Lawyerish

Supersonic

The travel curse appears to have lifted, at least temporarily, or perhaps has taken a new form.  I made it to and from Seattle without interruption or delay in either direction, in spite of the many foreboding cancellations leading up to my departure.  However, on each flight I was seated in close proximity to someone freakish and/or intensely annoying. 

I'll get to that in a minute; first, I will tell you that I had a great time in Seattle.  My brother and his family have an absolutely gorgeous home in a beautiful area flanked by mountains and scattered with parks, playgrounds and Little League fields.  It is almost impossibly idyllic, and I guess going to the Evergreen State, I should have anticipated this, but everything really is super-green and lush out there.  Plus, by the way, the weather was truly spectacular -- warm and sunny every day, none of the fabled Seattle rain and gloom.

On Friday, we went into Seattle to check out the famous market, where we saw the fish-throwing guys (who forever, much to their chagrin I'm sure, are associated in my mind with "The Real World"), ate super-fresh mini-donuts from a donut booth and piroshkies (pastries filled with savory or sweet ingredients) from a piroshky place.

Then we headed over to the Space Needle to check out Seattle from above, a prospect that deeply excited my nephew, who has developed an obsession with pushing buttons.  In fact, while we were standing on the sidewalk at the market, right by the original Starbucks (o, holy grail of delicious coffee drinks), he spotted a freight elevator nearby and started shouting, "Push a button!  Push a button!" with increasing insistence.  We could only appease him by promising there would be buttons to push shortly, when we got to the Needle.

What a good-looking family, right?  ("Push a button!") 

You can feel the excitement.

And here's the view from the Space Needle:

The next day, we intended to go to a Tulip Festival up north of Seattle, but apparently quite a lot of people had the same idea, and after spending an hour or so idling in traffic, we bailed at an exit with access to the Whidbey Island ferry.  We figured there must be something to do there (because it's an island, I guess?).  And indeed, other people had that same idea, too, so after another long while in the car line for the ferry, we decided to board the boat on foot. 

It seems, however, that there is a good reason that people queue up to drive onto the ferry:  you kind of need a car on Whidbey Island.  So our visit there consisted of walking up a gigantic hill, finding nothing to eat, see or do at the top of said hill, and walking back down the hill to reboard the ferry and ride back to the mainland. 

At least there was some cuteness on the ferry, though:

Aside from the sightseeing, I did a lot of playing with my nephew.  He is a freaking doll, you guys.  I think I love the age of right-around-two (he'll turn two in May).  He's communicating more (although you can't quite always make out the words) and he's full of energy and he'll give kisses and hugs on demand, and you can see him learning, working things out in his head.  It's awesome.  I love his little voice ("a-nuh-nuh one?") and his giggles. 

Yesterday, when my brother took me to the airport, the two of them were going to head on to a baseball game afterward.  We stopped at the terminal so I could get out, and he woke up with a start and said, "Batheball?!"  So we told him they'd be going to baseball soon ("Batheball soo?") and then I said I was leaving and he said, "Bye-bye Aun' Mer-diff" and went back to sleep.  And then my heart exploded. 

(Considering that this sort of thing chokes me up, is it possible that when we bring Noelle home I just won't ever be able to stop crying?  I am such a sap when it comes to these sweet kids -- recall last August, when I bawled my eyes out saying goodbye to Maggie and Allison the day they left from visiting us.  Babies and toddlers and their little displays of affection KILL me.  Le sigh.)

So I have prattled on long enough, but I will briefly tell you about the manifestation of The Curse on this trip:  an intensely annoying woman who sat next to me coming home yesterday.  I was in a window seat, and the woman next to me was maybe in her 50s, and she obviously thought herself to be quite fabulous; she had on this sequined jacket and a lot of big, clunky jewelry and she carried a purse the size of Delaware.  She made about eighty cell phone calls as people were boarding, which was sort of grating, but whatever; I guess she needed to apprise THE ENTIRE WORLD of her travel plans. 

But then she kept hiding her phone when the flight attendants were going through the cabin, preparing for takeoff.  At that point, I knew I was dealing with a Renegade Asshat Who Thinks They Are Above the Rules (another clue:  we were in the bulkhead row, so our stuff was supposed to go in the overhead bin for takeoff and landing, but NO, she kept her HUMONGO purse ON HER LAP throughout, and as soon as the flight attendants stopped going through the aisles, she dumped a bunch of crap on the floor at our feet -- THANKS LADY). 

So anyway, as we were taxiing she was STILL calling people from her cell.  So I turned to her and said, as nicely as I could, "Excuse me, you need to turn your phone off."  I did this, by the way, not because I was nervous about the flight, but because those are the RULES, and we FOLLOW RULES when we are on a plane. 

Well.  She drew herself up and glared at me like I was a pile of dog poo and then said, "DAHling.  I fly more often than the flight attendants and the pilots on this plane, and we are not going to crash because of my phone."  She snapped her phone shut just in time for us to lift off, and loudly zipped it into her handbag.  Then she proceeded to sigh loudly every time I wanted to get up (so of course I got up as often as I could), and she kept invading my space with her newspaper.  It was most unpleasant. 

I was sorely tempted to "accidentally" dump my ginger ale on her, but instead, when we were getting off the plane and she dropped a bunch of papers all over the place, I helped her gather them together -- because, you know, turn the other cheek and all.  Also, I don't want to tempt the curse to come back the next time I fly.   

(Full photo set on Flickr.)

Peace

My grandmother died today, just after noon.  She had been in declining health for some time, and when her vital signs began to fail yesterday, the family started to make travel arrangements and preparations for her leaving us. 

