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Sunday, May 23, 2021

Day Ten: Basements Part II: A (Perfectly not Horrifying) History

My research on today's topic, undertaken because of interest and from a sense that I perhaps maligned our beloved basements just a bit and need to be forgiven, took me across the world and under a million homes, palaces, cathedrals and towns. Grumpiness can lead to rash writing, perhaps I owed Hades, the Styx and the owners of home cinemas another shot.

Basements, root cellars or, as they are known in French, 'underground stories', are most often tied to spooky, haunted, homicidal or creepy themes throughout literature. The story that comes immediately to mind, naturally, is Poe's The Cask of Amontillado, burned forever into my twelve-year-old brain many and many a year ago. I once owned a house that had a lower level below the first lower level that was this place. Neither were technically underground, as the house was built into the ramparts of the ancient village. They were just-lower and the same as Montresor's; vaults, crypts, archway following archway, built of splendidly aligned bricks and entirely free of skeletons, from what we could tell by torchlight, and a great place to keep wine if you enjoyed descending and going back up a ladder into the deepest dark each time you wanted a bottle.

As for North America, the very best information I found to justify basements was that in northern climates, the frost depth is 3 feet. If you want to build a home that is not at risk of its foundations being cracked by water expansion (it expands by approximately 9% underground, according to [1],) the hole needs to be dug to a depth greater than 3 feet. Yes, put that way, it sounds like a bright idea. Adding a greater depth, while you're at it, "does not cost much more," according to sources, but it does permit storage of important northern needs like boilers and furnaces, as well as a spot to store fruits and vegetables, and later to put the washer and dryer.

Roman constructions, even the grandest, were not built upon basements, with a rare exception or rather exactly two: two houses from Pompei were the oddballs, and the ones that probably lead us to think this was a general truth across the empire. On the other hand, the simple Celtic cabin had an underground room, with a proper set of stairs, and not a rope or a ladder in the Gallic style, for storage of food and a place to shelter from the cold. Some cities, famously Paris, had an entire underground hollowed out by mining; limestone mining for that city. And yet, most people would be quick to tell you that houses are not built with a basement in France. If the house happens to have a cellar, it was dug with one purpose only in mind; for a cave à vin, or to store wine at a proper temperature, or maybe for cheese-making if you are Roquefort. No room to roller skate to the Beatles.

As I dug a bit more, I discovered another truth; there were many other uses for these spaces; Paris, again figures in the list of blood-curdling and methodical utilitarian concepts. In the late 1700's, over twelve years, the tunnels were filled with the bones of six to seven million former citizens that had overpopulated the cemeteries of the City of Light. Oui, it was decided, best bury all that, but in a tidy fashion, and then open it up as a tourist attraction. And you wondered where the idea of a haunted house might have begun? 

If you pay an additional entry fee, you can explore the cryptic levels of many a cathedral or basilica in Europe, where relics of saints, including body parts, dead bishops and the occasional thorn from Christ's Crown of Thorns are kept. Not creepy in the least.



1-This Old House: Basements

Paris Catacombs

 

Friday, May 14, 2021

Of the Ordinary: Day 8: Basements

It is one of the great delusions of first-time homeowners all across America: this hole that was dug as a foundation for the house is going to be a fantastic bonus space. Hey; we can have a rec room for the kids (1970's), a home cinema (1980's), a home gym (1990's), a guest bedroom and bathroom (2000's): why not TWO bedrooms???! No, I know, a CRAFT room; the sewing machine can go there and the hundred thousand bins of ribbons and buttons and yarn can go right over there. Now we're talking. 

I have fond memories of our first basement sprucing up project. It was to be the year of the teen space in the basement. We debated over color schemes, where to move toys to make room for an old sofa, how to place the tv that would now live downstairs. There was a lot of excitement, hours of communal painting with music blasting (Les Miserables, bien entendu). Small children were given blocks, older ones paintbrushes. We even bought a large, navy blue rug to complement the champagne-colored walls and orange sorbet swirled trim. 

We had a fine year or two down there. Movie nights, sewing lessons, and cozy tornado warning sheltering; with snacks, and the emergency weather radio station droning in the background while we played cards and bounced toddlers on our laps. We began to buy into the idea that we actually had another real room.

