Can't. Wait. Til Summer. (Hibiscus Tunic).

All in a summer's work!  It's not like I was working on one project, exclusively, this summer, but somewhere along the way this Hibiscus Tunic completely took over my life.  It was my first major endeavor in the workings of thread, rather than yarn.  Remember those hard little skeins of thread that you found at Granny's or Aunty's house when you were a child?  Sometimes there would be a section  of a doily or some such tiny-ness that would inspire to crochet or craft, but within minutes it was obvious that the fine craft of lacework is definitely a thing of the past.  So when I decided to delve into this little gem I knew I was in for trouble, although the fact that it was advertised in Interweave Crochet, one of my favorite magazines, encouraged me to soldier forth.

And so I plugged….and plodded.

Crucial moment: Must. Unravel.

 Somewhere on the front I hadn't quite memorized or figured out, exactly, what the pattern was.  There's a rather simple logic to the thing, but while reading the crochet pattern, it's easy to bulldoze through the directions without seeing the simple repetition.  My flowers looked a bit askew, but when I realized what I was missing it was time to rip rip rip (this was mid-July).

The thing went all the way to Maine with us.  On this glorious day, I found myself on a beach, staring at lovely mountainsides, terrific vistas, our travel companions frolicking in the water.   Summer joy, itself.

 It really wasn't until the hint of Fall was in the air that I began to scurry through this little ditty.   A mere few days after the Equinox, intermittently working on this beach-wear along with snuggly afghans (temps beginning to drop), I finally picked up the hook and managed to finish the beast during daughter's Belt Promotion Ceremony (always multitask).  A quick seam or two, block this baby, and bAM!  It's a new frock, ready for wear, a bit this season, and a whole lot in coming summers.

Can't. 

Wait. 

'Til Summer.

outdoorsy, active-gal-type-blogamajig, thing!!!!

Westhaven Guest House

And….she's back!!!! Less encumbered, more jazzed and ready as ever for new adventures out in the world.  Recently, my younger child looked over my shoulder as I labored over a blog post.  She insisted, aloud, that I wasn't Unencumbered These Days….I urged her on, and as it turns out, her definition of Unencumbered Woman is one who bikes, plays, and cavorts about in the world, as I often profess to do.  True, to a point, but I picked at her thread and said that actually the Unencumbered Woman means many things, and the only thing that it always means is that she is a gal who is attempting to unload burdens, make life simpler, lighter, less obligatory, sometimes more or less fun, but  there's never a pat recipe for this Unencumbered-ness.  The very act of thinking about the baggage we carry can be a quieting of the noise of every day, whatever sort of noise it is we are confronting.
But I digress, because, this week I embarked on a good old-fashioned adventure worthy of an outdoorsy, active-gal-type-blogamajig, thing.  So….take that, little one!!!

The plan, as conceived, was that I would drive to my friends' house a few hours from here, since there's no traffic, hills, and a whole lotta gravel roads that we can tool around on, with fat tires and not a care in the world.  Sounded like an ideal date to me, and since I stood her up all summer on our Madison training rides and Ironman itself, I figured it was the least I could do.  Besides, what with Ironman behind me and the kids back in school, I sort of have a little window in my schedule that I haven't seen in a while.  My plan was to drive out of town on Wednesday night so I could crash at the (yes) guest house, and wake up rarin' to go.  What a life, huh?

Trader Joe's? The modern equivalent of TV dinners.

 But leaving my suburbia at five-ish doesn't come without it's own costs.  It's only when I leave at this time of day that I realize how essential my very existence is, every single day, between, say, four PM and 9PM.  So, let's just start with the obvious: 1. Rides.  2. Dinner.  The rest, I figure they can work out on their own.  I made a few quick calls to make sure transportation was in place and my companion's ETA was not too far off.  He also had an evening meeting, so as it turned out, the one kid came home on her bike at about 4:00, the other got picked up at 5:35, Peter got home at about 5:40, then made dinner, the big kid has non-stop homework, Peter leaves for meeting at about 6:45, the little one gets dropped off at about 7:00, and so on (I got a text about five minutes after I left (5:20), from the younger: "why are youlettingherbabysitmeshe'sbeingsomean?")  Let me just say, the essential requirement of unencumberment is Heartless Selfishness.  I drove on.  They've got this. No problem.

Loaded, ready to go.

A lot easier than traveling with four.

Often, a road trip gives me time to think.   In fact, I've always had a soft spot for road trips.  Hurts that our roadways can be so clogged, unforgiving, and unglamorous (not to mention wasteful and expensive), but I can always settle into a conversation with myself while my R&B commercial station plays the evening set of the "Ghost DJ", or I can learn a few things before I become totally nauseated by the drone of "Marketplace" on NPR (the other night I learned that fifty percent of Americans are one $400 unplanned expense away from financial ruin. OK driving on).

