Tuesday, July 12, 2011

A Multitude of Miracles

Friday Morning Flight with Beth
Stowe, Vermont
Absolutely flyable weather for six out of six scheduled flights was miracle enough, but the week in Stowe with Maureen held blessings far beyond the sunny skies.

Maureen is the daughter I never had. While technically my cousin, she is the appropriate age to be my daughter, and I have loved her that way since I held her tiny little self a few days after she was born. Mo came to her first Stoweflake Balloon Festival in 2001, and has been my right arm/copilot/girl Friday/executive assistant there ever since. This being my last year as balloonmeister, we left Maine knowing the event would be extra poignant for us.


Real Cousin Maureen

After Maureen and I spent a couple days enjoying mountain trails and the company of good friends, the first batch of pilots arrived Thursday. Friday morning I ended up in a balloon basket with my friend, Beth. Sometimes I forget how much I loved flying all those years. And laughing with Beth.

Last December, one of our long-term pilots lost a sudden and vicious battle with cancer.  Unbeknownst to me, one of his last requests was to be sprinkled from his balloon at a few of his favorite events. So his student, Ben, brought Harry’s balloon, and Saturday morning we held all the others on the ground while they launched in silence and drifted peacefully over Shaw Hill.

As the rest of the aerostats inflated and stood up, a sudden gust of wind started knocking them around the field like weeblewobble toys. All deflated safely, and no one was hurt, but we laughed later that Harry had claimed this flight for himself, allowing only Gary to join him as escort. They landed calmly behind the hill by the way, after a beautiful journey.

Later that day, a local crew member invited Rastro and me to a small, impromptu concert by Tony DeBlois, a blind autistic musical savant who was staying with Barry at his B&B in Stowe. Meeting and hearing Tony was such an unexpected miracle, it still fills me with wonder. You can read Tony’s story on his web site, www.tonydeblois.com but the short version is that he plays 20 or so instruments, with a repertoire of more than 8,000 songs, and learns anything he hears instantly. On my iPhone, I played him a very intricate piano piece by one of my favorite composers, and he not only learned it, but offered several improvisations, which he performed with such joy it made all of us laugh with happiness. Hearing Rastro do the Chinook roo roo and a couple barks of applause as well, Tony instantly transitioned into an impromptu riff on “How Much is that Doggie in the Window.”

Tony hung out with us for the rest of the weekend, for dinner, pilot briefings, concerts on the field, all the usual balloon meet stuff. He whipped the festival band into shape in no time, teaching them songs and variations right on the stage. Sunday morning, we were able to get him aloft for his first balloon flight. (Tony already has a pilot log and time at the controls of an airplane.) To the delight of those who got up early enough for the morning launch, he played the balloon classic, “Up, Up and Away,” on his trumpet as the balloon floated into the calm morning sky.

I don’t have many relatives left on my father’s side of the family, but have kept in touch off and on with Brian, a third cousin twice removed or something like that. Brian’s wife, Charlane, joined us in Stowe this year, as crew for one of our teams. She was referred to as my pseudo-cousin for the weekend, Maureen being the real one of course. Sunday morning, Charlane’s pilot, Tim, invited me to fly and we soared into the sky for a classic Stowe morning -- high altitude steerage to the right toward the valley, low altitude shift to the left down its length, the miracle of perfection. It was a joyous way to close out 20 years of balloonmeistering, and 23 years of participation in my favorite event of all time.

The Perfect Morning Flight
July 10, 2011,  Stowe, Vermont

After a day of unpacking, laundry, kittens, mail, phone calls, and all that other post-vacation stuff, David and I took the dogs down to the beach right before dinner last night. Listening to the waves, picking our way along the rocky shore, watching Rastro and Zucchini play in the surf and snuffle for dead crabs, we discovered a miracle of Maine. Shining brightly in the sun was a rock with a delicate white feather painted on its surface by the sea. 

Sparkling in the sun, its perfection no less wondrous than Tony’s musical genius, it reminded me that miracles happen everywhere, and that the beauty of life fills the universe to bursting. 

Miniature Maine Miracle


Sunday, July 3, 2011

Summer Haircuts

Before

I came across an old photograph recently of myself at about age 4, posed in a pretty pink dress, with my long, platinum ringlets framing a face smiling so sweetly no one would ever suspect I was about to break a lamp over my little sister’s head. (kidding, I was too little to pick it up) I remember that long blonde hair, the curls, the ribbons and bows, the barrettes…and I remember painfully the day it all came off.

Mom was ever the practical sort. One summer day, she got tired of my tears as she tore through my hair with a harsh pig-bristle hairbrush, or maybe it was the screams of agony as she yanked it into French braids. (Why do they call them French anyway, when they make your eyes look Asian?) So she got out the hedge clippers, and hacked it all away. Actually, I think she might have even shelled out a dollar or two for the local hairdresser to turn those treasured tresses into the fashion of the day, the dreaded pixie cut.