And then comes spring or maybe the moment waits for summer. You walk down one morning to toss a load of laundry into the washing machine; (which is the only thing that actually belongs in a basement), and your fuzzy bunny slipper goes "SPLUTCH" in a puddle...again. Curse words and a long morning (if you're lucky, it is morning and not 9 p.m.) of clean-up usually follow.

Mop, wring, mop some more, pick up all the things that might rot or rust, break out the fans, turn up the dehumidifier, and, if this is your first rodeo, remove the soggy carpet. 

If this is your second or beyond and you are still putting carpeting in your basement; then you were handed a big hint by the universe that you chose to greet with a blind fold over your eyes in a dark closet...and then ignore. Water follows gravity. It will find a way to move to the lowest level. It will seep, leak and gurgle its way in.

All this aside, I completely understand the impulse to make use of a basement and I do love this underground bit of our house. I really appreciate the storage room that is shelved, high-up like, where things can be stored and kept dry, the table for my sewing machine, and the pale orange floor...painted cement and easy-care. Even our rugs have been replaced with a foam gym mat. Yes, the television is still down there too, and there are two (lightweight) sofas but with waterproof feet. We are too are stuck in the fantasy realm of useful basements, but taken with a grain of salt and a shop-vac close at hand.

Thursday, May 13, 2021

Day Nine: Back to the Gym: the Ordinary is Nice

 

Since we have moved into a world post-vaccination, one of the joys of my former life has returned: a good workout twice a week, with walking and stretching in between.

I do believe I may have perhaps mentioned it once or twice before; but DON’T GIVE UP. Keep moving, do it slowly and carefully if you have to, but move. Life is in constant movement and if you stop moving, you lose a part of the vitality and enjoyment of all that it is. I wrote in 2014, http://www.ahomeschoolstory.com/2014/09/mama-fitness-when-it-hurts-to-exercise.html?m=1

And I have a 2021 update, which is not perfectly fabulous, but hopefully it’s encouraging. My thumb joint and wrist are still rather stupid, weak and probably painful because I can’t give up knitting. So be it. A good, brilliant friend invited me to try these contraptions: New Grips which were made for weightlifting. As illustrated below, doing wall push-ups to build strength back up before real ones.


They do grip nicely, and when you keep your thumb in the same plane as your fingers, it takes all pressure off of the thumb joint. I can wrap the wrist part tight enough to help with the wrist pain, but if the thumb moves while lifting, it is not good news. I am still bringing my own super tiny dumbells to class to make it doable. I feel ridunkulous, but not stationary. Did they have to be bright pink (1 lb), bright, light blue (2 lb) and neon pink (3 lb)? We don't like to feel that girly at the gym, folks, try black maybe?

Do small, do something, do you, but move a bit. All of you will thank you.  

Tomorrow I will write about anticipation, the good, the bad and the lovely. What is good anticipation in your world? There has been a lot of it, hasn't there?


Friday, April 9, 2021

Day Seven: of Hobbits and Yoda and Second Breakfasts

I find great joy and comfort in the very existence of Hobbits, and in the inversed subject-verb sayings of Yoda. 

Now, let's not get all technical about the notion of reality vs. fictional characters. You know as well as I do that Hobbits and Yoda live in the places that matter: in the minds and hearts of generations of people across the world. Alive, they are.

Without the Hobbits and their traditions, I would have no legitimate excuse to sit down at 9 am with a bowl of yogurt and toasted oats which is not my first breakfast of the day. Second breakfast, merci beaucoup, is a real thing. It is the moment after the rush of the first morning chores, to stop for a nice cuppa...and maybe a snack. 

Hobbits also ground us in their love of home and hearth, in the smallest of small things to appreciate in life, and in the inevitable moment of having to get out and face our fears; bravely, while whimpering and whining, maybe, but fully present nonetheless. 

As for Yoda, besides the fact that he is short and green and wizened, gets angry more often than one would believe a sage really should: his voice and his speech give solace and excellent counsel. Right now, the one speaking to me is a reminder to slow down, open my eyes and come back to the present. "Always in motion the future is." -Yoda

Monday, March 22, 2021

Day Six of the Ordinary: Where's All the Stink Gone? Post-Covid Positives

I must first make an offering of compassion and recognition for the grief the pandemic has strewn across the globe in its wake, before telling my own tale. I am sorry for your loss, for our common loss.

Our family's burden has been narrowed down to the plight of feet no longer smelling...ripe? Body odor is a thing of the past, bad breath too. But: does anyone really know whether or not the kitchen garbage has begun to rot? 