My mom and both of her sisters were able to be there with Grammie at the moment she died.  Mom and her sisters were laughing (as they are wont to do when gathered together) and talking and crying a bit while Grammie lay unconscious in her bed.  They held her hand and gave her strict instructions of what she needs to work on when she is with God (most particularly, getting us our baby!).  Then my mom told her that her children were safe and that we are all okay.  And then my grandmother took her last breath. 

In her final months and weeks, Grammie never lost her wry sense of humor.  When my aunt went to see her one day not long ago, Grammie was laying very still, such that it looked as though she might have already passed on.  My aunt hesitated by the doorway.  Grammie sensed her presence and said, "I'm not dead.  Don't spend my money yet!" 

Not to make it all about me, but I do believe that, now that she has passed on, she will make our referral happen in short order.  Although she had dementia that stole her memory over the last few years, bit by bit, and sometimes she confused which daughter was with her or where she was and what the year was, she continually asked if my husband and I had our baby yet.  Clearly, this is a mission she knew would be hers.  I am sad that I won't get to see her face when we find out who our daughter is; but I know that she will be here with us in spirit and, in fact, she is probably watching over our baby girl right now.

My grandmother was a tremendous woman.  She was born into an Iowa banking family and went to Washington after college to work for a Senator.  In DC, she met my grandfather, a dashing West Point graduate from upstate New York, who had recently returned from the War.  They had a whirlwind romance and married within a few months of meeting in the Cadet Chapel at West Point.  They drove away from their wedding in the same model Packard that my husband and I rode in at ours. 

As a military wife, Grammie learned to throw a household together in record time; shortly after being married, my grandparents moved overseas to Germany, where my grandfather assisted in rebuilding efforts in Munich.  My mom was born there, and over the years they had two more daughters and lived in dozens of towns all over the US and in Germany.  Eventually, they settled in Des Moines, not far from where Grammie had grown up. 

Grammie was a consummate lady, always knowing how to dress (look sharp, as she would say) and present oneself and be a good hostess and keep a home; but she was no passive housewife -- she had a phenomenal strength, wit and warmth as well as grace and polish.  She and my grandfather had a hilarious banter between them, always poking fun and making wisecracks at one another; but their love and devotion to one another was apparent to anyone who met them. 

She was equally devoted to her children and grandchildren and, more recently, great-grandchildren, as well as to her community.  She had a tireless dedication to public service, always volunteering for local hospitals, women's organizations and church groups.  She was a woman of faith, an active member of her Congregationalist church, one that welcomes people of all backgrounds and persuasions.  It is somehow appropriate that she passed away on Good Friday, and that her death will reunite her family for Easter.   

I am sure that she was able to pass on to the next life with the comfort that she had completed all that she was meant to do in her time here.

(This photo is from our big family gathering last Memorial Day.)

I'm leaving tomorrow afternoon and I'll be in Iowa through Tuesday.  Happy Easter to all who celebrate, happy weekend to those who don't, and I'll be back sometime next week! 

Mmmmm...Bacon

On Sunday morning, I woke up and had an inexplicable, yet uncontrollable, urge to make pancakes.  I haven't made pancakes in...well, I can't even remember when I last made them, but it was definitely before we got married, and possibly was as long ago as college.  But there it was, a need that could not be denied. 

I think, in part, the inspiration came simply from the buttermilk we had sitting in our fridge -- I hate to waste leftover food or lingering ingredients, and we had some left from the INSANELY DELICIOUS Nigella Lawson chicken nuggets I'd made the night before.  (Cut up some boneless, skinless chicken breasts, marinate them in buttermilk for a day or so, then roll them around in Ritz cracker crumbs, and cook them in 1/2 cup of oil for 2-3 minutes a side.  OH MY GOD.) 

So the buttermilk was burning a hole in our fridge, and I went in my sweats to the grocery store around the corner to get some blueberries and some real maple syrup, and then I busted out the Joy of Cooking -- that's right, I skipped the Aunt Jemima and did it all from scratch, baby, 1950s housewife style.  And, OH MAN, was it worth the effort (minimal, really, although there was sifting involved, which always leaves my kitchen coated in a film of flour).  Those were some fantastic pancakes.  The only thing missing was a big slab of bacon.  Must not forget the bacon next time. 

Pancakes always put me in a nostalgic mood; growing up, my dad made them for us pretty much every Saturday morning (sometimes it was French toast or waffles, but mostly it was pancakes, and always with bacon), and we'd sit around the kitchen table, syrup pooled on our plates, the newspaper strewn about, our slippered feet tucked under us in our chairs.  There wasn't much conversation and nothing eventful ever happened, but the ritual of it, the comfortable dependability of those breakfasts, makes it one of my strongest memories of my childhood. 

On a tangential note, my mom is going to send me her ebelskiver pan so that I can carry on my Danish heritage by making little round quasi-pancake thingies with jam or applesauce in them (served with a sprinkle of powdered sugar).  And, speaking of Danish foods, if you're ever in the mood for some extremely tasty pastry, mosey on over to Larson's Bakery in Racine, Wisconsin (the sort of capital of the Danish-American population) and get you some kringle (they ship anywhere!).  Pretty much any flavor will do, but I am partial to apple, cheese, apricot or cherry.  We used to go through truckloads of kringle at our family reunions -- you'd think we'd all be about 900 pounds from all the pastry and dough and whatnot, but we're an oddly lanky lot.  I guess we can thank the Danes for passing down their delicious sweets along with their long legs and robust metabolic rates.

So I've just written a whole post about pancakes and Danish breakfast foods.  Maybe one of these days I'll have something of interest to discuss (such as, oh, I don't know, A BABY), but for now you'll have to put up with such meaningless treatises.  I got about a minute of sleep last night because the dog was sick, so I'm lucky at this point to be able to string together a coherent sentence at all. 

(Also, Obama is KICKING BUTT, people!  YES WE CAN.  WOOOOOOOO!)   