Ahh…the open road, beautiful sprawl.  It's what we're about.

Lookie here! Sunset!  Making progress, fewer cars on the Rod Blagevocich tollway!

So arrival time, amidst stars, crickets, and total darkness.  I'm feeling decompressed already.  The guesthouse (popular with couch surfers) is a gem.  We're all hugs, talk about tomorrow, last week's Ironman, and a little bedtime tea.  Looking forward to sleep with No Cats, I won't lie.

Almost every piece is a found object, craft fully put in place.

Nothing like waking up with nothing on the mind except coffee and a no-drop-ride.  The day promised perfect weather and quiet.  I could definitely get used to this part of the field trip.

And it's a sunrise!!!! Who says that rural IL isn't beautiful!?  All in the eye of the beholder, and I must say that my companions have found and built their own piece of jaw-dropping beauty.  Not without the difficult labor of many many years in this spot.    







After a little coffee and granola, we hiked the grounds.  Friends have quite a spread with motocross bike trails, hiking, quarry, wildlife, and old farm buildings, lovingly kept standing.  I'm in awe of the delightful whimsy coupled with essential carpentry and construction skills.  We're not in Oak Park anymore!

         

Uphill, old chicken coop, trails, woods, quarry. Wow.

Guesthouse Kitchen window

 Our walk took us through dew soaked brush, for the better part of an hour.  If i have to lead this tour next time, I'll still get lost.  What a spread!

I was having so much fun just being away from home that I really could have skipped the ride.  After all, it's not like I've been that itchy to ride lately, but with the encouragement of a monster athlete, I was on my trusty Cannondale and we hit the road.  The scenery was quiet, corn and soy fields, a smattering of houses, barns, lots of silos, and scrub forests here and there.  We were comfortable in the fall sunlight and the wind was unusually quiet.  I stopped once or twice for photos, and this particular farm arrested me.  I love the haunting allure of styles that have come and gone.  I love the very essence of seeing what is there.  And in a state like Illinois, in particular, the void that separates urban from suburban from rural is such gaping hole.  Not that this solitary cyclist can stare into that gap and create any sense, any community, any future for it all, but for a moment wonder what it's like,  what it's like for someone else.  Someone else not far from here, not far, really.

And so i sat on a saddle for a few hours.  An accomplishment that I have to credit to a friend who saw a need to rescue me from myself before I let my lack of cycling get totally out of hand!  After this, showers, snacks, more coffee and yarn work.  An early supper of catfish on the deck and I was headed back to the land of screaming swim meets, homework deadlines, and anxious drivers.  Alright, as long as I'm planning the next trip!  Get out there, and have fun!!!

September 10, 1950

Vintage Formica table, resurfaced chairs, Fiestaware
Serving tray, gift from M &D, Pyrex Casserole Dish. 

Where does the time go?  Last night I sat down for dinner with only one other member of our household.  I grabbed a cookbook to peruse while we ate.  Silver Spoon jumped out at me, and while I picked it up, fondled it, and opened it to the page I had last marked, I wondered…"Didn't I buy this book, say, a while ago, and didn't I make/read almost nothing from within it's pages?".  Well, yeah.
And I wondered, when, exactly I bought it, and why I had done nothing with it (kitchen remodel notwithstanding).  And, yup, sure 'nuff, there it was within the archives of Instagram, no less.  I posted a photo of said book (along with a few others) forty-six weeks ago.  I bought this book forty-six weeks ago, and here I am, not reading it for the first time, but let's face it…the pages are still spit-clean.
So, who cares?  Am I just like every other dilettante kitchener, claiming some foodie lifestyle but actually winging it on Trader Joe's and restaurants? Maybe so, but, LF, you also know that we lost Mom in January and everything else unravelled from that place.  So, although I, too, buy too many cookbooks and cook not enough, this year I'll give myself a pass.  In fact, so much so that I wasn't mad at myself when I saw the book last night, but I felt like I had just pulled myself that much more out of the fog that is much of 2014.  We made it through a summer of no training, we quit a job that was leaving me emotionally and physically drained, we said goodbye to Mom and her home lovingly and without turning many stones, and so, now, only three days after Madison Ironman, I can envision an even more exciting, invigorating life (cooking, crafts, friends, fun).

Dinig table, chairs, Bamboo china set. GO!

