My Best Summer Memory

As JT and I settle into our summer routine and start preparations for our camping trip to Cape Cod, I've given some thought to my best summer memory. I can't really settle on a single summer experience as my best summer memory, but I have many happy memories of camping with my family.

My family was of the rustic camp-in-a-tent variety. We slept in sleeping bags and we ate food we cooked over an open flame. We usually camped with friends and I recall those lazy summer days as wonderfully adventurous. I remember long walks in the woods. I remember eating picnic lunches (usually salami sandwiches with mustard on fresh sourdough bread) while sitting in the sun on a huge rock overlooking Billy Creek. I remember getting my sneakers sopping wet in that creek. I remember eating spaghetti on a plate resting on my knees, as we huddled under the tarp during a rare Sierra Nevada summer rain. I remember the sound of playing cards slapping against the red-checked vinyl table cloth my mom always spread over the picnic table at the campsite. And I remember the clean, fresh smell of the woods, and the feeling of independence that camping always brought to me.

I was blessed to be able to give that experience to JT last summer and I'm looking forward to doing it again in a few weeks. Something about those low-tech and high fun adventures really resounds with me. And it's nice to be able to give those memories to my son.

I Highly Recommend That You Acquire a Cousin Donna

On Tuesday, after a 4 hour delay and then an extra long flight from Sacramento to Dallas (6 hours......including the stop in Albuquerque to re-fuel), we arrived in Dallas to find that our connection to Jersey was canceled. It was 9 pm and after hours of bad weather, Dallas was done flying for the day. Thousands of people were stuck in the airport. Hotel rooms and rental cars were gone. The airport was handing out cots to stranded travelers (the picture is some of those cots). It was chaotic when we got off the plane, with very little information about what was happening. We hit the bathrooms and I scored JT some food (his first meal since he'd inhaled a plate of French toast nearly 12 hours earlier).

Then, while JT ate his Happy Meal out of a paper bag, we got in a long line to see what our options were. I called my family to give them the details. Then I used my cell to call American Airlines. And as I was on hold with the airline, my phone rang. It was my mother's cousin Donna, who lives in Dallas, calling to offer a hot shower and a bed for the night. "Stay where you are," she instructed, "I'll come to the airport and find you."

I hadn't seen Donna since I was a little girl but we exchanged details ("I'm the tired woman in the red dress with the tanned little boy," I said) and find us she did. Then she waited with us in the endless line (providing much needed good humor and patience). Via phone, American had re-booked JT and I to leave Dallas for Newark on Thursday morning. The Wednesday flights were full and we could try to fly stand-by, but I had to see an actual agent to make that happen. The long-line was the only path to an agent.

As the line slowly moved forward, we chatted and waited. The American counter was closing at 1 am and I just made it to the counter at 12:55. The tired agent booked us for stand-by on a Wednesday morning flight (and that flight did bring us home) and then we took the 15-minute drive to Donna's house. There Donna and her husband Cliff had a cozy spare bed. After some much-needed rest and yummy blueberries and toast for breakfast, Cliff gave us a ride to the airport on Wednesday morning. "Let us know what happens," he said as we left the car, "you are welcome for another night." Now that's what I call hospitality.

It seems particularly fitting that after a vacation that mainly involved visiting his grandparents and playing with his cousins, it was grandma's cousin who came to our rescue. So I write in praise of cousins everywhere, and especially cousin Donna and her husband Cliff, who rescued us and kept us sane for one more day of travel. After Cliff dropped us off on Wednesday morning, JT said to me, "well, that was a life-saver." I couldn't agree more.

Reflections on Airport Security and the Perils of Modern Travel

It is an established fact that there is an inverse relationship between airport security and size of the city. The smaller the city, the more important the airport security flunkies imagine themselves. Here in Sacramento, California, a whole bunch of us stood gape-mouthed while the TSA "officials" practically strip-searched this quiet and accommodating elderly woman. And Bob at the metal detector took one look at my Jersey license and subjected me to the 3rd degree, beginning and ending with "why do you live in New Jersey?" and tempting me to say, "because in New Jersey we eat power-hungry punks like you for lunch."

We're at the gate now..........and may I also note that henceforth I shall demand to sit in the airport "No Tuna Sandwich" section. Who thinks that it is okay to eat tuna in public? FYI: It's not okay.