Family Ties

I've written before about how my dad's side of the family used to have annual family reunions; we'd gather every summer at my grandparents' home in Springfield, Illinois, to swim and waterski and eat delicious food, much of it grown right there in their garden.  When my grandparents moved to Florida for good, though, we had to find somewhere else to park our clan for a week each year. 

We had a few reunions at my Uncle Ken's house in Champaign-Urbana, which had an ample yard for volleyball games and a sizeable pool for our swimming fix (and, oddly, a ramshackle old shed that -- for reasons that now escape me -- we had to push from one side of the yard to another one year, I suspect as some kind of punishment for the heavy beer consumption of the night before, as most of us were college age or older by then), but the house itself couldn't contain us all, so at some point we decided to take our show, such as it was, on the road. 

We tried a mountain resort in Pennsylvania, which fit the bill in some respects, but not others -- it had hiking, horseback riding and whitewater rafting nearby...but no air-conditioning in the cabins in spite of an oppressive heat wave.  Then my older cousins started getting married, so we had a series of weddings in various locations including Nantucket (fantastic, but expensive), Ireland (extremely awesome, but a bit far), and a Carnival Cruise (too much neon).  We were a family without a country, and some years the reunion just didn't happen at all, to everyone's disappointment. 

In the fall of 2000, both my grandmother and my Uncle Ken passed away.  In addition to directing the shed move (and, before that, the yearly dock renovations at my grandparents' house), Ken had orchestrated nearly every reunion; his unwavering focus on the value of family and togetherness had gotten us to be the close-knit (and only mildly dysfunctional) bunch that we are to this day.  In his memory, and in honor of Grammie, we knew we had to have a reunion again the following summer.

One of my cousins took it upon himself to do the location scouting, and ultimately he settled on Bar Harbor, Maine.  He'd found an inn on the water with a B&B nearby (the former for the rabble-rousing cousins, the latter for the people who wanted to sleep), both within walking distance of the quaint grey-shingled town. 

We all made our travel plans for the July 2001 event with aplomb and anticipation.  As the date approached, my mom made my Grammie's famous Green Cookies to distribute to everyone (they're sugar cookies with a hint of almond flavor, and they are dyed green for reasons that I could tell only if I were going to kill you moments afterward), and I stocked up on sunscreen (as I do anytime I'm going to leave the house for more than five minutes). 

The day of departure, a Thursday, my brother and I and my then-boyfriend (we'll call him, uh, X) headed to LaGuardia after work.  We were all law firm associates, and even a four-day weekend away was considered a great luxury -- so much a luxury, in fact, that X could only stay until Saturday afternoon, as he had to get back to New York to close a deal or...some such thing.  At any rate, we arrived at the gate and found pandemonium.  Flights had been delayed due to storm systems over the entire Eastern seaboard, and ours was no exception.  We watched with dwindling enthusiasm as the time was pushed back further...and further...and then, around 10pm, it was canceled altogether. 

Without Blackberries or iPhones or any of that newfangled technology, we were stuck using our cell phones to dial around for other options.  Flights the next day?  Booked.  Trains?  The last one departed five minutes ago.  Rental cars?  Not a single one left in the five boroughs of New York. 

And so it was that we ended up taking a bus from New York City to Bar Harbor, Maine. 

When we discovered that there was one more bus -- ONE -- leaving for Boston that night, we grabbed our bags and sprinted to the taxi line.  The storm was passing over New York, and the rain ran in sheets down the windshield as our driver sped through Queens and into the Tunnel, aimed at the Port Authority Bus Terminal.  As we skidded across Park Avenue South -- where X and I were living at the time -- X looked longingly out the window.  My brother and I didn't even blink.  This was for family.  This was for Grammie and Uncle Ken.  We would get there even if we had to walk.

The Port Authority is not the world's cushiest place at any time of day, but around midnight it's especially unsavory.  We ignored the gathering drunks and panhandlers, got our tickets, and headed down to the "gate."  We sank onto the sticky floor, already drained from the hasty change of scenery and the thought of the 18-hour journey ahead.  Eventually, the bus chugged into place and we boarded. 

The trip from New York to Boston was unremarkable, aside from its late hour.  It was a rather motley collection of passengers, but not noticeably more so than usual.  When we arrived at South Station, we had several hours to kill before the bus to Bar Harbor departed. 

And so it was that we ended up sleeping on the floor of a bus station (as much as one can sleep on the floor of a bus station, anyway). 

Dawn came and we rinsed our grimy faces and administered eyedrops to cement-like contact lenses, and stared blearily out into the sunlight.  We boarded the second bus of our trip around 5 a.m.  Whatever moxie we'd had about taking one for the team had been replaced with grim determination.  We just wanted to get there. 

Five minutes into this leg -- before we'd even made it past the Big Dig -- a baby a few seats ahead of us started wailing at full volume.  My brother pulled out his Walkman (!), clamped his headphones on, leaned forward to press his face against the seat in front of him, and went to sleep.  Every few minutes, his head would slide down the seat back and he'd jerk upright, disoriented.  He'd look around, find that we'd only gone another two miles, and settle back in for another momentary rest.  Occasionally I heard the click of the auto-reverse on his tape deck. 

I sat in the window seat next to X and stared outside as the will to live left my body.  Frigid air blew up from the window well, searing my face into a near-frostbite condition.  My contacts were fogged and brittle, my hands deathly white from the manufactured cold.  And the baby screamed on and on and on.

For eight and a half hours, that baby screamed.  Every half-hour or so, he would hiccup and gulp, and for a moment we would all wonder if it was over.  It wasn't.  He screamed.  And he screamed.  All the way to Bangor, Maine.