And then, there's this.  Today, September 10, 2014, would have been my parents' sixty-fourth anniversary.  Here I am, in my pristine Oak Park Bungalow.  Not an antique, not a paint chip, is out of place.  Our living space is just about perfectly staged and so many objects connect me to Mom and Dad.  It was the two of them who hunted down our kitchen table and sent it to California, in 1994 or so.  It was Dad, himself, who suggested that Fiesta Ware (California Pottery, as he called it), would be a worth collecting, given my "interests".




It was Mom's keen sight on Heywood Wakefield furniture so that her own dining room set would be mine, finally, after a lifetime of waiting.

 And so, for a brief moment I pull out Mom and Dad's wedding book.  I love just about everything about it.  I love the white leather binding, I adore the pictures that I saw for many many years in my parents home.   I love that it hearkens to a day when someone would host a wedding that entailed a reception of cake, punch, in a church activity room, then a change to day clothes and escape amidst torrent of rice and laughter.

Many thoughts crossed my mind today, about losing Mom and how 2014 has been defined by that piece of our world.  And of course, that Dad, we lost, only two years ago, and so the both of them parted within this now, seemingly short amount of time.




































But as I sat at my Amazing kitchen table yesterday with a dear friend, who is embarking on new love himself, we discussed the notes that Mom and Dad had left on an indoor/outdoor thermometer, purchased at Radio Shack (where else?). On one page, we noted the purchase date, and my friend asked who's handwriting it was (Mom's, and a battery replacement).  I flipped through the pages and commented that Dad's writing was also in the booklet, noting installation date.  We chuckled, and I was touched by that very memory, the memory that is eternal of one's own handwriting mark, but friend added, that it was a positive, that my parents shared such a thing.  He asked, did they agree on the importance of keeping such records?  I replied, yes, it was in both of their natures, although my mother mastered total organization more than my father, that they keep meticulous care and records.

 He smiled, and so did I.  For a moment, I was able to honor a partnership that didn't always look perfect, but one that was in synch in so many ways, for so many years.  I miss them both.  I miss them each in their own way.  My father's passing was a relief for us all but a gushing hurt.  Mom's passing has crushed me to a little bit.  I still can't imagine that she's gone.  I feel even more guilt when I think of the people who lose loved ones at untimely times and here I lost both parents after a long, luxurious retirement.  Nonetheless, that's the way it goes.  So, we reflect back to the sixtieth anniversary when we gathered at the Elks Club and cut a cake and enjoyed friends and family.  Loving both Mom and Dad, KSN...

What happens when the perennial Ironman athlete drops the whole endeavor mid-season?

Early this year, I was plugging away at my usual training, at a lackluster, but not impossible rate.  After all these years, I know that I can slog through an Ironman if that's what I want to do. I lightened the load significantly this spring, but I figured that I would sustain and increase my training enough, come summertime: I'd be out there on my long rides, runs, and swims at the height of the season.  But something shifted for me, and right when I might have considered piling on some longer workouts, I started to question the whole affair.  Was I not busy enough, with a full plate and a few new projects?  What if I continued to sleep in, drink my coffee in bed, focus on work around the house and the trips that were on my calendar, not encumbered by worrying how I would fit my training into an already packed schedule?  What if I slowed down enough to try to organize my financial life, my home, and stay awake long enough to make sure my teenager is feeling supported?

So, I quit the big one, and I quit all of the smaller ones that are there to get me ready for the big one.  And, after so many years, I didn't miss it.  I didn't miss one tiny part of it.  I missed the whole thing so little, in fact, that I wondered if I over-stayed at the party, in the first place.  Maybe I let this thing go on for too long?  But all I have to do is reflect on last years training and racing to know that's not the case.  I was challenged and fit and having fun, and felt at purpose.  A year ago, I  was expressing an important part of who I am and what I believe in through the sport and training.  So, to have a change of heart, and to respond, heartily, to that change of heart, I feel, is about as Unencumbered as I've ever been.  I shed the ten to twenty hours each week of training,  I ditched the enormous dietary issues, the sleep obsession, the skipped events/parties/etc…I ditched the extra expense of always staying current with gear, clothing, and more, I even ditched hair removal and focused on keeping my skin moist, fresh, and chlorine/salt free.  I grew my hair out, wore more jewelry, opened the holes in my ears for earrings, and started spending more than two minutes dressing.  When I walked out the door, for a trip, say, anywhere,  I didn't rest on the laurels of "I'll look good because my muscles show and my face is gaunt."…When I left the house, I wanted to look put together, not in a hurry, not exhausted, not haggard.  One thing I didn't ditch: the sun.  What can I say?  I think the vitamin D helps, and although I'll throw a hat on, our sunny days are few and far enough between that I'm catching whatever warmth and cheer I can derive from our ultimate source of energy.
The culmination of all this Unencumberment was a pretty massive undertaking, which involved family van-ning it all the way to Maine and back.  Such a delight, summer vacation without the constant preoccupation (OK< I'll get up really early and run 8 miles, then sneak onto my bike tomorrow) etc…Free to enjoy Niagara Falls (Canada side).

