The Confession

So I'm feeling slightly guilty that I may have lured some readers to yesterday's post with a tantalizing title for a memory about folded laundry. I thought I might make up for that by making a confession. It's not crazy juicy, but--except for a few potentially scandalous stories involving romance--it's about the best I've got.

(Note to Mom: I suspect some of this will be new to you. Please don't panic. It was more than 30 years ago and I'm okay. And if you read through to the end of the post, you will know you were right to trust me as much as you did.)

Generally speaking, I've been a Very Good Girl pretty much my whole life. I learned early on that if I have integrity and don't break the rules, I have better relationships and so much more freedom.

But for a few weeks my junior year of high school, I did not want to be a Very Good Girl. I wanted to know what the parties were like. I wanted to cruise around with some of my friends who were edgier than I was. I wanted to know why they wanted to drink and smoke.

So I started to cross over into that world. I went to a few parties. I cruised around with my girl friends. I tried to drink beer a few times. I smoked some cigarettes. (I had already been scared straight from trying drugs because I'd read Go Ask Alice. Yeah, it didn't take much.)

Things started spinning out of control very quickly.

The first party I went to, which happened to be next door to a couple who attended our church, was broken up by the police. The next morning at church, the couple joked with me about being at the party. Of course they assumed I wasn't there. I remained silent. [Update: My mom reports the couple saw our car at the party and suspected I was there. So funny! And so much for thinking I got away with something.]

I ended up getting a ride home from the next party in a crowded car driven by a guy I didn't know, who may or may not have been sober. At one point I looked down at my feet and realized there a gaping hole in the floor of the car. I could see the pavement speeding by. A close call on so many levels. I was lucky.

Then one night I was driving around with my friends in my parents' car (no drinking, by the way), and we decided to stalk a boy that one of them had a crush on. We knew he was with a bunch of his friends, so we drove by the house they were in over and over until we got their attention. They came out to see who we were. We sped off laughing, then turned the car around to see if they were still there. The next thing we knew, the passenger side window of the car was shattered. Someone had thrown something, maybe a bottle. I pulled the car over, got out, and--steaming mad--chased the boys into the woods. They got away. We called the police, but when the officer questioned me, I realized I couldn't snitch. I told him I had no idea who might have broken our car window. And when I told my parents the story, I left out the parts that implicated my friends and me in any way.

At one point during this time, I went on a school trip and some of our antics resulted in two of the boys in our group kicking a hole through the door of our hotel room. Though I wasn't directly responsible for the hole in the door, I wasn't exactly innocent either. I had, for example, climbed from our fourth floor balcony over to theirs, sneaked into their room, and filled their beds with ice. The teacher in charge absolutely lit into me and accused me of being the ring leader (which, I confess, I took as a compliment despite feeling thoroughly chastised).

In just a few weeks, so much danger and destruction and run-ins with authority. No freedom in that! And even worse, at least in my mind, I found myself being less than honest.

The turning point came when one of my friends called to ask me to go to a party. I was babysitting my younger sisters and said I couldn't go. Could I at least give her a ride? She tried to convince me it wouldn't take long, my sisters would be fine without me, and my parents would never know.

Some friend. No way. Rebellion over.

The Secret

While I was folding laundry this evening, I was thinking up ideas to write about. I was also wishing that the laundry would be more cooperative as I folded it. Well folded laundry sits much more nicely in drawers and on closet shelves, no?

During the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college I worked as a camp counselor at the same camp my parents worked at when I was a kid in Maine. I was a lifeguard and a swimming instructor. At the end of the summer, my cabin co-counselor, Anne, was trying to figure out how she'd get home to Quebec City.

Since I had a little time on my hands and had never been to Quebec, I offered to drive her.

When we got to her family's house, their housekeeper confiscated all of our dirty laundry. While Anne showed me around town--such a good trade for driving her home, what a spectacular city!--the housekeeper washed and folded my motley collection of t-shirts, shorts, and jeans.

When we got home, I discovered she'd transformed it all into the neatest, most pristine stack of clean laundry I'd ever seen. Seriously, I couldn't believe the clothes were actually mine. One day I want to discover her secret. (Or maybe hire someone just like her.)

In Color

Tonight I turned to my box of old journals for inspiration. I randomly opened to an entry I wrote in college. April 1983.

A friend invited me to her grandparents' cabin in West Yellowstone, Idaho, for a weekend. "The snow was beautiful and the snowmobiling was great," I wrote with stunning attention to detail.

I remember that we watched The Wizard of Oz on TV one night while we were there. All of a sudden, I realized that the movie was in color! I'd only ever seen it on a black and white TV because that's all we had while I was growing up. I had no idea the movie starts out in black and white and turns to color when Dorothy isn't in Kansas anymore.

It was like I wasn't in Kansas anymore.

The Word

It seems fitting to write about a memory that ties into the eclipse we watched earlier this evening. And this what I came up with: Jack's first word, as he pointed to the pattern on a quilt his grandma made for him, was "star."

Typical

I hope I'm okay posting a picture of other peoples' children here. It is from nearly eight years ago, so I think I'm safe. I just can't resist sharing it.

This photo was taken at the graduation picnic for Jack's preschool class in June 2004. He's on the far right. Nearly everyone else is concentrating on posing for the pictures. Jack is concentrating on a stick.

We actually had him enrolled in two preschools that year. He continued with Teacher Linda, who he had the previous year. We loved her because she refused to have a strict schedule. "If they had fun playing with the magnet table and they want to do it again the next day, well, why not?" she'd say. Jack responded well to that.

But we also wanted him to have a bit more preparation for the rigors of kindergarten, so we signed him up with Teacher Joyce (pictured here). We loved her because she was committed to a strict schedule. And because she already knew and appreciated Jack's imaginative spirit.

He was very successful in kindergarten.

Born Yesterday

Roger and Jack celebrated their joint birthday yesterday. Pretty neat to get a son for a birthday present!

If anyone is wondering why I didn't write about memories of Jack coming into the world yesterday, it's because we didn't actually meet him until 13 years ago today. When he was a little over 24 hours old, we went to the hospital and spent a couple of hours with Jack, his birth mom and some of her family. We got to hear all about his birth and about how he didn't open up both of his eyes at the same time until we got there. As soon as we heard that story, we were sure he'd be Jack (the bold, happy name) instead of Stephen (the solid, safe name).

Later that afternoon we took him home. The first thing he did was nestle in on Roger's belly and nap. We, of course, were in awe and weren't about to do any napping at all. Going to sleep that night wasn't very high on our list either.