I’ve never understood the name, or the style. It’s one of the ugliest haircuts known to woman, unless you’re Audrey Hepburn. Boring, hideous, unfeminine, androgynous… every adjective for that particular hair arrangement is everything I am not, nor ever have been, even at age 6! 

The crowning insult was when my adored father came home from work, looked over my head, and asked my mother where I was. He didn’t even recognize me!

This was a week of haircuts around our house. After cutting 2 or 3 inches off my long hair last month, this Friday I had Tera cut off another 2 or 3. It isn’t short by any means, but is much lighter and bouncier and fluffier than it was in May.

More dramatic by far were the haircuts inflicted on Sophie and Dickens yesterday. Our two Norwegian Forest Cats get a bit matted up from time to time. When this happens, they can’t move as freely, and yarked up hairballs increase in frequency and yuk factor by the day. Shearing them like sheep solves all problems, and keeps them cooler for the summer as well. To judge from their disgusted expressions however, I’m sure they like the new look as much as I liked the dreaded pixie cut when I was six. But by November, they will be back to their magnificent fluffiness.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been working through the contract process on one of several properties I’m trying to sell. The buyers are, well, difficult, to be kind about it. And in this market, they can get away with it.  It has been a painful and humiliating process, and no one deserves to be treated in this way. I’m that close to calling the whole thing off. But as I noted in an email to my real estate attorney, I’d probably regret that worse than a third margarita.

So on the way up to Bangor to get the cats shorn, what to do next, how to get through the insults, the bullying, the sheer ugliness of the transaction were major topics of conversation.

After a relaxing couple hours at Starbucks waiting for the cats and talking about life and real estate, we headed home feeling relaxed and refreshed. But soon David started a long lament about how undignified the cats looked, and how dreadfully it would hurt their pride to be seen looking like cast off stuffed animals with pumpkin heads. I reminded him of how much he loves to clean up hairball gak, and how much he would miss it. That stopped him cold.

It stopped me, too. For suddenly I realized that, no matter how awful this real estate transaction is, no matter how deeply my self-respect suffers, I will be done with this property. My spirit will grow back, as will my bank account.

The sale is nothing more than a bad summer haircut. 



                
After

Monday, June 20, 2011

Good-byes and Bad-byes



Within a day or so of bringing the huge pile of kittens home from the shelter, we could tell that the little ones, the Fetal Rats, were struggling. Come on, Mother Teresa weighs not even five lbs after a big meal, and she’s trying to feed nine babies! Her own five All Blacks, healthy and strong, easily push the newborns away from the milk bar whenever they like. Plus, they’re eating canned food, so they’re fine.

As frequent foster families do, we keep KMR (instant kitten formula) on hand, so we began supplementing the little ones right away. But one of them never really got the hang of life, and slipped away during the night. So sad, though not unexpected.

Thinking about this poor little soul, I have been thinking about people who have left my life. Some, those who have died, did not choose to go. Others parted ways for mutually accepted or at least understood reasons, their exit incorporated into the colorful tapestry of life.

To put it in quilting terms, a quilt with all light and bright colors is boring – in the best designs, the dark parts make the bright colors shine in contrast, so they are just as valuable. So in my heart quilt, the lost kitten makes me more delighted at the health of the others, the death of a dear father highlights my gratitude for his ongoing influence in my life, a failed romance teaches me what doesn’t fit.

The hardest exits, the most hurtful, are those that happen suddenly, with no explanation, and no clear cause. This has only ever happened to me twice, and the hurt and confusion are nearly unbearable. Efforts to reach out, reconnect or clarify soundly rebuffed, I will always wonder, never know and ever doubt my own value whenever I think of these people. I would love to apologize, make amends, at least understand. Knowing that closure will never happen is a constant ache.

One of these goodbyes was a woman friend to whom I was closer than my own sisters. Another was a man who opened my heart and filled it with light. With both, the endings came suddenly and without warning: I truly have no idea what happened. I miss them, no matter how hard I try to let them go, no matter how many other wonderful friends and loves remain.

Such partings do not provide valuable dark contrast to the design of life, only ragged, gaping holes, and the best stitching in the world can’t ever mend them.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

All Blacks, Fetal Rats and Mother Teresa



Last week I got an email from the new foster care coordinator for the animal shelter. She was scraping the bottom of the barrel, she said, desperate for help. Could we please take in a litter of five black and white kittens about two weeks old?

Setting aside my annoyance at being the bottom of the barrel (we’ve fostered a lot, and just sent back this year’s questionnaire having checked the “Call me first!” box as usual) I assured her that we would be happy to, as soon as I got back from Vermont. Two of our own cats are black and white, we call them the soccer balls, and we’ve never had a black and white litter, so it sounded like fun.