We reached Bangor in the late afternoon and disembarked the bus in a state of disbelief and self-pity.  We were visibly shaken.  I had rented a car, but it was at the airport.  We stood outside the bus station like refugees, blinking in the light and rubbing our arms in the surprisingly chilly breeze.  I wished for a sweatshirt, a pillow, a BED.  But we still had two hours of driving to go. 

It took us over an hour to reach a local taxi company, then another for the driver to arrive to get us to the airport and to our rental car.  By the time I took the wheel, I hadn't slept in 36 hours.  We drove in silence to Bar Harbor. 

When we finally arrived, we learned that everyone -- every single person in the family -- had run into travel disasters.  Some straggled in that night; some slept in airports and wandered in, dazed, on Saturday; some didn't make it til Sunday morning, only to turn around and leave the next day.  On top of that, it was freezing in Maine, and the B&B was run by snippy people who shushed us whenever a floorboard creaked.  There were also some, ah, misunderstandings of varying degrees between certain family members.  And some people never got their bags. 

But we made it.  And, somewhere, Grammie and Uncle Ken smiled. 

Grateful

On Saturday, near sundown, my mom and my aunts and I sat out on our balcony and watched a wedding on the beach.  From our perch on the eighth floor, we could see the whole oceanside ceremony unfold, from the flower girls tottering about to the barefoot processional to the newlywed kiss. 

As we watched the bridal party gathering beneath the palm trees before they walked down the petal-strewn aisle to the white arch, we commented on the pretty pale pink of their dresses and the vibrant salmon of the roses they carried.  Then, as the bride floated toward her groom, her veil trailing behind her on the white sand, we realized that her dress also had a pale pink tint to it.  And then we saw the empty chair next to her father when he sat down after giving her away.

My aunt Katie mused that it was October, which is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. And of course the color associated with breast cancer support is pink.  We leaned in, touched by the apparent tribute, as the officiant announced that the congregation would be releasing butterflies after the couple exchanged rings, in honor of the bride's late mother.  As a cluster of tiny fluttering wings appeared in the air, one butterfly hovered over the couple, then alit on the bodice of the bride's gown, just over her heart, where it stayed for the rest of the ceremony.

We were quiet for a while as the wedding moved from poignant to celebratory and as the guests meandered along the beach toward the reception, lingering with shoes in hand to watch the clouds burn orange with the setting sun.  All I could think of was how grateful I am that I didn't have to go through my wedding day without my mom at my side, and how every single day I am thankful that I have her, and that we can have such a close relationship.  And then I thought of how extremely awesome it is that I have this amazing group of women in my family, who gathered this weekend to fete my mom for her birthday.

I've spent lots of time over the course of my 32 years with my various family members in different settings, but we've never gotten together, just the girls, with both my mom's and my dad's side of the family represented. I hope we do it again, though, as it was a blast.  We strolled and swam and sat and shopped and, more than anything, talked.  We chattered about girl stuff like first periods and parenting advice and Britney Spears, and larger stuff like presidential candidates and hybrid cars, and everything in between. 

I share something unique with each of the women in my family -- my aunt Gloria and I can talk about our dog-babies back home and the ins and outs of demanding professions (she's a top-notch veterinarian with her own practice); Katie and I can bond over athletic challenges (though she has way more bragging rights than I do, having just finished her first triathlon); Sharon and I have the same passion for travel and good food and wine, and a similarly barbed sense of humor -- she can make me laugh until my stomach hurts; and Mom and I....well, we've got more in common than I can describe here, but over this particular weekend, it was pointed out just how much we both communicate via wild gesticulation -- an important trait, to be sure. 

So, anyway, to top all of this off, I got to spend a few hours hiding out from a torrential downpour in a pub and then a Starbucks with the ever-wonderful Jonna, and again it was a stretch of time filled with wall-to-wall conversation of the best kind, and honestly if she didn't have some schmancy black tie thing to attend that night, I would have taken her hostage and made her join us for the rest of our girls' weekend.  Oh, AND, I got to see my granddad (my dad's father), who at almost 91 is just as fit and spry and adorable as ever -- his hugs still could break your ribs, and the look on his face when he opens the door and says, "Oh, look, it's my family!" could break your heart. 

Meanwhile, my husband was in Charlotte visiting Allison and family -- and by "visiting" I mean "helping them move into their new house.  He and David flexed their muscles and declared themselves the Old Dude Moving Company and unloaded furniture, boxes and sundry items in what I understand is record time.  I'm sure the hubs will come home sore and exhausted, but cheerful from seeing them; likewise, I have post-girls' weekend fatigue (scratchy throat from constant talking, bleary eyes from well-past-midnight bedtimes, and a mild hangover), but I couldn't be more content.   

The Long and Whining Road -- And a Question

I've started this entry about fifteen times and haven't come up with the right words, so I'll just come out with it:  My brother is moving across the country.  Like, ALL the way across -- to Seattle -- and, frankly, I'm not too happy about it.

I mean, of course I'm happy for him and his family; it's the right choice for them, and on the whole it's all kinds of exciting.  My brother will have lots more time to spend with his wife and son than he did as the High-Powered New York Law Firm type -- plus they get to build their dream home in a gorgeous area surrounded by mountains and forest and trails and lakes, and they'll be in a safe community with loads of other young families, and my nephew will get to live the kick-the-can life we enjoyed as kids.  And of course, we can go out to visit and gawk at the wonder that is the Pacific Northwest; it'll give us an excuse to get to know a whole new area of the country.   

But...but...what about ME?  For ten years, I've been lucky enough to have my big brother within shouting distance, and even though we've become increasingly stretched for time with our busy lives and growing families, it's always comforting just knowing he's in the same geographic vicinity.  If things went terribly pear-shaped, he'd be a phone call away and could be at my side almost momentarily.  And even though he lives a ways outside the city, we've been able to get together for baby showers and holidays and mellow afternoons without a lot of fuss, and my parents can easily see both of us in one fell swoop of a visit.   