That was the first of many, many nights that Roger and I stayed up late talking about how cool Jack was and about how blessed we were to become his parents. It's truly been an amazing adventure. Seriously, look at that face! 

And I'm sure Jack is going to continue to be such a cutie now that he's a full-on teenager!

Speaking Truth

I've been hosting a series at our library since January called "So You Want to Read." Each month we have a different presenter talk about an author, a specific book, or a genre. It's really about approaching reading that may stretch us as an accessible, enjoyable adventure.

Tonight my friend Wendy gave an excellent presentation on John Steinbeck's East of Eden, which is one of my favorite novels. I hadn't quite realized before just how controversial his writing was. I knew about farmers in the Salinas Valley being unhappy with the way they were portrayed in The Grapes of Wrath, but I had no idea that there was so much backlash against him receiving the Nobel Prize in literature in 1962.

One of the things I've long admired about Steinbeck was his capacity to tell the truth as he saw it. I've been trying to sort out how to do that more myself. I know it's in me somewhere. Growing up I couldn't bear witnessing injustice, like if someone was accused of something they didn't do. My freshman year of high school, for example, I remember standing up to my French teacher who thought the boy sitting in front of me had cheated on a test. I knew he hadn't, and I defended him boldly.

The thing is, I actually think my French teacher respected me for it.

Yes, I need to keep sorting this out. I need to keep working to find my voice, because sometimes I feel like I'm swallowed up by truth I see but don't speak.

(I also think I should get extra points for earnestness on this one. Sometimes I'm just so damn earnest. There. There's some truth I need to speak!)

Revolution

One of my favorite exhibitions I saw the other day at the National Museum of Women in the Arts was a collection of letters that Frida Kahlo and her mother wrote to one another while Frida was traveling with her husband Diego Rivera in the United States during the early 1930s. I think she led a fascinating life--so passionate about the things she believed in, especially opportunity and equality for everyone, not just the wealthy.

I discovered a few years ago that Frida Kahlo was born in Coyoacan, Mexico, in 1907. There is a good chance my Grandma Jan was living there at the same time. My grandmother was born in Saltillo, Mexico, in 1905 and soon after, her Presbyterian missionary parents moved the family to Coyoacan to run a mission school. I wonder if Grandma Jan and Frida ever walked past each other on the street. Maybe they even knew each other.

Grandma left Mexico when she was eight, about three years after the Mexican Revolution broke out, and headed to Palo Alto, California, where she graduated from high school and then Stanford University. Like Frida Kahlo, she was passionate about the things she believed in, especially opportunity and equality for everyone. I can't imagine she wasn't shaped by some of the same forces Frida Kahlo was shaped by, growing up in the throes of revolution.

Grandma Jan at a monastery in Mexico, February 1980

When I was 16, my parents and I traveled to Mexico with my grandmother. We made a pilgrimage to Coyoacan and found the place where her family lived and worked. Grandma always told lots of stories about her childhood there. I was most entranced when she talked about the secret hole in the wall of the courtyard that she and a friend used to exchange letters and other treasures.

I don't doubt that her stories and the legacy of her Mexican childhood has shaped me, especially the passion I have for working toward a world in which everyone can enjoy opportunity and equality.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

Okay, I shouldn't promise a specific blog post the next day when I know I'll probably end up crazy tired. Up early after a late night, a last morning full of walking in DC, then metro to the end of the green line, bus to airport, plane, drive home. I finally got on eastern time and now I'm completely done for.

So a quick memory tonight.

I caught the travel bug early, and was determined to be as independent as I could be. I remember taking a solo bus ride from Massachusetts to Connecticut to visit my grandmother when I was maybe 10 or 11. I loved the sheer act of being on the move like that!

And the summer I turned 12 or 13, I saved up my money to pay for a plane ticket to Chicago to visit my other grandmother at the lake house (in addition to the annual visit my family made earlier). I remember washing every window in the house, sewing dresses for my sisters, mowing the lawn, washing and waxing the car, cleaning out the barn. Anything to earn money for that ticket!

All through my teenage years (and actually still), I was way more interested in saving money for adventures than spending money on clothes and record albums.

The last six days = money very well spent in my book.

Walking in Their Footsteps

A wonderfully relaxed, rainy day strolling around Washington, D.C. After I dropped visa applications off at the Kenyan embassy on R Street for the upcoming trip my sister and I are planning, I did some casual sightseeing, a little birthday shopping for Roger and Jack, and visited the National Museum of Women in the Arts, which I will write a bit more about tomorrow.

I ended up back at the Court of Appeals for the Federal Circuit by the White House and Lafayette Square to meet my friend Pat, who is the librarian there. I worked at the court as an intern during the fall of 1984, and then as an actual employee for the summers of 1985 and 1986.

Working at the court was an extraordinary experience, and was the perfect place to learn how to function in a high stakes professional environment with people at the top of their profession as I transitioned from undergraduate work, through graduate school and into longer-term jobs. Wouldn't trade my time there for anything.

I also discovered some things I hadn't known before today. Most of the court is in the modern red brick building in the photo above, but the administrative offices have gradually taken over the historic row homes you can see in the foreground. The building on the corner is the Dolly Madison House. This morning I walked through a room in that house where Abraham Lincoln once sat. 

That's really neat, but just a few houses to the east (sort of behind a tree in the photo above) is the Tayloe House. Here's a better picture:

Despite all of the times I've been in the Tayloe House, I never knew that it was once the headquarters of the National Women's Party, which was founded by women's suffragist Alice Paul. I have walked the halls once walked by the women who fought for and won our right to vote!

And if it weren't for women like them, and so many women who came after them, I might never have had the opportunities I had to work for the federal court that now occupies that property. Thank you, my sisters!

Salt of the Earth

If I was at home right now, I'd find the picture of my mom floating on her belly in the Great Salt Lake, head held high, thumbs in the air, and a big grin on her face. Then I'd scan it and post it on my blog.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom! Thanks for being game for so many adventures when I was growing up!

Bye

Closing down the hotel bar after the wedding. Taking the night off. Back tomorrow!

Okay, I'm back. I've had a good night's sleep, and I now I have a brain to write. And of course attending a wedding brings back memories of my own wedding.

One of the funniest memories I have of our reception was hearing later that one of my friends had my Quaker grandmother completely convinced that he was a polygamist. She was a world traveler who had a very anthropological perspective, always curious about learning how people think and live. I'm sure it was a highlight of her trip to her granddaughter's wedding in the mysterious land of Utah.