We do not. Papa Noël (dear Ol' Santa) dropped off the Cornona virus on Christmas Eve. Our symptoms were all a little different, like the way each of us first gets a cold; sniffy nose here, scratchy throat there.  I had bad case of the chills, leaving my teeth chattering and my extra wrap extra tight around as much of me as I could fit in. I really thought nothing of it, as I was in my habitually cold room, and wearing shorts. I ran down to the basement; half an hour on the mini-trampoline would warm me right up. About ten jumps in, I realized I felt something akin to "dreadful". This was not right, what "this" was was unclear, but I did not feel normal. By 4 pm, I was a feverish mess, with an ache on the back of my head, shivering and stupid. That was the end of my Christmas Eve, by then, two others were feeling ill as well. We had dinner, I think. Christmas happened in a blur, but the next day I felt much improved.

On the 26th, my oldest called right after Thierry had dropped her off at her home 3 hours away: her Covid test results had just come through on her phone: positive. I really do not think we would have known otherwise, the only other hint of it was that the world smelled burnt in some odd way, but that was fading after day two or three. My daughter had a test because she always got tested before returning to her home she shares with a roommate, it was a pact they agreed upon. 

When we told the other kids, two of them casually mentioned; "Oh yeah, I haven't been able to taste or smell for a week." It is astounding how many things came to mind at that point, but what one of us said, or maybe both Thierry and I, maybe repeatedly was; "WHEN were you going to tell us? WHERE have you been? Everyone knows lack of smell is a dead giveaway for Covid. Etc." The other six of us were tested on Monday: all positive. It was, I suppose, a mild case, although Thierry came down with the "second wave syndrome", poor guy, a week later. One minute he was fine, the next, he was white as a sheet and scaring the crud out of me. In a few days, he was right as rain again.

And now, three months later, not a one of us can smell like we used to. My youngest and I can taste normally: bliss! But the others have remnants of not being able to taste much of their food, or it tastes different, some say chicken tastes bitter. One kid was left at home to cook rice one night and missed the fact that it was burning until the fire alarm went off, good thing the batteries were fresh. I can smell "something burning", and brewing coffee, my shampoo has a scent to it, but the rest is as though the odors of the world had been smoothed over. And no one, but no one, knows if they need to change their socks. 

Sunday, March 21, 2021

Day Five: Ocean Swimming

Have you ever swum in the ocean? It is positively primeval. It is the one thing I most look forward to when I am near the beach, and a thing I gave up on for unimportant reasons for a time. I would wet my toes, knees, maybe up to my waist, but really rocking along with the waves as they wash over me, one after another? 

Waiting for the next one, turning my back to it, facing it full on at a jump or diving right under it? Riding a wave back towards the shore? Feeling the salt on my tongue, the sun on my shoulders? It had been years, and I was poorer for having missed it.

There was a group of women in San Sebastian or Donostia, Basque Country, when I lived there, who met each and every morning for their swim out into the bay. My heroes, and wow: what  way to start your day! I wanted to stay there forever and join their club.

I have never experienced the Pacific or another warm ocean. Nope, it has always been the icy Atlantic for me, on both sides of the pond. The exhilaration in the first hit of freezing cold water, first the feet, then the shins, further up with each step and backing away as the wave recedes, then blam! I am hit in the chest by one that is a little higher than the last. Once you're in up to your neck, you are good, aren't you? Not much else to soak, so you may as well stay and swim. And in the swim is the beauty, the power, the washing away of past, present and worry. Immersion, oblivion and total presence in the here and now.

Saturday, March 20, 2021

Day Four: Unexpected Bit of Beauty-Brown-Eyed Susans of the Sand

A flower I remember my grandmother pointing out on our woodland hikes was the Brown-eyed Susan. I often wondered why Susan got her own flower named after her, so it was memorable. Today I saw a new variety of them, growing in the dunes, just like back home, only on a vine along the ground. They were side by side with what I call begonias; which were also growing wild and abundantly, all over the dune.



Brown-eyed Susans evoke marvelous memories from childhood. My grama was the one who took us on outings to places our parents did not take four children, so often it was my sister and I having some "just us" time with her. They were not frequent, but memorable, yes. We hiked in nature preserves, the park with the creek through the middle where we spotted craw-dads, docks down on the Mississippi to hunt for clam shells, which we found incredible with their shine and their very marine-lifeness. Growing up land-locked, I had an odd fascination for all things aquatic, and these sand dune flowers linked past and present, land and sea in a lovely way.