Sure, it's been years since the two of us went for margaritas at El Parador (for good reason; my system can't handle that much tequila -- or any tequila, really -- anymore) or caught a movie on a random weekday night; but there's still that certain calm that comes from having family around, and the gaping distance of an entire country between us is going to take some getting used to.

(Clearly, the only solution is for him to get a blog so I can have near-daily updates on exactly what he and his family are doing and just how unruly my adorable nephew's red curls have gotten.  Right, people?  Am I right?)  (Peer pressure will help, so back me up here.)  (Also, I should note with some relief that my sister-in-law and nephew aren't moving out there until later this fall, so I can cling to their legs and wail "DON'T LEAVE ME" for a while longer.) 

No, really.  It's great.  I'm fine!  (DON'T GO!) 

Anyway, so last Friday night we went to a going away party for them, and spent much of the time catching up with our friend L. (I know you're out there, L.!  {waving furiously})  L. has, bar none, the funniest damn dating stories I have ever heard.  I mean, you cannot make this stuff up.  (She needs a blog, too, in fact.)

For example, there's the guy who took her on a first date and refused to pay for her dinner (we're all enlightened modern women, sure, but I'm sorry:  the dude pays on the first date; THOSE ARE THE RULES) and then, when she (reluctantly) agreed to go on a second date, he took her out -- on a FRIDAY NIGHT, at DINNER TIME -- to an eatery that only serves {pause for effect} rice pudding.  For dinner!  On a Friday night!  This time he paid, but it was like five bucks, and she went home starving.

Then there's her friend, who is Orthodox and keeps kosher, whose date took her to a burger joint where she could not eat a single thing on the menu (because it was all meat!  and the restaurant was not kosher!), and he made her SIT THERE AND WATCH HIM EAT A BURGER AND FRIES.  And then, on the way home, he stopped in the park and forced her to watch him perform Shakespearean soliloquies. 

And then there's L.'s other friend, whose date did not reveal until AFTER they sat down in a quiet restaurant and he suddenly started howling and banging on the table that he had Tourette's syndrome.  Like, oops!  Forgot to mention this small detail that I might occasionally have a violent verbal and physical outburst!  Sorry about that.  Carry on.

And then there was the one-armed dentist. I'm not sure any more needs to be said about that.       

On the bright side, the nuttiness of the dating scene makes for great party chatter, and entertains me to no end.  So now it's your turn:  what's the worst date you've ever had?   

Two Wings and a Prayer

(Herein, my brother's guest post, about something I wouldn't do if someone had a gun to my head.  No, really.  Just reading this makes my feet sweat.)

The wind blasted my face as all of my senses went into hyper-alert, trying to process exactly what was happening.  I was strapped into the rear seat of an open cockpit 1940s era biplane, plummeting straight down toward the water below.  There was no sky.  All I could see was the greenish-blue of the Lower New York Bay, the silver hair of the pilot, and the bright yellow wings that were, unnervingly, constructed more than 60 years ago and were now bearing a phenomenal amount of aerodynamic stress. 

I stole a glance at the altimeter in front of me.  The hands were crazily spinning counterclockwise:  3,500 feet. Now 3,000. Now 2,500. The gauge looked like a close-up in an airline disaster film as the heroic pilots desperately tried to pull back on the yoke and avoid the crash. Through the headset, I heard high pitched screams.  Then I realized I was the one screaming.

More than a year ago, my wife got me a gift certificate for a scenic bi-plane ride.  While I appreciated the gift, I lagged in booking the flight.  Ostensibly, it was because I couldn't find the time; we were new parents, and time had a way of getting sucked out of every weekend.  But the unstated reason was that the very idea of climbing into an ancient bi-plane with an open cockpit made me nervous as hell.  Eventually, though, my impending move to the Seattle area, coupled with an annoyed wife who emphasized that she had paid a lot of money for me to have this experience, forced the issue.  I booked a noon flight on August 19.  I was to show up at 11:45 for what I assumed would be a 15 minute briefing before takeoff, to better acquaint me with such topics as what to do if you feel the urge to vomit:  do you aim over the edge of the open cockpit or for your own lap?

I arrived at the small, private airport at 11:40, but couldn't find "Baron Scenic Flights."  Running short on time, I went into what was labeled as a flight school and asked if they knew where I should go.  A friendly older woman gave me directions to a hangar that I would have never found on my own.  She commented as I left that I should feel confident, since "Bob" was a great pilot.  Then she paused and said with a smile, "Well, except for when he's flying upside-down."  I smiled back at her little joke and hurried out to my car.

I arrived at the hangar, but it was empty.  Moments later, I heard a sound unlike the high-pitched drones of the small planes that were taking off and landing.  This one sounded deeper and more robust.  I looked up just in time to see this plane touch down on the landing strip in front of me.  It taxied over to the hangar, and the pilot hopped out, then helped his passenger climb out of the rear cockpit.

We all have a picture in our minds of what a good pilot should look like.  He should be in his early 50s with a peppering of gray in his hair and an aura of quiet, steely confidence.  Bob was not this man.  Instead, the person before me was easily in his mid-70s (about 15 years past mandatory retirement age for airline pilots) with a slight aura of good-natured wiseass.  His hair was pure white and, although he was certainly fit for his age, I began to ponder scenarios involving his sudden expiration, and our resulting death-plunge to the earth below.

To his credit, his passenger (a 50-something executive type who fit my pilot profile much better) was elated and kept saying things like "that was just wonderful, what a fantastic trip" and "I feel so exhilarated."  So that helped my confidence a bit.  And I figured the odds were weighted pretty heavily in my favor that my flight wouldn't just happen to be the one during which The Blue Baron met his maker.