While I was away, she sent another email, telling me that someone had brought in a litter of four, one-week-old kittens, found without a mother, and that she had introduced them to “our” foster mama, who had accepted them with her own, and would that be ok with us and see you tomorrow. Ok, this girl is new, and very young. What Ever.

We collected the whole motley family. The black and white litter turned out to be all black with only a small patch or two of white on the occasional belly. In honor of the New Zealand rugby team, they are the All Blacks. The All Blacks are tragically cute as they wobble around and experiment with soft food (all over their little faces), swim in the water dish and learn how to play, with each other, the dogs and us.

The other litter was nowhere near close to a week old. Umbilical cords still attached, they weighed what two-day-old kittens do, according to our records of former litters. Two are white with splotches of gray, two are tigers. They look like rat fetuses. I suspect the white ones will morph into siamese, and simply hope they all survive! The rugged All Blacks easily muscle the Fetal Rats out of the way at the milk bar, so I have to be careful to supplement every few hours.

Mama cat, taking them all in with grace, and loving the ugly and abandoned as well as her own, can have no other name but Teresa.

So there you have it. We’ll have our hands full of kitten care and kitten love for a few weeks, and will love every minute.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Daisies and Lupines




When we built our cottage on the Cape, David wanted a paved driveway in a loop to practice motorcycle turns. In the middle of the loop was left a single tree and a pile of dirt. Being the dedicated non-gardener that I am, I threw a bag of Vermont wildflower seeds in there and called it good.

Much to my surprise and delight, the following spring brought the daisies and lupines pictured above. I don’t remember ever seeing them together before, and their exuberant purple and white made me laugh. Every June, they return with more and more enthusiasm.

Growing up in Maine, both of these flowers were part of my childhood. One year when I was 6 or 7 years old, I wandered off one day to explore the woods and fields behind our house in Hampden. I was alone (perfectly normal for children in the 60s in Maine), and poking along one of my favorite paths came out of the trees into a field entirely covered in daisies. I remember being overcome with joy, taking in their triumphant march down to the river. The following year, I went back when the daisies showed their happy faces around our house, but the field had been plowed under and planted with hay, and my disappointment was as deep as had been my delight the previous spring.

Lupines are like magic blue and pink firecrackers poking into the sky. Picking them is useless; they don’t last in water. They flourish where they are, and to enjoy them we have to move ourselves to their homes, not bring them into ours.

No one has planted hay in our circular driveway, so now I get to see the daisies and lupines together every spring. They are like old and trusted friends.

My first ever solo motorcycle trip to Vermont felt a little bit like exploring the woods when I was young. It was a little scary, and exhilarating. Not all of it was pleasant – I still don’t like highway riding, even though I am able to do it well enough.

When I got to Stowe, I connected with the old friends with whom I’ve worked on the balloon meet for so many years. My two days there held the customary laughter, productivity and rejuvenating fellowship. This being my last year (see Changing Direction, March 5, 2011), time with these people took on a new poignancy. Yes, we will continue to be friends, to stay in touch, to keep up, but it won’t be the same. I was freshly reminded how much I love them all, how dear they are, how part of me.

Riding home, the worst part of the trip came first, Interstate 89 and its miles and miles and miles and miles of construction. I definitely do not have the confidence to go the customary 5 to 10 mph over the speed limit on corrugated pavement, as the car drivers often do. So on the one-lane bits, with no place to pull over, lines formed behind me. Frustration, embarrassment, stress… and deep breaths and reminders to look out at the beautiful mountains through which I was riding… that’s how the first 70 miles of my trip fell out.

At the end of the longest stretch of road work, I emerged back onto regular pavement as the road curved around a steep hill. At the end of the curve, just as I was back up to speed, a brilliant patch of daisies and lupines burst into view on the side of the road.

They felt like old friends – always there when you expect them, and a happy surprise when you don’t expect them at all, but need them the most.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Nerves and Nerve Food



It’s just a quick trip over to Vermont for a meeting about the balloon festival. And the weather forecast looks fine. So why not go over on the bike?

Because I’ve never done anything like this before and it’s 336 miles one way and I’ll be all by myself and quite a few of the roads got washed out last week and it might be cold and I got an owie in my back a couple days ago and if I take the car I can come back Tuesday and quilt all day Wednesday and there are hills and twisties all the way and no David or capable Ayres Adventures tour leaders to rely on if I get in a fix...

and most of all because I’m a wimp.

That’s the long and the short of it. And because it will be good for me, I will go. And I’ll probably have a great time on the road too.

Mom called yesterday for my birthday, and we laughed about the concept of age. “When your father died,” she told me, “I was only 52, and I thought I was old and that my life was over.” 
   “Yeah,” I replied, “I thought you were old, too, and I’m 55 today, and don’t feel old at all. In fact, I feel like I’m just getting started!” 
   “I don’t feel as old at 75 as I felt at 55,” she admitted.