What made it even funnier is that I believe it was my friend who just celebrated his anniversary with his husband--no wives at all.

Shadows

I didn't even realize I took this picture today. A serendipitous push of the button.

After taking the train into the city from Maryland early this morning, I couldn't bear to take the metro in such gorgeous weather. So, with carryon luggage in tow, I walked from Union Station to the Capitol, then down the mall and around the White House to my friend Pat's office by Lafayette Park.

I love this city. Everywhere I walked memories followed me like shadows.

The Capitol, where my friend Sara charmed an old security guard and on a whim he took us to parts of the building tourists never get to see. The sidewalk near the Capitol, where a squirrel dropped from a tree and landed on my head, probably scaring him even more than it scared me.

The Mall, where on my first day working for a federal court judge, she took me to the Smithsonian Folklife Festival and we ate barbecued ribs with our fingers. The expanses of lawn between the Mall and the White House, where I played with the court softball team.

Lafayette Park, which I ran around four times (a mile) for my independent study Fitness for Life class final exam. I should have gotten extra credit points for dodging pigeons.

Did I mention I love this city?

First Comes Love

Today I flew from Salt Lake to Baltimore for my cousin's wedding in Washington, D.C., this weekend.

Tonight I'm staying with my brother-in-law Bill and his wife Lorraine. Eleven years ago this summer, Roger, Jack, and I flew to D.C. for their wedding. I remember that we barely, barely made it to the airport in time for our flight because there was an accident on the freeway. But we did, and the wedding was beautiful.

Now Bill and Lorraine have four lively children, including a set of twins. The minute I walked in the door, they all started talking at once. They had lots to share! I'm not sure I caught it all, but we had fun anyway!

Mousse

I had lunch today at the Hobble Creek golf course. One of my lunch companions asked if I was a golfer. I've only played a few times, so I can't really claim to be one. I did tell him the story of my very first experience playing golf and the moose we encountered. A good memory, but I already told that story on my blog here.

Don't worry, though. I've got another one.

Tomorrow I'm headed to Washington, D.C., for my cousin Julie's wedding. I'll get to hang out with her childhood friend Sahar while I'm there. I don't think I've seen Sahar since we crossed paths in Paris when I was in college. [Update: Roger says that he met Sahar at my grandmother's 85th birthday party. So I have seen her more recently. That was only 22 years ago.]

Julie, her sister Sally, Sahar, and I met for dinner there. We ordered chocolate mousse for dessert and the waiter brought a gigantic bowl of it to our table along with four small bowls, one for each of us. I'm guessing that we were supposed to exercise polite restraint and each take a single portion. Instead we kept refilling our bowls until it was pretty much gone.

I pretty sure that's one of the reasons Parisians love Americans so much.

Heaven

This week brought news of two deaths, one near and one far. Our friend Angel, who we met when we opened our bookstore, and Maurice Sendak, who we rediscovered when we opened our bookstore.

Angel was an elementary school librarian who loved children and who loved books and who loved sharing books she loved with children. When she was at our store, she often became one of our best booksellers, jumping in to help other customers find something to treasure. When asked to name a favorite book, she'd say, "I could no more pick a favorite book than a star in the sky."

Of course we carried Sendak's Where the Wild Things Are from the time we started building our children's book inventory, but the first time I actually read it as an adult was after Jack was born. I remembered Max and the wild things, but I hadn't remembered Sendak's simple lilting language. I reveled.

". . . and he sailed off through night and day and in and out of weeks and almost over a year to where the wild things are."

Angel, now that Maurice is there, resting in peace might have to wait. The wild rumpus may be starting.

PS: Thanks for the great cartoon in the Salt Lake Tribune today, Pat Bagley!

But We Didn't Inhale

When I was in sixth grade we did oral reports on various illicit drugs. I was assigned marijuana. Because I'm always looking for a more interesting angle, I decided to go to the police department to ask them some questions for my research.

A very nice officer loaded me up with pamphlets and then said he had just the thing for my report. He pulled out a little packet with a couple of tablets and told me that if I burned them, they'd smell just like marijuana. So I took them to school, along with a container and some matches, gave my report, lit the tablets on fire and passed them around the class so that everyone would know what marijuana smelled like.

If I was in sixth grade today, I'd probably just google marijuana, jot down some notes, maybe download an image or two, call it good, and miss out on a real adventure.

Where Are We Going?

This is a picture of my family in 1965. I wasn't even two yet, so I don't have any memory of this day. I don't actually have any memory of living in this era--of our family looking like this (the unfortunate styles of the 70s soon overwhelmed us)--but this was plunk in the middle of my formative years, so it must be a fundamental part of me.

We might have been heading to church when this was taken.

My mom grew up as a Presbyterian, and my dad as an Episcopalian. After they got married, they decided to be Unitarians. Then, when I was five, they decided to be Mormons.

I have a few memories of being in the nursery at the old Unitarian Church by Harvard Square in Boston, looking out the window at the street below. My earliest memories of attending the Mormon Church in Cambridge involved going to Jr. Sunday School and riding in the car on the way home from weekday Primary with the neighbors.

What's fascinating to me is that people who decide they don't want to be Mormons anymore but still want to be part of a religious community often become Unitarians. Just the reverse of my parents' journey.

I think I might experience Mormonism differently than many people I meet because of my family's early history and because my extended family includes lovely and generous people who are Presbyterian, Episcopalian, Jewish, Quaker, Catholic, Lutheran, agnostic, atheist, and, at least at various points, Wiccan, Pagan, and Buddhist.

To be honest, I'm not always sure what to make of my spiritual journey, but I'm glad my parents started me on it. I catch glimpses of what I perceive to be pure truth and light, I bang my head against dogmatism, I am inspired by the deep faith of others, I don't really want to live forever, I believe it is all bigger than we can understand with our limited senses, I know that loving one another is our best hope for taking humanity forward, I seek.

Life Saving

Jack went to the pool tonight to complete his lifesaving merit badge. It's not anywhere near the full life-saving course that is required to be a life guard, but it was a good reminder of water safety skills for him.

When I was a teenager, I took advanced lifesaving from a very demanding instructor over the course of a couple of months. He pushed us hard. When it came time for our final testing, he appointed himself to be the drowning victim we took turns rescuing. He did not make it easy. He wanted us to know exactly how dangerous it is to approach someone who is panicking in the water. Then when I got him into a cross-chest carry and towed him the length of the 25-yard pool, my arm was rubbed raw by the three-day-old beard he'd grown just to torture us.