Friday, March 19, 2021

Day Three: (30 Days of Writing about Ordinary Moments)-Healing Heat

I look out from my magnificent PALACE of a shelter; a beach chair almost covered by a rainbow parasol with a window opening onto the waves crashing on the shoreline. I melt and turn awful colors in the sun, but I love the ocean passionately, it's tough. To my left, my husband has fallen asleep on his towel, haphazardly, the sleep of the perfectly content, to my right: my two boys, one sunning in the best angle, the other digging a giant hole in the sand, probably plotting who he might best bury. 

Miracle of all: nothing hurts, nothing is off, everything is well with the world. I am an advocate for the spring, fall, winter is nice and I tolerate summer because things grow in the summer, and green is good. But this warmth is luscious, unexpected in the depths of our normal winter, and my whole being is reveling in it, and in this chance to slow down, watch the waves, swim in the ocean and just be. I am awash in gratitude. I feel great too.

Thursday, March 18, 2021

Day Two of Challenge: A Reptilian Moment

The plant-infused patio, with it's white wicker furniture is still warm with a light breeze to keep it all cool today. As I sat and pondered, a little lizard came up to say hello. She is brown and rust-colored, blending in with the floorboards. Curious too: as she darts closer to me and backs up in turn, over and over.

What I know about lizards is from our years of caring for Neen the leopard ghecko. They like the heat and eat crickets. This one keeps returning as close to my bare toes as she and I both feel comfortable with. It seems that she is eating up the quinoa crumbs left over from last night's dinner. Or at least, that is what I gathered by first observation. I saw her tongue dip down between the floor boards and snatch a minuscule morsel of something. A few minutes later, looking over, I saw a flat sort of bug slip back down into the floor, and decided she must be hunting live prey. But she moved to the flat part again and picked up a grain of quinoa: vegetarian after all! Or just supplementing her regular diet of bugs?

When startled, her tail curls up into a high spiral and she rests, motionless, for a moment, like a squirrel caught too close to the house. She looks at me as though she would speak, at least long enough to say; "hey, I have no intention to bite you. You have no plans to squish me, right?" I look back to reassure and remind her that I think she's adorable, but I really would rather she did not scuttle over my feet, thank you kindly. I promise to cook more quinoa tonight. We have reached symbiosis of a sort.

Wednesday, March 17, 2021

Challenge: Write About What is, Day One: Cheat Day

Decision made: a challenge to myself to write for 30 days in a row about normal, about noting the small beauties of the every day. I am easily inspired by the beautiful and the adventurous,  but it is a little harder to make a silk purse of a sow's ear. I began this post on an average March day in the Midwest; 45 degrees and sun battling with the rain and clouds for dominance, neither winning in a sort of spring mud of a day. I had taken the dog for his walk, taken a Zoom call for work, had lunch with my husband between work sessions on our French with Kids program, greeted the boys when they came home and corrected the kids' essays before they turned them in.




I would like to tell you that I have some inspiration to share from that day, a glint of appreciation for life exactly as it was in that moment. I am sure I felt it, I'm sure it is what prompted me to write, but it has faded, 72 hours later, as I sit out on a patio in the warmth of an afternoon way down south. We left home, husband, me and the youngest two kids, punting ahead of a spring blizzard that swept over the region as we dove in the opposite direction.

Today, I hesitate to claim the right to the ordinary, for it is so very beautiful here, and so warm, and so out of the ordinary for this family who lives in Iowa. My moment of "wow, it is OK for life to continue," came when I lay back on a towel on the beach, and for the first time in 24 years, I could close my eyes and let go. Always, when we have taken the kids to the wild Atlantic coast, or even to a lake or a pool, I have felt the requirement to be absolutely vigilant, watching in two, three, four or, most commonly, five directions at the same time. Today, there were only two swimming, both old enough to know better, and I could relax for two minutes. Extraordinary. 

What do I mean by "life continuing"?  Just that: time passing, everything changing, all of it. Only a year and two months ago I was having a true crises of the soul, a sadness so deep that it could be qualified as depression, as I considered my vast library of children's books and homeschool materials we had acquired over the years. My youngest had elected to attend school full-time, and it was as though part of me had ceased to be useful and good. Who was I if not a homeschooling, Waldorf mama? I had to reevaluate, to reconnect, and it did not happen in a day. 