So I can’t use my advanced age as an excuse. My hair is still red, and I’ve never been one to shy away from adventure either.

That leaves just plain nerves. Nerves are not new to me. I’ve felt them millions of times -- like I said, I'm a wimp. Looking back though, I find that every single time I’ve just gone ahead and done whatever made me nervous, I’ve been very, very happy I did. And when I wimped out I was mad at myself and embarrassed.

Fortunately, from birth I’ve been exposed to the secret weapon true Maineiacs use to vanquish nerves: Moxie Nerve Food. When people ask what it tastes like, I can only describe it as a yummy mixture of root beer, sarsaparilla and battery acid. And it packs enough of a jolt to make Red Bull seem like chamomile tea by comparison.

I take my Moxie seriously. Consider the following:
• My email address is moxielady@me.com (ME is the state code for Maine for those of you “from away”).
• Moxie is the official drink of Maine, and I’m a native, with the papers to prove it.
• I have consumed enough of the delectable drink to turn my insides to steel. People from away can rarely choke down a single swallow, let alone down it by the case.
• I have a Moxie-orange motorcycle, built by BMW to honor my father’s German heritage.
• Her license plate is MOX-E. (MOXIE was already taken, but close enough)
• There is plenty of room in my saddle bag for a can or two, diet these days.

So off I go in the morning. I may post from Stowe tomorrow or the next day, or maybe not. Depends on how my nerves hold up.





Friday, May 20, 2011

On a Mission



Ever get so engrossed in a project that you resent any intrusion into the time you spend on it? I mean any intrusion, including meals, exercise, sleep, and of course blog updates. That’s where I am with the current quilt.

One of my Quilts to Christchurch blankets, this is the biggest, most complicated thing I’ve ever attempted. It’s huge, with about 400 billion pieces in a design complicated enough to serve the Space Shuttle. It started with a Judy Niemeyer pattern, then took on a life of its own. And yes, it is definitely going to Christchurch, if I survive its completion.

I started this quilt two years ago, and have been overwhelmed by it ever since. In April of this year, I spent three weeks in Greensboro, working from 6:00 a.m. to dark in the sewing room, then doing the hand bits downstairs until dropping from exhaustion. I never got on the bike even once, saw no friends, and had to force myself to walk with Rastro in the morning.

Arriving home with the growing monster and its parts packed up in the Volkswagen, I’ve been frustrated at the demands of life in Maine, like paying the bills, checking the properties, catching up with my good friend next door, saying hello to my husband, spending Mother’s Day with my mom… yes, I am obsessed. It’s even hard to drag myself out of the studio to go collect the quilts others have lovingly made for the Q2C project. At least it’s been raining for the last three weeks, so the motorcycle isn’t calling as loudly as she usually does.

I do listen to books and music while quilting. This week I’ve been slogging through Paradise Lost on audio, which I suppose is good for me. Yesterday afternoon, however, I popped disc 3 of the Elvis 68 Comeback Tour into the computer. Wow – what a difference! Much faster stitching ensued. Note to self: quilt to Elvis when feeling mired. So with Elvis blasting his happy motivation, and David out of town for a couple weeks,  I'm looking for some serious progress.

My sweet little Danny brings perspective to the project. Having laid out the appliqué units on one of the blocks in preparation for stitching them down, I turned away to assemble my threads. Danny took that opportunity to remind me that quilts, after all, are for napping.

Thank you my little bear flower.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Fangs of Death

On the positive side, I’m grateful to have such a fearless protector, particularly when I’m alone, which is much of the time. This gratitude is tested, however, when the big dog’s needs interfere with my own, sleep for example.

I’m in Greensboro for the rest of the month, having taken an off-road motorcycle class last week, then buckling down to finish a king-size quilt for Christchurch. The quilt is quite complex, and I’m working dawn to dark every day. Sleep is vital to the endeavor.

Last night, however, Rastro insisted on waking me up just after I’d fallen into deep slumber, demanding that I let him out RIGHT NOW. Grumble grumble grumble ok. I hate not having a dog door in this house.

When he refused to come back in directly, I decided he could spend the night in the yard. Two hours later (again, after I was deeply asleep), his extremely loud and frenzied barking dragged me out of bed and outside. I expected to find him at the door, but he was at the back fence, racing back and forth and barking his head off.

Rastro often spends time at the fence, consumed with longing for the cute poodle on the other side. But their normal activity consists of lying with their noses pressed to the gaps in the wood, moaning softly. This time, Fifi was also barking to raise the dead. I flailed around barefoot in the dark feeling for Rastro’s collar, praying with every breath that the massive poisonous snakes had all gone to bed for the night.