He made class hell, but we all learned what we needed to learn and we sure learned it well.

Stink

Jack and I were on the way home from the metal recycling place this afternoon--took in nearly $30 with 16 pounds of cans we collected all winter and an old Jeep radiator!--when we were overcome by the smell of skunk at the north end of town.

Smell, as I understand it, is the sense most closely linked with memory.

It was summer 1998. I was the church girls' camp director, and we were camping at Payson Lakes. It was very stressful being in charge of girls' camp--not just because it was important to make sure the girls were having a good time and learning valuable things, but because I was responsible for their safety and welfare. After the first day, I was not wearing the mantle of leadership particularly well.

Then it was 3:00 in the morning. I was woken up with screams of "Margy! Margy! Come here!" The mantle was mine, no turning back. The girls had discovered a skunk in their tent, trapped under one of the cots. Suddenly there were more cries, "Margy! Margy!" I left one of the assistant camp directors to deal with the skunk under the cot (luckily there was no room for it to raise its tail and once the tent was clear of girls it was relieved to make a peaceful escape). I raced to see what else had gone wrong and discovered skunks nosing around our kitchen area. Somehow we chased them off without creating a bigger problem.

The next morning we had a Very Serious camp meeting. It was essential to reign in whatever treats had lured the skunks to our campsite. The girls rallied. We saw no more skunks for the rest of the week.

One crisis handled. Then we found out we couldn't use the flush toilets anymore due to a water shortage . . .

Seeing

I think I might have been in sixth grade when this picture was taken. I started wearing glasses when I was in fourth grade. The big style then was wire-frame granny glasses. Then came the wire-frame bottle cap glasses. Then, when I graduated from high school, thankfully, contact lenses.

When I was nine or ten, I forgot to take off my glasses once before I dove into Lake Geneva. My dad's cousin's husband Tom (we have so many Toms in our family I have to be specific!) spent hours with a mask looking for them in the weeds at the bottom of the lake. Hours! I couldn't believe he did that just for me. Since I was just a little kid there wasn't much I could do to thank him for finding them, but I did make a batch of chocolate chip cookies and delivered them to him while they were still warm.

The Routine

Just about every school day since Jack started first grade I've made him the same thing for lunch: a peanut butter sandwich (no jelly), cheddar cheese goldfish, and a few cookies (lately Oreos). For a while I included baby carrots, but he confessed that he didn't eat them so I stopped. He now eats baby carrots under supervision at home.

The only exception was when the elementary school cafeteria served pizza, which happened two days a month. Now that he's in junior high? He eats the same thing. Every. Single. Day.

May Day

One time Roger and I were miles out in the middle of Utah Lake in a motor boat when the engine died. We called for help on our cell phone and a guy came out and towed us to shore.

I'm sure there are details I could include that would make that story much more interesting, but my eyes are drooping and I must close them. I have run out of gas.

Maybe I'll dream of rocking back and forth in a motor boat on the waves way out in the middle of Utah Lake tonight. That would be nice.

R-E-A-D-E-R

I came across Jack's baby book yesterday and I went through the parts I'd actually filled out with him. It looks like I was pretty careful about writing things for the first few months and then nothing. We talked about some of the things that were missing, things I do remember. But so much is forgotten.

One thing we talked about was his obsession with letters and words when he was really young. A good indication that he would be a strong reader!

At the post office one day, when Jack was two or three, we were waiting our turn in line. Jack spied the trash can. For some reason he loved trash cans and noticed them everywhere we went. He went over to it and said each letter on the swinging door as he pointed to it. "T-R-A-S-H." Then with a grand flourish of his hand he proudly said, "GARBAGE!"

He advanced quickly from there.

A bit later I watched him studying the sign we had in our yard when Roger was running for County Commissioner (as a Democrat so, no, he wasn't elected). "LAYTON," it said, in big, bold letters. Jack pointed at the "T," then the "O," then the "Y." "TOY!" he proclaimed.

Fast forward to today. I had to beg him to put down his book so we could get some sleep tonight.

Confirmation de Votre Réservation

That was the subject of an email I just received. Air France. Salt Lake City--Paris--Nairobi--Barcelona--Salt Lake City. In a couple of months I will be taking that trip with my sister Maryann. Our main purpose is to deliver some of my brother's ashes to the place and the people he loved before he died. And, since we have to fly through Europe to get to Nairobi anyway, we figure we might as well take advantage!

With all of my sister's travels, I didn't realize that she hadn't been to Paris since we went there with Mom and Dad during the summer of 1984. She was only seven. I doubt she remembers that the two of us hung out on the banks of the Seine together, but here's proof!

And I've never been to Africa or Spain before. Adventure awaits!

Music Man

Jack's band teacher has asked him to move to alto sax for band next year, and he's already recruited Jack for the jazz band the following year. So (shhh, don't tell Jack), we've got a used alto sax we found online winging it's way to us from Indiana, which of course reminds me of that song from The Music Man.

"There is just one place that can light my face--Gary, Indiana, Gary, Indiana, not Louisiana, Paris, France, New York or Rome!"

I was in exactly one musical in high school--yes, The Music Man. This is the only picture I have from our performance. I think I must be in the back row. I was just in the chorus, which was fine with me--all of the fun and very little of the stress.

I sewed a long yellow dress for it, and some of my friends in the chorus and I worked in a couple of cartwheels during one of the songs while everyone whooped and hollered. It was our big moment!

Powder Blue

It looks like prom season has begun back east: more than one high school friend has posted pictures of their kids all dressed up on facebook.

I went to my senior prom with my friend Jim. I actually asked him to go with me months in advance because I was finishing up school in January, working for a couple of months to earn money, then heading to Europe for a couple of months with a Eurail pass and list of friends and family to visit (boy, I sure love my parents for letting me head off solo at 17!). I'd be coming home just in time for prom and graduation, and I didn't want to risk not being asked. 

It was awfully nice of him to go with me. Thanks, Jim! You looked great in that powder blue top hat and tux! And I'm sure loving my wrist corsage, Bermuda bag, and Farrah Fawcett wings.

Le Petit Déjeuner

We met at Sharon's house for book club tonight, and we sat out on her back porch as we talked and talked and talked. A front came through and it got a little chilly. Sharon whipped us up some hot chocolate. Amazing hot chocolate that her husband had just brought home from France. Délicieux.

We stayed in a youth hostel called Le d'Artagnan when I was on study abroad in Paris the summer after my freshman year in college. The cafeteria was on the main floor. Every morning for breakfast I had a bowl of the same delicious hot chocolate we had tonight along with a small baguette smothered in butter and strawberry jam. Parfait.