The three of us stood and chatted amiably about what a nice day it was for the flight.  As the conversation wound down, Bob politely gestured toward me and said that it was my turn now.  With a wink toward me he said, "I've gotta go fly upside down with this young fella."  We all shared a chuckle, but I was starting to get a bit nervous, as this was the second "upside-down" joke I'd heard.  I remembered, though, that the description of the flight said nothing about aerobatics of any sort, which is the kind of thing you'd probably want to mention in advance to people expecting a leisurely bi-plane ride. 

In response, I said, "Hey, I'm a pretty big guy, so you'd have to have me strapped in pretty good to keep me from falling out."  Bob responded quickly with, "Straps?  We charge EXTRA for those!"  We all shared another big chuckle and I felt reasonably assured that the upside-down comments were his little way of having fun with his nervous customers.

So, on to the pre-flight safety briefing.  Except that there was none.  Bob led me to the cockpit, helped me get in, buckled me into a lap belt and two shoulder harnesses, and suggested that I tighten them a bit as it can be bumpy.  He asked me not to grab on to the windscreen, put a headset on my head, and...that was it.  Bob climbed into the front cockpit and fired up the engine, which sputtered disconcertingly before assuming a more confident hum.  We taxied to the active runway, Bob announced his intention to take off, and off we went.  Within 15 seconds, we were airborne.

The sensation of lifting off from the earth in a small, open cockpit plane was very different than the one you get in a commercial airliner.  The wind whipped by and I could look in any direction to take in the sights both below and in the air.  Other than the noise of the wind and the engine, it was quite serene -- although I could have done without the smell of the gasoline powering the propeller, as one might tend to associate that smell while on-board a plane with "we're all going to die a fiery death."

We flew at 1,000 feet to the southern tip of Manhattan, heading up the Hudson River with the tops of the towering skyscrapers at eye-level.  It was a spectacular view, the entire majesty of Manhattan spread out before me.  I held on tightly to my tiny video camera while soaking it all in. 

Soon, Bob turned the plane into a long, graceful bank, heading southbound.  Once we were over the Statue of Liberty, he tilted his wings and we flew a full circle around it.  We were close enough to the ground that I could make out tourists waving up at us.  Bob headed back south again, and I relaxed in the back, thinking about how foolish I had been to be nervous.

And then I noticed something odd.  As we passed over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge and over the Lower New York Bay, Bob eased back on the stick and we began slowly climbing.  A chill ran throughout my body.  He was ascending over a large, unpopulated body of water so that he had a margin of error to do something crazy and no one to kill below should it end badly.  My mind played back all of the previous conversations of the day, which took on wholly new meaning. 

Utterly terrified, I decided that when Bob radioed back to ask me if I was ready to fly upside-down, my answer would be a sheepish "no."  I glanced down at the flimsy-looking straps across my lap and on my shoulders.  These were decidedly NOT the solid contraptions that pull down over your head and bolt you to your seat when you're on a big roller coaster.  These were fabric.  And not even particularly tight.  Just in case Bob took matters into his own hands, I pulled on the straps until they dug into my shoulders.  This was made more difficult by the sudden sheen of sweat covering my palms.

We leveled off at about 3,500 feet.  There was a click on my headset.  Before I could say a word, Bob announced, "Ok, here we go!"  Perhaps for Bob's own sadistic reasons, my microphone remained open as he throttled the engine up to full power. 

The plane's nose shot skyward, and I was pressed down into my seat as we headed straight up into the sky.  I could feel the plane suddenly slowing down -- the propeller was unable to keep the plane going straight upwards.  Just before we stalled in midair, Bob yanked the controls to the left and the plane veered sideways and the nose continued downward until we were pointing straight toward the ground.  For a moment I had a sensation of complete weightlessness as the plane went from straining upwards to plummeting downwards.  After the few seconds of freefall, Bob pulled up on the stick and leveled off.  I saw him glance up at me in his rear-view mirror.  Presumably relieved that I was not dead from a heart attack or missing from my cockpit, he launched into the same maneuver once again as I emitted a surprisingly giddy scream -- straight up again, a sharp bank, a sensation of weightlessness, and then down toward the ocean below.

It was all utterly horrifying, yet equally fantastic.  He followed up by pointing the nose downward and rolling the plane sideways until we were completely inverted for a few seconds before rolling it back right-side up. While upside down, I had the bizarre sensation of looking up at the water below us, while hanging in my recently tightened straps.  We launched into another series of pitches and rolls that I could no longer piece together.  All I knew is that I was being rapidly alternated between feeling crushed into my seat and being lifted out of my seat with a lightning-fast visual sequence of sky, water, sky, water, sky.  Finally, Bob leveled off again and radioed back, "You doing ok?"  Buzzing with adrenaline, I thanked him profusely for the once in a lifetime experience but added, "I honestly thought you were joking about flying upside-down!"

He responded with genuine surprise and exasperation.  "Why the hell do people always think I'm joking?"

Dreams of Iowa

Iowa wore me out, y'all. 

Well, maybe not Iowa so much as getting to and from Iowa.  After the flight from Chicago to Des Moines, I needed a few weeks at a sanitorium somewhere in the Swiss Alps, although I would have had to get there by boat and oxcart as I swore I would not fly again.  Ever.  It wasn't a whining child or disruptive neighborly activity this time (that was saved for the flight home, when the guy in front of me was trying to use his seat as a rocking chair and his old-enough-to-know-better kid screeched and laughed and kicked everything in sight); rather, it was the violent turbulence we encountered during the climb-out, during that already shaky time when I can't do anything except pray feverishly and wait for the ding. 

