the part of that snippy Dulles ticket agent. He imagined the man’s spiteful thoughts: This will teach you to be on time! I’ll send your daughter’s blue paisley roller bag on the ride of its life! And you, Sir, are responsible!

D’s bag would be tracked down and retrieved, the luggage lady assured us. And it would be delivered to our hotel. D was crestfallen, of course. She’d packed her suitcase so carefully. Each item had been thoughtfully, painstakingly chosen. It had taken all day and had been accompanied by much hand-wringing and stress. I understand. Every time I pack, this thought loop runs through my mind: Is it really worth it? Can’t we just stay home? I don’t have room for all these shoes! Should we pack rain jackets, or just hope for the best? I can’t take it. I think I’m getting sick.

As we packed, D and I had discussed the dreaded “what if” of a lost bag. It had happened to H during a Caribbean vacation. He’d worn the same long-sleeved white T-shirt for several days straight, prompting comments by some of the staff at the resort. When his bag finally appeared, it had apparently gone on its own adventure to Managua. We knew a missing bag was a real possibility. D had packed essentials and a minimal change of clothes in her carry-on. But still. All those well-considered fashion choices, all lost, at least temporarily. I would have been equally disappointed when I was a few days away from turning sixteen.

There was nothing more to be done, so we headed to pick up our rental car, located in an area that seemed many miles from baggage claim. The queue at Avis stretched from one end of the enormous rental car center to the other. This couldn’t be the line for those with reservations, could it? Oh, yes, it was, we were quickly told by those already waiting. Surely the queue would move quickly, H reasoned. How long does it take to pick up a rental car once the paperwork has been completed online? Three minutes, max!

Apparently, for many it’s a complicated process that requires fifteen to twenty minutes of heated conversation and problematic inquiries. From our fixed viewpoint in the queue, we took to timing the interactions between customer and agent. H, speedily efficient in all things, was incredulous. What in the world was going on? What kinds of questions were people asking? Can you explain, in detail, how to drive a car? How does one refill the gas tank? Where are these so-called gas stations located? What is insurance? Would you please review again the rules of the road? And where is the road? Judging from the frequent arm motions, extensive directions were being given and repeatedly misunderstood.

Other rental car agencies had no lines. This was because they had no available cars, we learned.

An hour later, we had reached the velvet ropes that indicate the expected start of the line. When at last we approached the counter, I began timing. H was right. Two and half minutes later, we were on our way to pick up our car. Surely, things were about to get better.

A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.