Free to indulge family boat trip "travel right into the Bridal Falls!"

And ahhh, Unencumbered swimming. It was only after about ten days on the road that I sat at a beach in Acadia, thinking…hmmm….I wonder if right about now I might see some triathlete in training dip his/her foot into the water and get ready for "a swim."  I'm just about ecstatic that my two strokes of choice this summer have been breast and side stroke.  More, I left the goggles at home, just about every beach day.  Ashby and I enjoyed one glorious afternoon on the shores of lake Ontario.  As I gazed over the vast expanse, I felt the chill of knowing that this whole region inspired so many of the Joyce Carol Oates stories that I love so much.  The still in the air took me to another place.

Lake Ontario!  Upstate New York. Four Mile Creek State Park.

Half Moon Pond State Park, VT

 On to Vermont, where I realized that after eleven years, I have a lot of unfinished business.  It was a delight to be in this beautiful, powerful place again.  Our first few days were uninterrupted by friends.  Later on, when we reconnected with parts of our VT community, we were overcome with emotion.

Lighthouse not far from campground  (self-time photo)

 As the season progressed, I realized that one of the great benefits of training so much is that I create solitary time that I might forget to take, otherwise.  So, by the time we landed at Acadia National Park, I had my alone time primed. Must. Have. Alone. Time.

Peter took this shot. What a perfect afternoon. Driving Acadia with two rowdy teenagers and two adults laughing and laughing and laughing. 

Visible competence, comes with the near approaching fifteen year mark.

 Being there, for all of the together activities felt complete.  Hiking, after a long day with the kids at the beach. Riding carriage trails at a cadence and pace suitable for the 8-11 year olds in the gang. Playing cards, charades, clean-up, prep.

By the time we returned to Vermont and dropped in on some terrific friends, we were fried.  It was clear to me, by this time, that had I tried to continue training through my adventures, the whole thing probably would have exploded, so a great year to take off.  We were able to indulge Burlington's great feel and connect with friends, get cleaned up, and ready for a very long drive back home.  I've said, many times, that our magical four years in Vermont, seem as if a dream.  By no means was it a perfect place for us to live, but the wonder and lifestyle, community and terrain was great for our very young family.  We miss it, sure, but not until we saw the mountains, trees, skies, friends, and water that we were overcome with the passage of time.  We only left, assured, that we need to continue making time in our lives for our community as it extends in every direction from our current locale.

And best, last.  We came home to the culmination of a season's work.  Absorbing Mom and Dad's furnishings into our Queen Anne bungalow, finishing the kitchen, a dear friend tended and painted and made sure it was amazing when we walked in the door.

 Carpet! Art! Clean! 

Lavendar! Induction stove! 

blue marmoleum!

What's Really Hard…or…Why I Never Cry, Anymore.

For months, I thought the answer to this question was that I was deep in denial.  Talking about Mom, her opinions, her belongings, in the present tense, as if she were (and she sort of is) right here with me.  But now that time has passed I'm beginning to believe my shortage of tears is a sort of tribute to who my mom was to me, to other members of the family, and who I am trying to become, as I adopt the mantle of the matriarch of a family traditionally dominated by singular, strong, fair-minded women not prone to the whims of fashion, time, or circumstance.  My mother, her mother, and her mother before here were all only children, reared in upstanding Oregon homes.  College educated, craftswomen and homemakers, learned but never beyond their station in life.  The simplicity of austere, old-fashioned conservatism.  

Coupled with this strong will and ordered mind was the discretion honored by many folks my parents' age and older, plus my mom's own inclination to a very private personal life.  It wasn't until I was in my teens, (or perhaps older) that I learned that my own mother's parents were divorced when she was a young girl.  How it escaped me, as I grew up, that she and her mother were alone, together for most of her formative years and beyond is a puzzle to those of us raising children in this day and age, sharing as many secrets and life experiences as we see fit.  In a similar vein, the fact that I was adopted at birth was a hush-hush thing that even into my teenage years, we alluded to, rather than discuss directly.  Finally, when we did discuss the adoption, my parents shared with me that the lawyer who brokered my adoption assured my parents that birth parents were "tall" so I might fit in with my family.  I don't need to accent the extent to which that spirit has shifted today.  