(Of course, now there's a ding before the seatbelt sign ding; now it's the signal to the flight attendants to make the announcement about approved electronic devices and to release them from their seats so they can putter about the gallery (doing what, we're not sure, since there is certainly no food to prepare) -- and this ding, to my endless discontent, many passengers take as their own cue to get up and move about the cabin, and I have to restrain myself from shouting "SIT DOWN MY GOD PEOPLE SIT YOU ARE GOING TO GET US ALL KILLED WE ARE STILL TAKING OFF AND COULD CRASH AT ANY TIME.")

So there we are, surging toward the sky at approximately fifty thousand miles an hour in a small plane, one of those regional jets where you have to check your roll-aboards at the jetway because the interior of the plane is the size of one of those tunnels they use in dog agility courses), and when we head into the low-hanging rain clouds, we start bobbing and weaving and vibrating and making sudden, violent drops as though we're in a giant cocktail shaker.  At which point, I say loudly, "OH GOD, OH MY GOD, OH NO" and my husband tries to calm me but I start, uh, sobbing.  Yes.  It was not a proud moment.

Let me just point out for a moment that my grandfather graduated from West Point, served in World War II, was severely injured in battle -- TWICE -- and went back for more in the Korean conflict; my dad was an officer in the Air Force and flew missions in the Vietnam War and undoubtedly was in peril pretty much constantly for the duration of his tour; my uncle was a Marine and did not go into combat but is a badass anyway because, well, he was a Marine; and two good friends of mine are also Marines who served in Iraq, where they existed under a constant threat to life and limb, and where they came to consider mortar fire to be "no big deal." 

So I have all of these people in my life who are effectively fearless, who have the wherewithal to get out and be In the Shit without falling to pieces, and I cannot make it through an hour-long commercial flight with my wits about me.  And these thoughts occurred to me, by the way, as I was crying (HEAVING SOBS), but it was no comfort.  I was crying about a bumpy ride in a jet that was not being shot at.  Not even a little bit.  And that was en route to Des Moines, not Fallujah.  I am a pathetic coward.   

Aaaanyway, Iowa itself was lovely, full of family and food and appreciative laughter of the sort you only share with people you've known forever.  The next generation raced around blowing bubbles and slamming the screen door, and the adults drifted in and out of the house, whirling the kids around by their arms or gabbing in the shade or snoozing on the living room couch. 

The whole thing made me wistful for the cookie jar and back patio life to which I was accustomed as a child, the Midwestern-values life that sometimes feels so far away.  I wonder sometimes if we'll be cheating our child out of something precious by raising her in the city.  I wonder if she'll miss out on something essential because we don't have a grill and we can't while away long summer days kicking a soccer ball around while a pitcher of lemonade sweats on the patio table and after dinner we lay flat on the cool grass as the dog curls up next to us and we watch the sky turn inky and feel the night breathing on our faces.    

Picture Pages

My mom recently scanned in some old photos while performing her duties as family archivist, so naturally I feel that I must share some of them with all of you lovely people.  At least the ones of me, since presumably you have no interest in knowing what my great-aunt looked like in the 1920s.  Or perhaps you do, but let's take a moment now to remember whose Website this is, mkay?  Fortunately, most of them are from either before or after my prolonged awkward stage (which is well-documented here, here, and here; whether there truly is an "after" to it, you be the judge -- me, I tend to think it will never end), although the first does relate to my all-consuming love of Annie. 

Witness this, the most enthusiastic gift reaction ever captured on film:

My face looks like it's going to collapse in on itself, such is the power of my ecstatic inhalation.  Once I recovered the ability to make sound, I believe my exact words were, "ANNIE DRESS.  I HAVE AN ANNIE DRESS."  This was my birthday, August 1982.  And my mom made that dress with her own two hands.  (These sewing/crafting talents, they were not passed on to me, as I believe I've mentioned.) 

A normal seven-year old would have worn the dress to play in, maybe, and then carefully put it away until, oh I don't know, Halloween?  Or such other occasion (Purim party (we're not Jewish, but hey, whatever), Annie convention), of which there are admittedly few in life, when wearing an Annie dress might be appropriate. 

Me?  I wore it on the first day of school.  I'll just tell you straightaway, a great way to start off the school year?  Is NOT to show up dressed as your favorite cartoon/musical/film character.  Let this be a lesson to you all.

Next up:  August 7, 1975; a hospital in downstate Illinois: 

You have to admit, that is a cute baby right there.  My dad is looking very handsome and exceedingly tan (we're usually so pasty in my family; I have no idea what was going on in 1975 for him to be Mr. Swarthypants, but it's possible that this was simply before any of us knew not to leave the house without SPF 45 covering every millimeter of exposed flesh), and he is rockin' some sweet sideburns.  I have no idea how they got that bow in my hair, unless there is a safety pin in my head.  I had that same amount of hair until I was about five, and to this day I have that same fo' (that's forehead for you all who are not down wit it, yo) going on that you see here.

(But come on, what a cute baby, right?  RIGHT?)

Here I am, all gussied up for my stint as flower-girl in my aunt's wedding.  She got married in this church with an aisle the length of the Queen Mary 2.  I thought I would be scattering yellow rose petals for the rest of my life.

Dad makes another appearance here, in the form of a disembodied hand.  He used to hold his hand out like that and I would clap both of my hands against it (how many times can I use "hand" in one sentence?).  I don't know where we came up with that routine, but we do it to this day.  And when someone goes to shake my hand, I have to restrain myself from clapping it repeatedly between my own.  Because, at my core, I'm still six.  (I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.)

As evidence of my Little House obsession (which is recorded on this site too many times to link), here I am on Christmas Eve -- circa 1983 -- carrying presents down to the tree in my Red Flannel Factory nightgown:

Not pictured: the red flannel bonnet that went with the nightgown.  A BONNET.  If I tried to wear a full-on flannel ensemble such as this now, I would die of acute dehydration; they would find me in the morning having disappeared in a pool of my own sweat.  Just looking at this makes me feel warm and itchy.