A scary hiss snapped my eyes to the top of the eight-foot stockade fence.

There, baring nasty teeth in an ugly face, was one very huge, very angry possum. And it wasn’t three feet from my face. Yikes!


This was so not the cute, soft New Zealand possum that mates with sheep and gives birth to sweaters. It was a butt-ugly, worm-infested Carolina mutant rat with a long naked tail and a bad attitude. I screamed and jumped back, tripping over a rose bush, landing almost as hard as I did flying off the dirt bike last Thursday.

But I’ve seen Rastro dispatch bigger, meaner rodents with his fangs of death, and didn’t want him tangling with this one.

Of course, as dense as our subdivision is, all the dogs in the neighborhood had joined the call for execution, and I think I was the only human outside in her nightgown in the middle of it all.

So I dragged myself out of the rose bush, found Rastro’s collar, and using my highly developed quilting muscles, wrestled 100 pounds of raging attack dog back inside, thus saving the life of the midnight marauder, unless it was stupid enough to jump off into some other yard.

I’m thinking a nap will be in order today. Rastro agrees.



Monday, April 4, 2011

Bright Red Dress and Sparkly Shoes



It isn’t just the unrelenting grayness of Maine in March and April. It’s that life in general gets muddy and dull sometimes, and if I don’t grab it by the throat and shake it up, it will drive me absolutely crazy.

In general, I think of myself as a cheerful person who delights in quirkiness, who is eager for adventure, who revels in the creative process, who has an eye for beauty and grace, even without possessing them myself. I’m always the first to spot a struggling crocus poking its purple head through the snow, or notice the perfection of my black cat’s silhouette in a sunny window. My quilts tend to be happy and chaotic jumbles of bright colors, and my clothing the same.

Sometimes, however, I look in the mirror and realize I’ve been wearing dark colors day after day. Or I find myself snapping with annoyance at the poor person who has the misfortune of stomping on my last nerve as I wade through task after necessary task in the endless to do list of life.

That’s when it’s time to look for a bright red dress and sparkly shoes. Yes, it’s a metaphor. Not like roses, exactly, but close enough. It means I want to dance instead of trudge. It means I want to be seen, acknowledged, and feel felt, instead of fading into invisibility. I want to laugh and touch and taste and laugh some more.

Yesterday David and I fired up the motorcycles for the first Maine ride of the year. We aimed them north, after first wallowing out of Kelley Drive’s sea of mud and through the snow and slush bank at the end of the road. For once, the sun was out, and the unwelcome new snow of a few days ago was bright enough to hurt the eyes. There was, of course, a lot of sand and gravel on the roads after the harsh winter, and anything that wasn’t pavement was knee-deep mud. It was cold, quite windy in spots, but I was ready with my merino and winter gear. And the Moxie orange bike of course.

Winding through the esses along the river, I couldn’t crank the throttle wide enough. I wanted to fly, and Miss Moxie delivered. The ice on the Penobscot sparkled like rhinestones, and even the mud looked pretty with sun shining on it.  After we got home, some of the gloom had lifted, and I could get back to work.

As I write this, it is snowing again, hard.

And even after yesterday, I still feel the need of that red dress and sparkly shoes. 

Anyone want to dance?


Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Frisky Trees


A few years ago, when I first started spending a fair amount of time in North Carolina, a friend told me about some flowering trees, which she called by a naughty name. The name wasn’t, “frisky,” but I hesitate to put her exact word onto a public blog. The trees bloom in mid-spring, she said, and while they are quite beautiful, their odor is their distinctive characteristic.

She wasn’t kidding, and the frisky trees are in full blossom this week. Technically, they are Pyrus Calleryana Chanticleer, otherwise known as Ornamental Bradford Pear. Why anyone would plant an ornamental fruit tree in the first place is a concept beyond my understanding, and why they would plant trees with such a scent boggles the mind.

How do I describe it without giving offense? A group of us had a fun time in New Zealand recently, providing definitions to slang there that proper ladies would never speak aloud. So maybe I have some practice. Let’s just say that, well, married women would be familiar with the scent. Maybe some (ok, a lot of) unmarried women, too. It comes from men who are very happy. Very very happy.

This morning I did about 100 miles on Miss Elphaba, the R1200R I ride down here in the south. And the frisky trees are in full blossom. The strength of the scent nearly sent me to the ICU!

Just another joke from the south to mess with us Yankees I guess. Given a choice, I’ll keep my Maineiac mud flats thank you very much. At least the clams that grow in their odiferous acres are edible.



Tuesday, March 22, 2011

It's Not a Competition




Or at least I wish it were not.

The Quilts to Christchurch project is going amazingly, phenomenally, humblingly well. Quilters from across the State of Maine have given more than 200 quilts, from doll-sized to queen, each hand made and beautiful. That’s the good news.