Will it Keep?

I stopped by Costco tonight to pick up a few things after finishing up my last finals period with my students (yay!) and noticed that they carry dried seaweed. I tasted it once when I was seven and my mom brought some home from Hawaii.

She and Dad had been in Japan for a week attending a special memorial for my grandfather, who had been very involved in supporting the Kiyosato Educational Experiment Project (KEEP). They were naming their library after him. Dad had to come straight back because he had to teach school, but Mom took some extra time to enjoy the islands.

I'd totally eat dried seaweed again, but I'm not sure I could handle a Costco-sized box. Maybe it would keep?

Moving the Goalposts

I feel I need to followup yesterday's post with a little something just in case anyone was left with the impression that I primarily went to college to meet boys or if anyone leapt to the erroneous conclusion that I chose BYU to find a husband. I had all sorts of reasons for going to college, and dating--while fun--was not at the top of my list. I believe I was reared with good, healthy priorities.

Just before I left for school, my mom, a little worried that I was going to put boys at the top of my list, said, "I hope you'll finish your bachelor's degree before you get married."

When we were halfway across the country, she said, "You know, I wish I had gotten my master's degree before instead of after I got married and had children."

When my family dropped me off in Provo, she said, "I've been thinking. If you're going to major in psychology, you're going to need a Ph.D. to really do anything."

I ended up changing my major from psychology, so I no longer had my sights set on a Ph.D. But I did get my master's before I got married. And by the time I finally (per Utah standards) got married at 27, I think my mom was good and ready.

Setting a Course

I was on the highway this evening, driving south from UVU, just before sunset. I had a broad view of Utah Lake, mountains and clouds glowing pink. Even though I've lived in Utah longer than I've lived anywhere else, the drama of the landscape still catches me by surprise.

Though I visited Utah the summer I turned six, I didn't have too many memories. So when I returned my senior year of high school it felt adventurous and new. Almost prehistoric. So unlike the gentle hills, woods, and meadows I grew up with.

Mom and I flew out, she to do genealogy research and me to stay with friends and see BYU as a prospective student. The entire weekend I was in awe of the mountains. I also had crazy amounts of fun with my friends, and I was asked out by three different boys. You know, all of the things upon which a sound decision about college should be made.

The other two colleges I was seriously considering were women's colleges in Massachusetts: Simmons in Boston (where a very good friend was a year ahead of me) and Mt. Holyoke (my mother and grandmother's alma mater). Both would have been good choices for me, but in the end the lure of being in a completely different environment 2,500 miles away from the security of home (and, okay, with boys) won out.

Solo

Two adorable children, a brother and sister, sang a duet in church today. They did a fabulous job; the congregation was charmed. I love that children have the opportunity to participate in our church services. 

I actually had a chance to sing a solo in church when I was 12. Because I was 12, I was no longer adorable. But I was still young enough that I didn't have to have a beautiful voice, just an earnest one.

My mom picked out a hymn for me to sing that she loved growing up--For the Beauty of the Earth--and it is one of my very favorite hymns to this day. (In fact, for anyone who might have to plan my funeral, this would be a nice hymn to include in the service. Especially if it is sung joyfully as indicated. To read the words of the hymn, just click on the image and it will get bigger.)

That was the only time I've ever been invited to sing a solo. I never developed a beautiful solo voice. But I am quite happy being a steady alto in a choir of voices.

Too Young

This is me and my Grandpa Stuart (my father's father) when I was about three. I'm sad that I don't have any actual memories of him. He lived north of Chicago, and I saw him maybe once or twice a year. The summer I turned six, he was diagnosed with a brain tumor and he was gone before Christmas. He was only 69.

I do remember two things about visiting him in the hospital that summer. First, the roof rack we had on the top of our baby blue camper van got crunched by an overhead beam in the parking garage. We were too tall. Second, I had to stay in the waiting room while my parents went in to see him. I was too young.

Everything I know about Grandpa Stuart makes me think I would have liked him. He was an adventurer with a big heart.

The Secret Stash

One of the best things about owning a bookstore was getting the shipments of Harry Potter books several days before the official release dates. We had to swear in writing that we would keep them absolutely secure until we handed them out at our midnight release parties. I have to say, it was pretty darn cool being on the inside of it all.

Shucks

A favorite summertime family tradition: shucking local corn on the porch of the cottage at Lake Geneva. Eating it is even better.

The Test

My students' turned in their final research papers in class tonight. I've already been through most of them once, so I pretty much know what I'm getting into. I see the light at the end!

When I discovered it was an option, I decided to test out of freshman English in college. We selected a book to read from a short list, then under strict supervision with access only to our copy of that book, we were given one essay question and were expected to create a handwritten masterpiece in the blue books we brought.

I chose Man's Search for Meaning by Victor Frankl because I'd read it before (and, so as not to appear too lazy, I knew it would be worth reading again). I don't remember the essay question I was assigned, but it turned out that passing the exam wasn't going to be a no brainer.

The English department had two readers evaluate the essay, and if there was a disagreement between the two readers, the department would have a third reader take a look at it. My first two readers disagreed. One thought I did a fine job; the other thought I hadn't answered the question. I was a little nervous, because I could see the second reader's point.

Thankfully, the third reader thought the essay was worthy of a pass. Whew!

High

Tonight we went to the Utah Symphony's Magical Music of John Williams concert, conducted by the charming and passionate Vladimir Kulenovic. They played pieces from Harry Potter, Indiana Jones, Close Encounters, Superman, and, of course, Star Wars. My favorite piece, perhaps ironically, was the Shark Theme from Jaws.

We sat way up on the third tier, which gave us a marvelous view, but it took nearly half an hour for me to adjust to the height. I don't do very well with heights. And Jack leaning over the railing didn't help.

I first became aware that I had an issue with heights on a trip west we took the summer I turned six. We stopped in Aspen, Colorado, and rode a chairlift up to get a view. I was fine at first, but then we passed the first peak, the ground fell away, and we rode to the second peak at a height I'd never experienced before. It felt like my legs, and especially my feet, were going to fall off. No, no, heights are not my thing.

Moving Up

This evening I picked up my class schedule for teaching next fall at Utah Valley University. They've got me assigned to two sections of English 1010 Introduction to Writing at exactly the times I need to fit with the rest of my schedule.

I started teaching as an adjunct instructor at UVU back in the early 90s when it was actually Utah Valley Community College. Even though my masters degree is in political science, I'd been working as a writer and an editor in the corporate world for five years and the college loved hiring people with workplace experience.