I can't find that I wrote about that moment, only about the aftermath and lessons learned. I was too sad to write. The action I took was to put out the word to local Waldorf homeschoolers to see who might like to peruse and take home anything useful in my collection, and then give the rest away.

It was still a work in progress when confinement hit, and I was, of a sudden, mother to FOUR children who were learning at home for two weeks, then for a month, and then until the end of the year...and I never took a moment to appreciate the universe responding to my sorrow in such a dramatic way. It would have felt far too self-centered, in any case, but I did have daily thoughts of gratitude for each and every day that we all awoke healthy and together. 

We just do not know what tomorrow may bring, do we? For this very reason, I entreat you to take a deep breath, look around you, not too far! maybe into the eyes of a beloved, out your own window, and thank the heavens for what is...then enjoy it to the fullest!

 

P.S. If one of the mysteries you are trying to figure out right now is short or long-term financial stability, I would highly, highly recommend this online class by Leonie Dawson "Money and Manifesting Multiple Streams of Income", from which I learned a bunch. I mean, I love the American instructors-of-financial wisdom as much as the next girl, but there is something endearing about this 30-something Australian entrepreneur, hippie, mom, artist and eminently successful businesswoman. She makes me smile.

There is not one moment I would redo in my entire life (OK, there are a butt-load of moments I would redo in my life as a mother and a wife, but those have to do with the most personal instants), but if I were to redo the professional bits, here is where I would start, with the incredible Leonie Dawson, who teaches us to become the helper/healer/best human that is within us to shine through and make the best life for our families whilst doing so...earn money from what you know best and love doing.) The classes I have found the most incredible and useful, from just starting out to ready to sell your offering, in order of how far along you are in your journey and what that journey is:

40 Days to Sell Your E-course:

https://leoniedawson.mykajabi.com/a/17744/zeNUTzpp

 

 40 Days to a Finished Book: 

 
https://leoniedawson.mykajabi.com/a/16702/zeNUTzpp

 

 Sell Like a Star!

https://leoniedawson.mykajabi.com/a/44084/zeNUTzpp

 

This post contains affiliate links, a first for me, but the classes have given me such a boost of get up and go, confidence and kick in the pants, that I wanted to be an affiliate.  Leonie has a gift and gifts should be shared. I have taken all four of the classes and I am gleaning many, many things from each. 

 

Friday, March 5, 2021

Day Seven: Waking Up

Going to sleep is better, but as waking up has become a habit of late; I suppose that appreciating how very wondrous it is could lead to less resentment and more gratitude. 

I used to think the frequent wakings at the end of pregnancy were to ready us to wake up with our precious baby later. Not that it takes a whole lot of training to hear the cries of one's newborn, they have a set of lungs on them, those babes. 

Then, it would follow, that this learning to function (barely) in a highly sleep-deprived state must be preparing a mother for...no, nothing makes any logical sense, never mind. And then you hit "middle life" and the regularity with which nights are interrupted is exactly like being pregnant or having a newborn all over again. Except there is only oneself to nurture at that hour, perhaps that is the power in it; finally, time to be alone with just you and the world, in silence.

Later, once it is sometime past 5 a.m., waking to a new day remains one of the great renewing graces of life. I may not feel refreshed, but I feel the pure possibility of every single chance that this sunrise and this day might bring.

Thursday, February 4, 2021

Digging Drama Denoues and Size 1 Needles

Sometimes a girl's gotta' call in the troops, or the stronger arms with shovels. To illustrate: you take a shivering friend of your son's home from swim practice down an unknown dead end, and there happens to be an awful lot of snow and ice just in front of the house. Your big ol' truck sinks further in the longer you wait to make sure said kid gets let into house. (You do not know this, or you would have waited down the street a bit further.) Kid waves, you take off to head home...and go nowhere. "Spinning"'s original meaning: the tires spin, the car goes not. And it turns out to be an act of universal benevolence, because the same shivering kid (no coat, everyone knows coats are uncool), is back again. Did he see you needed help and arrive with a shovel...and a coat? No, he is truly locked out and no one else is home to jump to the rescue. "Hop in and warm back up." 