The bad, and I mean really bad news is the earthquake, tsunami and nuclear fallout in Japan. This disaster of galactic proportions has pushed Christchurch and her stoic citizens to the back burner, all but disappearing them from the public’s notice. While I understand the way the news cycle works, and that human existence is a struggle for resources, I come unglued when someone, upon hearing about Quilts to Christchurch, asks me what I am doing about Japan!

Not being a total idiot, I try to patiently explain that Japan’s disaster does not make life in Christchurch magically wonderful again, and that my commitment to helping the New Zealanders in whatever small way I can remains strong.

The whole discussion brings to the front of my mind an issue I’ve struggled with for years: feelings are not a competition any more than the aftermath of earthquakes should be.

Have you ever been in a conversation with someone who, no matter what you say, can best you? If you’ve had a hard day, hers was worse. If you had a great ride, his was better. If you have a close friend whom you cherish, her friend is closer, her mother meaner, his youth wilder, their schedule busier, her adolescence more angst-ridden for heaven’s sake. Doesn’t that drive you nuts?

Organized sports are even worse. Someone who works and works at improving a physical skill is still held up against others practicing that same skill, instead of being celebrated for his own achievements. A breeder produces a stunning specimen of his dog’s type and conformation, but that is not verified by an independent examiner looking at the dog and breed standard, only by competing in shows against other dogs. Maybe they were all great in the ring that day!

When did we relinquish the right to simply own and express the way we feel about our own lives, without having to justify or compete with someone else? And why can't we allow others to own theirs? When someone says, “I am so frustrated,” why can’t we reply simply, “I see that you are,” instead of listing our own annoyance? When someone comes in and says, “I ran a whole five miles today,” can we please refrain from encouraging her to enter a race???

A while ago, a man I knew and cared deeply about died. Visiting his widow several years later (and not for the first time since his death, by the way), I remarked in conversation that I missed him. “How do you think I feel?” she said, with a sharp edge of anger. Her words cut deeply and painfully. Of course I deeply regretted her pain, understood that I would never comprehend it, and immediately tried to comfort her.  But did her loss mean no one else had suffered?

By contrast, another close friend of mine died in a horrible accident a few months ago. All of us who loved her, including her husband and children, have been deeply caring of each other, without any kind of competition for who hurts the most. Frankly, that title gets passed around a lot, and no one seems to bother about it, only about each other.

The earthquake in Japan, Hurricane Katrina, the earthquake in Haiti, the tsunami in Indonesia, fires in California…all these disasters bring with them suffering and death and untold pain. Numbers of victims in one place don’t ease the pain of any survivor in an area with a lower death count.

Like I said before, I’m not a total idiot. I know that competition is the way of the world. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. 

So please don’t bring up Japan in a conversation about Christchurch, ok?

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Quilts to Christchurch




This morning I got up at 4:00 a.m. and drove 120 miles to Portland to meet someone I had found online.

Me: “I’m 5’5” with long red hair and a black and green purse with lots of studs in it.” Other: “I’m 5’8” with short white hair and a purple coat.” My contact pulled up beside me in the parking lot, we tagged each other as the designated agents, and made the drop. Two stuffed kitchen trash bags were transferred from a Toyota into a VW.

So began the official start of Operation Quilts to Christchurch. The bags, of course, contained handmade quilts, three from agent Maxine and one from Jill. I’ll pick up a whopping 100 child-size “blankies” next week in Bangor. Eight bed quilts will come from Augusta, another four from Orono. 

Four will leave my Stockton Springs sewing room, hopefully in the next ten days, with another big one two weeks after that from Greensboro. And who knows how many the local guild chapter in Belfast will supply?

I’ll send them to people in Christchurch for as long as I can gather them.

As you have read earlier in this blog, the last day of our New Zealand trip found us in Christchurch, the same jewel of a city that had so captivated my grandparents many years ago. Days later, however, that lovely town was destroyed in a massive earthquake that has killed 161 people at this writing (victims are still being found) and reduced the central business district and many outlying residential areas to a mass of crushed rubble and mud.

In the aftermath of the quake, I have found myself haunting the New Zealand news website, www.stuff.co.nz, on a daily basis. The stories of compassion and heroism from Christchurch humble me, and tears are a daily occurrence.

Of course my first desire after the quake was to get myself back down there to work, but someone dear to me gently helped me understand that such tasks are better left to those trained to do them, without having amateurs in the way.

Still… who among us can witness pain and loss and not ache to ease the suffering?

As I watch news of campers and modular homes being brought to the area to house the thousands of displaced residents, I have realized that something I can do is send quilts. Christchurch is heading into its winter season. And while winter there is nothing like winter in Maine, it is still cold, and gas and electricity for heating is a challenge with a totally disrupted infrastructure.