I taught for a couple of years, then left to do some other projects, then went back again for a couple of years in the late 90s. By then it was Utah Valley State College.

In 1999 we started our bookstore, so I left teaching again. This next week, I'm wrapping up the end of my fourth year back at the now university. Each time they re-hire me, I seem to get a "promotion" just by virtue of the fact that the school keeps evolving!

Zen and the Art of the Family Vacation

I have no rule against posting about new memories this year and we just made some good ones during four fabulous days in Oregon. Four-day trips seem to suit our little family. Long enough to get away, but not so long it breaks the bank or drives Jack too batty hanging out with his parents.

On Thursday we got up early and flew to Portland, then headed straightaway toward the coast. We visited the huge old Naval blimp hangar in Tillemook and, of course, the cheese factory there. We watched them package 40 pound blocks of cheese heading to storage for aging. Then a drive to the beach at Oceanside, which we remembered from an earlier trip, for a couple of hours of sand, wind, and wave time. Then a drive up the coast to spend the night at a seaside motel in, well, Seaside, where we enjoyed a beautiful sunset on the beach.

On Friday we were up early to enjoy the beach at Seaside, then after we checked out of our motel, we drove down to enjoy Cannon Beach and the tidal pools there (we all saw starfish and crabs, but Jack was the one who spied the octopus below). In the afternoon we headed inland again to see the Hughes Flying Boat, also known as the Spruce Goose, at the air museum in McMinnville. It's wingspan is crazy wide! On to the hotel, some dinner, and a movie.

Saturday we headed into the city and fed our souls. First to Powell Books for a leisurely browse and a nice stocking up. Then to an art supply store for drawing pads and pencils. Then to the Japanese Garden, which we'd heard was amazing and it did not disappoint. One of my favorite moments was when I looked up just as petals from a blossoming tree caught a breeze and gently showered down on me like a blessing. We ended the day with dinner with my cousin and her family in their quintessential Portland bungalow.

Today we drove along the Columbia River Gorge. Hiked stunning waterfall trails. Saw the Bonneville dam and locks. Visited the largest fish hatchery I've ever seen. Drove over the Bridge of the Gods. Then headed to the airport.

Our plane was late taking off from Portland, but that just meant we landed exactly as the sun set over the Great Salt Lake.

I am declaring an official end to my winter funk.

Misconstrued

When I was a kid, we'd often drive through a nearby town called Ayer. Sometimes I'd ask my mom where we were, and she'd say "Ayer" but I'd think she said "air" and I imagined we were in the space between towns.

Scared

We finally saw The Hunger Games tonight. We've all read the books, so we basically knew what to expect, but it was still pretty intense. I'm not sure I would have gone to see it when I was Jack's age.

The movie Jaws came out when I was just a little younger than Jack, and I decided that I couldn't bear to watch that. I figured that if I was as freaked out as I was by the picture on the book and the movie posters, I wouldn't be able to handle the movie. It took years for me to swim, even in freshwater lakes, without picturing a gigantic shark coming up from the depths.

I suspect my life long inability to deal rationally with snakes might have roots in watching the 1960 version of Swiss Family Robinson when I was little. Remember the scene in the river when they have to wrestle the gigantic snake? I didn't. When I saw the movie years later I realized I'd completely repressed it.

And I was afraid lepers would sneak into our house at night after watching Ben Hur when I was maybe six or seven. I didn't know what lepers actually were, but I knew people were afraid of them. I finally figured out that if they were going to try to come in my second story bedroom window, they'd have to use a ladder. I'd lay in bed at night listening for the ladder to hit the side of the house so I'd have fair warning.

I don't scare as easily now. But I still covered my eyes a couple of times tonight.

Pacific

The first time I ever saw the Pacific Ocean was on a trip I took to California the summer I turned 17. Some old friends of our family had moved to Acadia, and they invited me out for several weeks.

Of course we did Disneyland and Knott's Berry Farm, but by far my favorite memories were of a week of Girls' Camp on Catalina Island. We took the ferry, then piled into open trucks with all of our gear, drove for several hours on a dusty road to a remote beach, and pitched our tents.

The beach was wild and our camp was perpetually encircled by buffalo who eyed us suspiciously. We braided our hair and laughed and built huge fires when the sun went down.

Pacific. They got that right.

Freedom!

One of my very favorite feelings was the feeling I used to have when I finished final exams in college and headed home for Christmas or summer break. It was the feeling of having absolutely nothing hanging over my head.

I don't exactly have absolutely nothing hanging over my head, but our taxes are filed, I'm caught up on laundry, I handed back a huge stack of graded papers to my students in class tonight, and I won't be going back to work until Monday.

It's feeling pretty darn good!

Tomorrow Is a New Day

I'm just going to whine for a moment about the most horrendous head cold I've been suffering from for the past couple of days. It's extra sad because it has been so nice out, I had to miss the family Easter party, I had to work on taxes, and I still have a huge stack of papers to grade by tomorrow.

Sigh.

So I thought I'd write about something worse: the time I barfed in the bus line waiting to go home in the first grade. Oh, I felt so awful.

But the part I remember the most? When the boy next to me said, "Teacher, some girl threw up back here." All I could think was, "He knows my name!" Of course, I have no memory of who that boy was. Self involved much?

Sigh.

The Wang

When we're talking about revising papers in my UVU writing classes, I make sure my students know I went through my entire undergrad program using a typewriter. And that we had to do full-blown footnotes! No cushy in-text citations. It's my walking-uphill-both-ways story.

I didn't learn how to use a computer until the summer I graduated from college. I took a job working for the staff attorneys at the federal court where I interned my senior year. One of my tasks was to listen to recordings of case summaries and type them up on the computer in a format that would fit on index cards, which meant I had to do a ton of abbreviating. (If I was a tweeter, all that experience would come in handy.) I also had to type up court opinions which easily ran 20-30 pages and included a boatload of lengthy footnotes. Thankfully, the software had just been updated with a cutting edge feature: automatic repagination. That meant I didn't have to repaginate the text and footnotes by hand every time someone made a revision.

We used Wang computers at the court. That doesn't date me too badly, does it?

Beans

My niece Megan and her husband Scott, who got married in last night's post, started a new blog this past week called The Holiday Candy Review. In their first post, they set up a bracket and tasted 16 types of jelly beans (graphic below shamelessly stolen from them.)