And so, my experience of my mother is one of a woman who was fiercely loyal, proud, loved my brother and I without wavering, and offered a vision of life as an ordered path which a hard-working soul could navigate.  I have absolutely no recollection of my mother crying over the loss of her own mother, but I do remember vividly the weeks and weeks that she and my father and I spent, cleaning out that old Portland house.  It was a job that she embraced.  Certainly with love, and compassion for all of the memories and stories, but never in a maudlin fashion.  Take care of business.  My mother ran our own family with the charge of a highly intelligent, organized, purposeful being.  In her absence, as I read her dictates to my brother and I, as we prepared for her memorial service,  and as we divide our family's estate, the fact that she played her hand (as if it were bridge) perfectly.  Not a stone unturned.

I didnt even cry when Mom was getting ready to die.  It seemed like any minute she was gonna snap out of it and say something like, "what do you think, I'm dying?!"  So, I guess it's no surprise at all, that I never cry anymore.  Except, sometimes, when something sappy that would probably sort of offend Mom shows up, and for a brief respite I can cry quiet little tears, until I'm ready to get back to the project at hand, whatever it is.

"I'm Everything I am…because you loved me." 
-Celine Dion.

What's Terrific? Raren to Go!

My friend, Julie, took me to a reading by her friend, Peggy Shinner, from a recently published book of essays, You Feel So Mortal. Julie figured that I would enjoy the vibe and the content as it related to older and dying parents, loss, and our relationships with our own bodies. At the event itself, there was a lot to like.  Friendly people, beautiful food, not too noisy, and a sunny, terrifically rehabbed Chicago two-flat.  Peggy's reading was alive and vibrant. I was riveted by her stories, of her mother, her father, her self.  When, at the close of our event, my friend raised her hand and asked a question of the author, it was the closest I had been to crying in quite some time.  Sitting through these essays about dying parents, everyday life, the tears didn't come.   Somewhere between the   heavy loss that I'm experiencing and the joy of experiencing an afternoon with one of the most brilliant, vital, funny friends in my little hood, there was a sliver of teary hurt.  But I didn't, (cry), partly because I wasn't about to spend the afternoon talking about what 2014 means to me (except I do like to say 2014 is about paying cash).

So that was terrific.  There is a lot of terrific.  So much terrific, that I feel overwhelmed by it, particularly now that season has shifted to the lightness of Spring.  I went home with Peggy's newly signed book of essays, and I settled in to a dinner of leftovers (alone) and proceeded to read the whole thing by the following morning.  She's that good.  So many pieces resonate, and to my Chicago friends, especially Albany Park and environs, perhaps more so.  But now, as in many quickly read pieces, the detail flutters away,  but one word... Liberating.  Peggy said that losing her mom was liberating.  I'm sure this is true for so many of us, although the why has  to be different for each of us.  How losing my parents has liberated me I'm not really sure. I don't hold with myself the feeling that I'm doing anything for them, nonetheless, as I sat awake in the wee hours, about a week ago, I pondered not doing triathlon this summer, not even doing Ironman Wisconsin this summer, I felt that profound sense of. Liberation.
And the amazing thing about letting go of so much, I get more and more excited about doing things in place of those encumbrances.  Why do Ironman, when I can do ANYTHING!

Aided by today's sun, I took a moment to get a few shots of the Harlequin Afghan (wip).  This afghan represents a convergence of creative endeavors that have been fueling my fire.  It's a vintage pattern, it'll adorn my creative office space, it's portable, the colors are deadly, and it bridges the gap between then and now.  Even in the work that I'm doing, there's a sense of reaching back in time, I go through objects from years ago as I clean and organize my house, and welcome objects from Mom and Dad's estate.  I was rummaging through my old sewing patterns a few weeks ago, wondering what, if anything, of that collection I would be willing to sacrifice  to ebay, in the name of declutter.  Lo and behold, I was reminded that years ago, possibly even my first Ironman (certainly a half), I wore a tri-outfit that I made myself.

And so, the adventure of a new life, but in my case there's a heavy dose of things that have been there all along.  Some of those things hearken back to before my parents were very old, or even ill.  Those things remind me of myself before marriage, before kids, before mortgage, before co-habitation, even.  This little suit I made in my beautiful attic apartment near Holy Names college.  I had a little nook for sewing and I could watch the sun set over the south Bay.  How's that for terrific?  There aren't enough hours in the day to contain my creative urges.  Swimsuits, crochet, knit, food art, car art, redesign my home, jewelry!!!! I'm ready, and Rarin to go…in fact, years and years and years ago I had a terrific friend, full of energy and verve and my nickname was: Raren…Raren to go.