Also, why does my brother look so fresh-faced and apple-cheeked, while I appear to have just wrestled a grizzly bear?  This was before bed, so I had no excuse for being so disheveled.      

Finally, here we have proof that I was a dancer.  And that, at one time, I had no ass whatsoever.

I clearly had no boobies, either, although in this shot it kind of looks like I have some growing out of my back.  At the time -- this was taken, I believe, when I was in tenth grade -- I thought this picture made me look chunky.

(Let's pause for a moment of silent head-shaking at the folly of a fifteen-year old who weighed as much as a pillowcase.) 

I do think my hands kind of look like catcher's mitts, though.  My arms and hands usually looked much more graceful than that, I swear.  And my knees could be straighter.  I could have arched a little more.  Oh, well.  It's hard to be critical now, when I would pay someone NOT to photograph me in a gauzy costume and tights. 

Although suddenly I am thinking about going as Annie for Halloween this year...

Driver's Dread

One thing that gives me pause about moving anywhere outside of Manhattan is the thought of having to drive everywhere.  I don't object to the act of driving itself; in fact, I kind of love to drive.  Whenever we rent a Zipcar to get out of the city for a weekend, I relegate my husband to the passenger's seat and take the wheel with a rather childlike excitement.  I relish the opportunity to tool about in some mode of transportation that does not involve oppressive body odor (well, other than our own) or men with dolls in their pockets; we bring along CDs and crank the stereo and WHEEEEEE!  (Then we get stuck in traffic on the GWB and the fun dies a bit; but still:  we've got our music, we're in control!  There will be no delays caused by fainting passengers!). 

I have the utmost confidence in my own driving ability.  My dad put me through his own personal version of driver's ed when I got my learner's permit (my high school offered zero driving instruction), consisting of basic practice outings around the vacant industrial park on weekends, parallel parking tests in a nearby school lot, and, finally, test drives on the highway at off-peak hours.  With his unflappable patience -- even with a skittish teen at the wheel -- Dad passed on to me a certain inner serenity as a driver; even in difficult conditions -- icy roads, fog, heavy rain, gassing up a U-Haul in Manhattan at rush hour during a snowstorm -- I remain placid, never making sudden moves or forgetting to check my mirrors. 

However.  The two near-death experiences I've had in my time on this earth have occurred while driving, and it seems that every month I hear about some horrific car accident involving someone in my hometown or some massive pile-up on the outskirts of the city, with dread injuries and multiple deaths.  I may get blown up by a terrorist one day on my way to work, but so long as I stay in New York and keep my driving to a bare minimum, at least I've downgraded the chances of vehicular death to somewhere around zero.  Because, you know, it's not me I'm worried about.  It's the other guy. 

When I was on the crew team in college, I drove to and from practice every morning.  Few students saw the hour of 4:45 AM as being a start to the day, rather than its backend, but such is the nature of rowing.  For whatever reason, it must be done in the most uncomfortable conditions possible (bitter cold, driving rain, oppressive heat) and at an unthinkable hour. 

My car was a zippy Geo Prism, which got about 570 miles to the gallon and would likely have folded up like a cardboard box on the slightest impact.  If I'd wanted to, I probably could have picked it up and thrown it.  It was a stick shift, which I loved -- thanks to Dad's additional tutelage on the manual transmission, if necessary I could have handled that baby at a stop light at the top of Pike's Peak with another car two inches behind me, such was my finesse with the clutch. 

The boathouse where our morning practices were held was on the north side of town, a couple of miles from campus.  To get there, you had to go off on a dirt road and cross some train tracks.  There were non-working railroad signals at the tracks and no safety bar thingies for the crossing, so the only way you knew a train was coming was to see it.  I'm sure you can sense where this is going.

One freezing cold morning, after a vigorous couple of hours on the water, one of my teammates and I clambered into the car to head back to our dorm.  The windows steamed up immediately from the sudden introduction of body heat into the car.  I turned on the defroster and absent-mindedly wiped my window with the back of my sleeve, but it instantly fogged over again. 

Several cars pulled out before us, and we followed them slowly toward the main road.  One by one, the cars jounced over the train tracks.  When we were next, I eased up on the brake and clutch just as my passenger, Kathy, leaned forward and peered out the windshield.  I pressed the gas slightly.  Kathy squinted through the misty window and then screeched, "TRAAAAAAAAAAAAIN!"  Without thinking or looking or braking, I floored the gas and we flew over the tracks, and in a whooshing clacking roaring rush of steel, the train swept by behind us.  It had missed us by maybe a foot. 

I pulled off to the side of the dirt road and put my head on the steering wheel.  Kathy slumped against the dash.  I thought about what might have happened if I'd hesitated for two seconds, if the car had stalled, if I hadn't tapped the gas hard enough.  We breathed heavily for a while in silence, and then I slowly put the car in gear and turned onto the main road toward campus. 

More than a decade later, my husband and I were driving up the Palisades to my brother's house.  It was late at night and the median was piled high with snow.  We seemed to be the only car on the road, and the wintry blackness enveloped everything outside of the sweep of our headlights.  As we came around a bend in the parkway, I saw a slight glimmer of lights some indiscernable distance away.  I blinked at them.  Something wasn't right. 

Suddenly, a glint of metal and a blur of small orange lights.  I swerved to the right before I knew what I was trying to avoid, and as the car clung to the shoulder and we sped past, I turned to look and found myself staring into the grill of a Mack truck.  The truck was splayed crazily across the highway, its cab flung into the two northbound lanes, facing into oncoming traffic, headlights OFF, with its trailer jack-knifed across the snowy median.  Once again, I'd been spared by a foot or two, a bare distance of seconds.