At Least We Have Some Toys

JT and I arrived at the Sacramento airport this morning at 7 am. Our flight was scheduled for 8:20 am........plenty of time. I knew there was trouble the moment we got in the very long line. Most of the flights were delayed and the airline was advising us to call and re-book as we waited in line to check our luggage. That level of efficiency was a tad disturbing but I know how to follow instructions and so I got out my phone. We're leaving California 5 hours late and will catch a later flight from Dallas to Newark. So instead of getting home to NJ at 9 pm tonight, we'll be home at midnight.

We got the Sassa-grandparents to return to the airport and take us out for pancakes. Now I am enjoying the free wi-fi while JT's army dudes stage a war on the table at the airport Starbucks. All in all, not so bad.

Bring It

In previous summers, JT's swimming abilities were less than skillful. But this year he's a more confident swimmer and that led to several hotly contested pool basketball games. I took this picture yesterday......I think that JT is actually tending the goal in this photo but no foul was called. The three of them talk a lot of smack while playing. And, of course, have a whole lot of fun.

Y'all Listen Up

I recently re-read one of my favorite books, Mama Makes Up Her Mind, a collection of stories and essays – parables even – by Bailey White. White was an NPR essayist for years and I first heard these stories when she read them on the radio. The book was published in 1993 and I first read it then, when I was living in Nashville, Tennessee and was determined to be a southerner for life.

Things have changed in the 14 years since I first read the book (for starters, I live in Yankee territory these days) but the stories still charm. The full title of the book is Mama Makes Up Her Mind and Other Dangers of Southern Living and that pretty well sums up the anecdotes it contains. I'm charmed by the eccentricities White succinctly describes, and the life lessons she gleens from her daily experiences. Though there is much to be praised about life in Yankee territory, reading the book reminds me how much I miss the quirky charm of southern living.

And then there is the sweet tea..........I miss the sweet tea.

Live-Blogging with Mom and Dad

So I'm here in my hometown and it's Friday night. We've all had supper and the boys are playing games while the grown ups talk. The death penalty. Sex. Global warming. It's all come up tonight. To whit:

1. Dad doesn't believe in global warming.

2. Mom doesn't like conflict (but we knew that).

For reasons I don't completely understand, we talked about Angelina Jolie. The 'rents saw her on The Actor's Studio and they like her. When my brother-in-law suggested that people like Angelina Jolie because she's hot (true, that), my father said he didn't agree. Evidently Mom needn't fear that Dad will walk out on her for Angelina. Brad Pitt is breathing a sigh of relief.

But Dad likes Candice Bergen. So bring on the Murphy Brown re-runs.

We've moved on to the use of debit cards (Dad is opposed) and the heat on the conversation has been dialed down.

We're a happy family once again.

Post Secret

Every Sunday I check the secrets at www.postsecret.blogspot.com. It's an amazing collection of postcards, all anonymous, and all revealing a secret. I first learned about the webiste from an NPR story (yeah, I'm a mega-geek). I was immediately struck by the poignancy of the idea. Folks send in an illustrated postcard with a secret written on it.

I often think about a secret I might send. And then I think about who might (or worse, might not) read that secret. But that's as far as I ever get. I envy those who tell their secret and I hope that it gives them freedom and peace. I'd like that for myself.

As for me, maybe my secret isn't that much of a secret. Sometimes I think that it's only a wish that will remain unfulfilled. Maybe it's just a fear? Often I think that putting words to my secret won't make it go away but instead will make it all the more real. And therefore all the more hard to bear.

I don't know the answer to these questions but you should check out the website. It's a powerful place.

Idol Thoughts

I am in Colorado Springs airport (using their FREE wireless......you go Colorado Springs), waiting to catch a flight to Los Angeles and then to Fresno, where my brown-eyed boy awaits. I know that I'm ready to get some sugar from him because I see other people's children and I feel envy. It's the curse of the Mama I guess. If he were here, he'd have his nose pressed to the window, watching the planes take off and land and chattering to me about where those folks are headed. That's what we did in Seattle on our way out west. So I watch those planes fly off over the mountains and I imagine other parents, eager to see the faces of the children who make their world perfect.

Mama's on her way, monkey boy.

Red Shoes

A few years ago, I had a student who only wore red shoes. I was impressed by both the spirit of the enterprise and the versatility that she got out of those red shoes. Sarah had a certain magic as a young woman and the shoes were simply part of the package.

I saw Sarah a few weeks ago and she still has the red shoes. This week, I've been wearing some red shoes of my own and I think there is just something about them. My feet make me happy and that feeling just propels me forward.

My workshop is over and I have many plans for next year whirling in my head. But first I will enjoy the summer and the pleasure of unscheduled days. So tomorrow the red shoes will take me back to California to see the Sassafras Boy and hang out with my family.

Let the swimming begin.