Jelly beans were an essential part of our Easter mornings when I was growing up. Mom--er, the Easter Bunny--would hide them along with the eggs we colored and one bigger treat for each of us, like a chocolate rabbit.

Every year without fail we'd find black and white jelly beans on the piano keys. I tried to be the first to get them because the black ones were my favorite.

Charmed Life

Jack has no idea what a charmed life he leads. He just seems to attract good things. Like the time we were at our niece's wedding in Salt Lake a few summers ago, and friends of her family showed up in pioneer clothes with old muskets to salute the couple with a rousing volley. Jack missed it because he'd gone off to find a restroom.

But wouldn't you know, when he returned and discovered it was over, the guys took pity on him and offered to let him shoot. Lucky kid!

Island Getaway

We woke up to snow this morning after being teased with temperatures in the 70s. I decided it was time for one of my favorite summer memories: swimming out to the island near my grandparents' beach on Long Island Sound.

Honeymoon and Stars

A friend and I went up to Salt Lake City tonight to watch a live performance of Radiolab at the Capitol Theater. The show was all about light and dark. Each audience member was given a little disk battery and a tiny lightbulb that we were to put together and hold up at a certain point during the show.

When we did we were suddenly plunged into a sea of stars.

The spring before Roger and I got married, I attended a conference at the Cliff Lodge at Snowbird. One of my favorite memories was having the rooftop pool all to myself after dinner. I floated on my back in complete silence under the starry night sky for a long time.

Roger and I decided the hotel would be a good place to go between our wedding on Tuesday and our reception on Saturday. But it was impossible to recreate the magic of that spring night. The hotel (including the rooftop pool) was full of ecologists there for meetings. Lots and lots of earthy ecologists.

We escaped the crowded rooftop, but no worries. We managed to find a bit of heaven anyway :).

History Repeats Itself

In 1981, my parents, my sisters and I spent the summer driving across country to deliver me to BYU for my freshman year. One of our stops was Dinosaur National Monument in Vernal, Utah.

This is my sister Maryann, who was almost four then.

When Jack was almost four, we happened to take a family trip to Dinosaur National Monument. Had to take a picture of him with the same bone, which is more exposed after 22 years. A couple of cuties, I say!

Hot Wheels/Cold Wheels

I bought my very first car at the beginning of my sophomore year of college from a friend's parents. I'd moved off campus and into an apartment with five other girls. All six of us could fit quite comfortably in the car--an ugly green 1972 Ford LTD sedan. I don't think I have any pictures of the actual car, but resourceful Roger found this one for me on the internet. (I'm pretty sure that's me and my boyfriend there, maybe off to the club for lunch.)

When I bought the car, the seller told me that the horn had a funny short. When the weather dropped below a certain temperature, he said, the horn would start blowing and I'd have to disconnect it to make it stop. Of course that happened on a Friday night after midnight when I was in my pajamas. I ran down the stairs to the parking lot of the apartment complex, and while a crowd gathered, I threw up the hood and disconnected the horn.

Driving without a horn all winter broke me of some of the (possibly bad depending on your perspective) habits I'd developed when I learned how to drive in Boston.

Three friends and I drove the LTD to Seattle for Thanksgiving that year. At some point we realized that the heater had stopped working and we got colder and colder. We crammed all four of us in the front seat--which wasn't all that much of a cram because the car was massive--but eventually I couldn't tell that it was my frozen foot on the gas pedal. We decided it might be smart to stop for the night and drive the rest of the way the next morning.

And then there was the day I somehow edged out into the lane of oncoming traffic when I was waiting to make a left turn and dinged the front end of a car driven by a lady with a French poodle. Luckily she was stopped at a red light so it was a very low speed accident. But, hoo boy, a lady with a French poodle. She was downright chilly about the whole affair.

By spring, I wisely decided to trade in the old car for something a bit more reliable (and not as huge). I wanted to be sure I could get all the way home for the summer.

Nemesis

More than once in my life I've burned out.

The first time I was working for a software company, managing the documentation department. All of our product shipped just before school started and we typically had to produce 25-30 manuals simultaneously, often before the software was finalized. I had a very small staff and a very tight schedule, so in addition to my job as manager, I assigned myself as many manuals as I assigned any of the others.

One Saturday I was at work after a long, hard week, pushing myself to make an overwhelming number of changes to an overwhelming number of files. Something inside me snapped. Tears ran down my face as I sat in front of my computer feeling as though I couldn't bear to make another keystroke.

Somehow I made it through the deadlines. But burnout is like mono. It takes a long time to recover, and once you've suffered from it, you are more susceptible. I'm worried that I'm experiencing the warning signs again, and I'm not sure how to combat it. Chocolate only helps so much.

The Magic Bus

I recently booked my plane tickets for a cousin's wedding in D.C. in May and was talking to Roger about relying on public transportation rather than renting a car while I'm there.

"There's a bus I can take from BWI to the city," I said.

"Is that the Magic Bus?" asked Jack.

Oh, the Magic Bus. A solo trip from Paris to London to rejoin my group when I was on study abroad.

You know when you see someone board a bus or a train or a plane and you think, "Ooh, please don't sit by me," and inevitably they do? (I think it might be that karma thing.)

In this case I spent hours and hours next to a chain-smoking, extremely talkative drama teacher from Canada wearing a kilt that rode a little too high on his thighs.

Oh, oh, the Magic Bus.

Entropy

I spent much of the day working hard to dig myself out of some holes. All winter long I have done just enough to get by and it's catching up with me big time. Need to spring clean! Need to organize notes from dozens of meetings and conferences I've been to over the past few months! Need to get taxes done! Need to purge! Need to get caught up on grading papers! Need to finish at least some of the oodles of books I've started! Need to shave my legs!

Really I should figure out a healthier way to manage this pattern of mine. Even when I was a kid, I'd get my room perfectly clean and organized, but then I'd fail to maintain. Slowly my life would give in to the chaos, then I'd get desperate and dig myself out again.

I will never forget how proud I was when I'd tell my mom that my room was a mess, convince her to come see how bad it was, then "surprise" her with all the spanky cleanliness.

As Women's History Month Winds Down

When Roger and I got married in 1990 we moved to our house in Highland, Utah, and I went out to get us set up with utilities. During one of my stops, I was totally caught off guard when the woman behind the desk started off by asking for my husband's name and not my name.

I asked her why, and she said, "Well, that's the name we'll put the account under."

"Why not my name?" I pushed back.

She explained that just wasn't the way they did things. Suddenly it became a serious matter of principle, and I needed to take a stand. I insisted that the account be put in my name. After all, I was the one setting up the account, and I would be the one writing the checks.