So while the people of Christchurch work at rebuilding their city and their lives, with lost homes, lost jobs, and lost loved ones creating huge holes in their lives, we have the opportunity to help by sending quilts to keep them warm, and perhaps to warm their hearts with the compassion that Maine quilters possess in such abundance.

Yes, relief agencies provide piles and piles of plastic-wrapped blankets. But to someone who has lost literally everything, who is moving in to a stark, cold, small housing unit with little more than the clothes they’ve been able to find since the quake, a homemade quilt, a thing of beauty made for them by someone half a world away who really cares…

My deepest hope is that the warmth of the quilter’s heart will warm the heart of the home that receives her gift.

For more information, please post a message to me at moxielady@me.com.

Let’s warm some hearts!

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Changing Direction



This week I officially resigned from two volunteer positions that have taken up a lot of time and emotional energy. They were connected with two activities in my life, ballooning and my dog, that have made up a significant portion of my focus. And they might not be the last to go!

But it was time, and as I’ve always had a busy and crowded calendar. I’ve also added a short-term commitment to take their place, at least for the next couple months.

While many people make New Years resolutions centered around losing weight, giving up an undesirable habit or learning a new skill, my one resolution (and it started sometime around November) has been to reevaluate my time. Where am I spending it? What value to me or the world has that produced? What is most important to me? Where can I make the greatest contribution?

The first resignation was from my position as editor of Rastro’s breed club newsletter. Every quarter, I spend 40-60 hours or more gathering material, assembling it into the best package I can create with my 30 years of publication experience, and mailing it to about 150 club members. They seem to appreciate it, but as with any breed club, this one teems with political maneuverings and internal squabbles. More disturbing than that, however, has been the growing realization that nearly all of the 40-60 hours have found me grumbling, resentful of being dragged away from the bike or the studio or the road, and angry. So it’s time to stop.



The second exit was from the post of balloonmeister at the festival in Vermont. This year will be my 25th in that job. During the years I was actively flying, and serving as editor of Ballooning magazine, the job was a natural fit. Even after I grounded myself, that week in July has continued to be a joy. The people I work with at the resort couldn’t be more fun and supportive. And the pilots, while sometimes challenging, have become family.

But as the organization time in the months before the festival gears up again, and as I sadly declined a great ride in Norway scheduled for that same week in July, I realize it’s time to move on. Like the decision to stop flying, this one feels right. When I told the organizers yesterday, I didn’t feel sad, just relieved and at peace.

So, my personality having not changed from its energetic enthusiastic self, what will I do with all this time? Quilting, traveling, riding. Dozens of quilts are screaming to come out of my fingers, and time in the studio liberating them feels to me like fine wine feels to many other people I know. The world is full of places I want to see, preferably from the seat of a motorcycle. At the opposite end of the spectrum from the instinctive understanding and ease I felt in the air, the bike is a challenge for me, and that challenge in itself feeds my need to learn and grow.

The commitment I have added is gathering up quilts to send to Christchurch for people who have been displaced by the dreadful earthquake of February 22. I loved New Zealand. I’ve felt drawn there for years, even before our trip. This project can give concrete help to people who need it, through an activity that is part of my soul.

I am 54 years old as I write this. I am fit, healthy, and financially secure. But face it – I am in the last half of my life. So continuing to invest my finite resource of time in activities that really don’t matter anymore makes no sense. 

Someday is right now. Woo Hoo!

Monday, February 21, 2011

Come Spring





We had three prime reasons to buy a second home in North Carolina: to be able to ride motorcycles through the winter, to be closer to Randy’s Quilt Shop, the amazing mecca of master quilters where I took monthly master classes and found artistic inspiration, and to be near Victory Junction.

Randy closed the shop last summer, and we aren’t involved with Victory Junction any more, but the riding still rocks. And with the riding comes the new, bonus reason to stay here – we get to have two springs!

After going back to blustery, blizzardy Maine from magical, tropical New Zealand, I couldn’t handle the harsh winter for more than a few days before fleeing south. As in past years, I was surprised and delighted by what I found.

The third week in February, when snow banks in Maine climb a dozen feet into the air and bare ground is a distant memory, it’s already spring in Carolina! Early pansies and snowdrops are blooming, tulips, daffodils and hyacinths are poking buds out of sturdy tall leaf clusters. The air feels like a warm caress.




Out on the bike today, I was assaulted with scents: overpowering fried food fumes as I snaked through town, then mud at the edge of the reservoir in Summerfield, eau de skunk, fertilizer, flat fauna and an indefinable fragrance of new growth everywhere.

It felt like I was slowing way down to take it in, but when I looked, I found I was doing 70 mph! No wonder no one was behind me! Grammie might just get a speeding ticket yet, despite all predictions to the contrary.