 

This happens throughout the cold and snowy regions of the world. There are known techniques to dislodge a vehicle, and as a Midwesterner, I know them all. After a neighbor loaned us a doormat to lodge under one tire, hoping this would be the key to a little traction, then promptly disappeared into his house, we had tried about all we had at hand. Pushing, reversing, gunning it in 3rd gear, starting all over again. With the marked absence of any other helpful neighbors appearing to lend a hand, I had to face the painful music and call home for shovels and brawn. It was dinner time and dark.

Of course, the men felt they had to take over, which would have perhaps miffed me in earlier times. As it was, I had 20 rounds of decrease to work on the back of a baby bonnet on size 1 dpns* of various lengths, It was a bit dicey to keep all of the stitches on that 4" one I had to throw into the mix: all in all, there was nowhere else I needed to be. Having been deprived of any knitting during last weekend's campout and severely limited during the subsequent work week, by Wednesday evening, it was time to knit again.



*Notes for the non-knitter: My mother-in-law calls these needles "smaller than Mikados" in fun. A dpn is a double-pointed needle, size 1 is the diameter of a fat toothpick. The parts we are not knitting are held on 4 of these while we knit with a fifth. It is just the thing for working small bits in the round. "In the round" equals no sewing up seams when we are finished.

Illustration credit: https://www.instagram.com/richardduijnstee/

 


Monday, February 1, 2021

Invitation to a Challenge: Accepted!

The question "WHY" is the one most asked the world over when a human who is lucky enough to live in a perfectly comfortable home decides to pack up and spend a few days or maybe a week performing the seemingly torturous rite of camping out. 

I had plenty of time to ponder the notion this weekend, as I put myself into exactly this scenario, in January, in the Midwest. It is easier to justify a camp-out in the clement weather of the other three months, I suppose. Being out of doors is a pleasant experience for part of the year.  But I had been invited to join the Scouts, and I find that an invitation to a place that is out of one's comfort zone, when accepted, is the sort that can take you places you would never have discovered on your boring lonesome own. Besides, I do believe in spending more time outside than in, I just don't always get around to doing it.

The outdoors; a beautiful, snow-covered landscape, was calling to me, my husband had warmly welcomed me to join them, and all the work I needed to do at home had been done. The only voice still sounding a small alarm was the pending weather forecast: 33 degrees F, with rain beginning at noon, it said, ending by 8 p.m., then snow. Ah well, they could be wrong. There was snow on the ground, I like snow. What was the likelihood that we get rain in January? The new system of two sleeping bags should mean not repeating that one time when my toes froze all night during a November camp-out. I knew how cold it could be, and yet, I was going to do it again. 

As I said, I was given ample time to reconsider the entire concept, in-depth, while standing around, under a picnic shelter with the rain pounding down, my toes growing cold and the smoke from the portable woodfire stove constantly burning my eyes. It did not only rain, it rained for ten solid hours. The dads encouraged the boys to take a hike to warm up. All were game, so we left to walk along the Hennepin Canal, an engineering marvel that was scarcely ever used. This had the mixed result of warming us all up, getting to see some scenery, as well as my first in-person coyote sighting, and drenching our outer layers and, in my case, the inner ones as well. 

I spent the evening as mindfully as possible. There were discussions on history, on why we go camping, on a love of nature as experienced up close. I was not feeling much love, but I was intent on paying attention to these moments out of time, in another existence. The challenge was to stay the course, in good humor, come what may, to serve the purpose of letting this experience for the young scouts be all that it could be. We knew the morning would bring snow instead of rain, and the arctic beauty that had begun with the trees icing over as the temperatures fell would surely take our breaths away in the morning. 

The ideas of adding tarp walls to the shelter to protect us a bit from the rain and wind was offered, accepted and executed. Pre and post hike, the little fire in the mini cooker smoked and steamed us into some semblance of warmth. There was no card playing; social distancing and circling the fire on picnic table benches and a few chairs did not allow for games, there was no sketching or journaling; too wet, and there was not even cooking to be done. COVID regulations preclude the sharing of food this year, so each scout arrives with their food ready to be heated in individual packages. No meal prep, darn, that would have constituted an activity in P.C. times.

Dinner, when it arrived, was a fabulous feast. My husband and son had been experimenting all year, and they have precooked meals down to an art. Mostly dad cooks, and my kiddo packages the portions. Tonight we were having rice cooked with fresh mushrooms topped with garlic-sauteed shrimp. It was so good.