Egalitarianism 1, patriarchal bureaucracy 0.

Regret

Yesterday's post reminded me of an unfortunate incident in the sixth grade. As we read books, we were supposed to look for words that we didn't know, look them up, write down the definitions, and turn them in.

I was reading The Outsiders, and I didn't find any words I didn't know. My teacher didn't believe me. She picked up a copy of the book, opened it to a random page, found the word "rue," and asked me what it meant.

"Regret," I thought to myself. "But my teacher must know something I don't know. I must be wrong." So I didn't say anything. I probably shrugged.

"Regret," she said. "It means regret."

Yeah. Regret. And yet, she taught me to trust what I know.

Down the Hatch

Some of my favorite treats when I was a child (and after I was cleared for possible allergies):

• Most mornings before school when I was in the third grade and Mom was expecting my sister Linda, she would make me a giant pancake. I'd put butter and sugar on it and eat it while I watched reruns of Father Knows Best and Leave It To Beaver. When Linda was born, the pancake service pretty much dried up. But that was okay. I just learned how to make them for myself. And I knew my mom still loved me.
• Slicing up fresh tomatoes from the garden and sprinkling them with a little salt and pepper.
• Eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with chicken noodle soup, especially when I was on the mend after being sick.
• Snacking on dilly beans (whole green beans pickled and canned with dill) and cucumbers sliced up and marinated in vinegar. More garden treats.
• Putting chocolate milk the blender and frothing it at the highest setting so it was light and full of bubbles. I especially liked to drink it when I had my nose in a book. I'm sure it was my treat of choice all the way through Dr. Dolittle, and I'm guessing through Harriet the Spy and The Outsiders as well.

A Stark Realization

Yet another story in the news spotlighting racial tensions. I have hope that as a society we're generally moving in the right direction, but it's sure not a very straight path. For as long as I can remember, I've been pretty sensitive to issues of stereotyping, prejudice, and racial injustice. Why can't we all just get along?

I discovered one day that I am not immune from seeing the world through the lens of race.

In the mid-90s, Roger and I were driving through Alabama and spent the night in Mobile. Roger was wiped out, so he stayed in the hotel while I went out to find dinner. There was a mall near the hotel, so I thought I'd grab something at an eatery.

I parked, went into the mall through a bookstore and starting hunting for food. About halfway through my hike down the main hall, it dawned on me that I was the only white person around. Everyone else was black.

At first I didn't think much of it, but then I started to get self-conscious and I wondered if it was okay that I was there. I began to worry a bit that someone might not like the fact that I was there, might think that I'd invaded the wrong turf, and that I might be in some trouble.

My discomfort was based purely on my own imagination. Not a single person did anything to make me feel that way. In fact, I'm not sure if anyone noticed me at all. Yet in my mind, I went to that place of judgment and fear.

I confess I was a little relieved that I could not find a place to eat there. But I was also disappointed in myself for not stopping to ask anyone for information.

I went back to my car and drove to the other side of the highway where there was another mall. I walked in and discovered that all of the customers were white, which made me feel uncomfortable in another sort of way. It was far more upscale than the first mall, and there were plenty of restaurants to choose from. I found a nice place to get noodles.

And I confess I was relieved to chat for a while with the Filipino woman who owned it.

Turning Water into Whine

We're talking about elements of argument and what constitutes sound logic in my UVU classes this week.

The first argument I heard and recognized as illogical was at Camp Arcadia in Maine, where my parents were counselors the summers I turned 3, 4 and 5. I was too young to be a camper, so I was put into a group with other counselor's kids. We were called Cubs, and we did all sorts of activities while our parents were working. Mom was a sailing counselor and Dad taught waterskiing.

Every day we had rest time, and there was a strict rule that we weren't allowed to take a drink from the water fountain right before we rested. The rule didn't make sense to me, so one day I complained. I was told that we couldn't take a drink because then we'd have to use the bathroom when we were supposed to be resting.

Even as a little kid I knew that water didn't go through a person's system that fast.

Unexpected Blessings

Today my thoughts keep turning to some friends who lost their first grandbaby early this morning. To save their daughter-in-law's life, doctors had to induce labor at 21 weeks. My friend Gideon, baby Olive's grandpa, wrote a lovely and heartbreaking poem in remembrance (click here to read it).

My own experience with losing a child was not the same as theirs. My life was not in danger. My pregnancy was not far enough along to know whether we were having a boy or a girl. I'd never heard its heartbeat or felt it move in my womb. My baby did not yet have fingers and toes. But today my thoughts keep turning to that time as well. My memories are so clear and the emotions so fresh.

We found out we were expecting just before our first Christmas together in 1990, then I miscarried at about 12 weeks. Being pregnant was harder than I thought it would be on me. When I finally turned a corner, Roger and I went out to dinner. Shortly after we got home, my water broke and I started cramping and bleeding. The doctor advised me to stay as still as possible. We spent a long, tortuous night that ended with a trip to the emergency room in the morning.

I didn't know then that I would never get pregnant again. In the years since, and because I never did give birth to a child, my experience with that short-lived pregnancy became increasingly meaningful.

Because it made me more human.

I tasted the irony of throwing up every day for more than two months, then heading to the kitchen to put something in my stomach to alleviate the hollow feeling that remained. I tasted the uniquely female pain and rhythm of my body instinctively contracting and pushing. I tasted the anguish of fighting to hold on to something I could not keep and did not know what I would do without.

I also tasted the transcendent state of having new life growing inside of me. And because of our shared joy and our shared loss, the bond I had with Roger became stronger than I ever imagined it could be. That tasted so good and still does.

God bless you, my friends.

An Honor and a Privilege

One of the interesting women I was hoping to interview for the book I was thinking about writing a long time ago was the Honorable Judge Helen Nies (pictured here with one of her colleagues). During the summer of 1986, I worked for her in Washington, D.C., at the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Federal Circuit, where she later became the Chief Judge.

Judge Nies was a phenomenal example of a woman who broke barriers in her field--not just law, but patent law--despite the fact that she took nearly ten years off to stay home with her children. Seriously, she took all those years off and still made it to the tippy top.

All summer long, I basked in the light she cast on the path for other women.

She hired me to fill in for her secretary who was on maternity leave. At the end of the summer, her secretary decided to leave her position to stay home with her baby. I imagine the judge was sad to lose someone that competent, but she expressed only delight for her and told me stories about staying home with her kids.

Can't express how lucky I was to have someone like her help me imagine my own possibilities.