The night, which we all agreed, should not begin before the rain stopped, was a cozy one. At least in my tent it was, since it was the only one with more than one person. I followed the techniques my sweetie recommended for getting into the sleeping bags as dryly and as warmly as possible. It was a true feat of planning and execution in some crazy positions. Wet shirt and wet socks changed in car, wettest layers (first coat) left in car, dash to tent, remove snowpants as entering, turn them inside out and slide them between the two layers of sleeping bags for warmer recovery in the morning. Bottom half inside the sleeping bag, I look around to see where I put my other coat, thinking I might put it too in between the layers. I finally realize I am still wearing it. Coat off and quick, into the bags all the way, hat on, scarf handy to keep over face. Zip. 

The morning rewards us with a snow-covered wonderland that is every bit as beautiful as we had hoped. Bliss! Yes, it was worth it. Head out and enjoy where you are today, even if it means breaking out the mittens and scarves and boots. Consider this my invitation and challenge.


 


Tuesday, January 12, 2021

French and New Writings


 

Dear Reader,

I may have mentioned that we are in the midst of big, fascinating changes in our home. Today is my birthday and I am about to pose pen and take up a good book, (et un petit café) but before I do, I wish to share that I have still been writing, just almost all about languages and French. This is where I am posting these days, take a look, I kinda like this post: Sharing French.

Tomorrow I will post a link to a free pdf on language learning here, stay tuned.

Joy and peace and the happiest new year to you!



Tuesday, November 24, 2020

Retirement...What Comes Next? Giving Thanks for What Is

"A year ago"...just the words are evocative of so much for every human on the planet, but they feel particularly poignant today, at home in this huge nation of the ever-dissatisfied and ready to believe in fairy tales called the United States of America. No, I will not take on the big picture for longer than a phrase or two, but if you are on the outside, looking in, please have a thought for the sane left here. We are hopeful, we are grateful, but we are mourning as well, for the loss of life and livelihood that need not have been as great, for the families grieving today. And still we deny. I choose to affirm, to believe in new life.

(This is where I was hiking a year ago, back when travel was a safe thing to do, remember?)

 

Enter the new homebound entrepreneurs; housewife and househusband starting all over at 50.

We have taken a leap of faith, but not an unusual one, the way I see it. MY quarantine conclusion is one I have already written about in a previous post: using the time at home to unvent* the online French school Commence le Dream.

While I was in the midst of creating the concept, I mentioned to my beloved husband that I would need his particular gift of a French voice in order to record the lessons that would be dialogs. He grumbled, as husbands do: "I am not an actor, I am not into radio, I do not like cameras..." And one day, in his inbox appeared an early retirement offer from his employer, and he started to consider his options.

Retire? Start over? Start a business that I love? Mais oui!

There has been some heart-skipping excitement around here for the past few months.  It is a combination of anticipation, relief, wonder, gladness, and Now What?! And that is just me.
 
Thierry, who is leaving a career and a place of many friendships, strong connections and a decent living, has additional layers of feelings. 

We felt much the same when we bought our first house when we were 25, in an urban environment where even the realtors acted as though we were trying to do something not quite kosher, making a large purchase so young. We were committing to the unknown, to a huge project; like now. It was so frightening it felt intoxicating.

The next big move was just five or six years later; moving from France to Iowa. Again; thrills, chills and what-ifs competed for space in our minds and souls. And, we did it anyway. We are primed for one more.

In the mean time, I have been raising five children: navigating the ever-changing landscape of these beautiful souls as they develop, soar, crash, and pick themselves back up, over and over. I have had to learn and relearn to make time for meditation, exercise and reading. I have figured out how to keep families on two sides of the Atlantic part of our lives; on a budget. Every day, we must reinvent new ways to thrive as a couple and as a family unit: through homeschool, public school, triumphs, regrets, sickness and health. Building a business? Piece of gâteau.

We still have kids to raise, college tuitions to help navigate, food to be put on the table, and big dreams to live out. We plan, however, to do it on our own terms, in freedom and in gratitude for all that has been and all there is today. 

This is Thanksgiving week here. Have a marvelous holiday, whatever it might look like this year. Giving thanks for family, loved ones everywhere and dear readers that you are. 

 

*Word coined by Elizabeth Zimmerman, who recognized that there is nothing new under the sun, but sometimes one stumbles upon a method that seems like it is entirely novel, so "unvent".