The absolute, miraculous, unbelievable gift is that I have TWO springs! This month, March and April, as I return to ride and walk and sew, I’ll soak up the southern warmth with unending gratitude. Then, later in April, through May and into June, I get to do it all over again in Maine. Some of the smells will be different there – clam flats, crashing surf, lilacs, apple blossoms and pine forests, but the joy of new beginning will be the same, even if I have already reveled in it here.

There’s something very right about a life that has five months of spring time.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

The Hardest Thing About Quilting


I guess if I've been quilting for 30 years or more, I must still enjoy it. And with all that time, the techniques should be deeply embedded in my fingers. Having started with traditional blocks and methods, I've progressed through several phases, stretching and exploring both design ideas and construction tools.

But one thing doesn't get any easier. If anything, it just gets harder.

Time

Even the little guy above, which measures only three feet by two feet hanging on the wall, took over a week to finish. The larger one below, that I'm working on for my friend, Kaye, started out last May, and it will be at least this May before the final stitch goes into the binding. Yes, other projects come and go, and I might be working on more than one quilt at once, but still, finished is finished.


What's hard is all the quilts flying around in my head and my heart!

Since New Zealand, I've been thinking about a quilt centered around that paradisical place. Early Thursday morning, the design popped into my head. I need to work out the details, but know for the most part how it will look.

But the execution will take months, if not another year. WAH! Yes, I love the process, but I want them done now, I want to see them all, wrap up in them all, give them all away.

So many quilts, so little time.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Life in the Rastro Lane


Stumbling through the door in the middle of the night after two weeks away, I was joyfully assaulted by 98 pounds of red fur, chuffing and woofing and rooing and wagging from head to toe, bashing his head and slapping his great long tongue against any body part he could reach, reassured at last that HIS HUMAN had not, indeed abandoned him to the distant pet sitter for ever and dark eternity. 

No matter how tired, how stressed, how whatever I may be, Rastro's enthusiasm and unfailing love make me laugh. He absolutely hates it when I leave home, and I rarely go anywhere without him. Indeed, while I would have preferred to remain in New Zealand an extra day (ok, week) or two, our yearly trek to Chinook Winter Carnival mandated an early return. After 32 hours on Kelley Drive, it was time to go again.

So reeling with exhaustion and jetlag, horrified by the cold and snow and ice and the destruction of the barn, barely ambulatory from lack of sleep, I packed up the car and the dog and aimed west to New Hampshire for Chinook Winter Carnival.


We have done this trip since the big dog was a squirming puppy, and he loves the chance to visit with his Chinook pals (and girlfriends, truth be told). Earlier years saw us sledding with the children. Later events, as he has graduated to elder statesman status, have found us in the museum for at least part of the day, greeting visitors.

As he grows older, and we grow closer year by year, Rastro keeps teaching me what is important in life. It's about love, and forgiveness, and gentleness, and, yes, unfailing enthusiasm. 


Tamworth was very cold this year, with heaps of snow. The Chinook owner who had for years directed the events from the Remick Farm Museum was gone, and the new people faced many organizational challenges. The Tamworth Inn, Chinook headquarters from the beginning, was shuttered and plowed in, so we were in a different hostel down the road. Tired as I was, with lots of demands on the calendar for the coming week, I found myself rattled at times, working hard at not showing it.

Unfazed, Rastro rolled with each new thing, content to have dozens of children crawling all over him, pulling his tail and ears, "patting" him with a little more energy than he would prefer, asking him to sit and lie down over and over, feeding him treats and wrapping their little arms around his big warm ruff. 

For the last four years, an elderly woman with dementia has accompanied her daughter to the event, and Rastro has taken special care of this precious soul, gently keeping people from crowding her, alerting us when she needed help, offering a warm head on a cold lap. This year, Edith seemed distressed at the changes, and Rastro was especially patient with and solicitous of her. Finally, as her knarled hand stroked his soft ears, we watched her relax.

Over the course of the weekend, we visited with several of his puppies and grand-puppies, and it warmed my heart to see how his generous and joyful personality has passed on to them all, and how happy they have made their people.

What a gift this big red dog has been. Tomorrow he and I head back south to Carolina. Rastro will love the chance to spend time alone with mom, go for long walks on bare roads every day, and hog three-quarters of the king-sized bed. I'm happy to oblige him.


Love at first sight, the day I met Hickory Hill Rastro. 
He crawled up onto my lap and would not be put down. 
The smell of his fur is still my favorite scent on earth.

Thursday, February 10, 2011



Welcome Home

The intoxicating joy of life in New Zealand kept me refreshed for most of the 38+ hours it took to get back to Maine, although energy flagged when we got to Bangor shortly before midnight. While David was stressing about getting possum tails and toys through Customs, and about making connections in LAX, I was simply blissing out on the beauty and gift of the trip.

But arrive we did, to weather that seemed the more bitter for our having been in the tropics. When I first found the car, I was tickled to death that it had so little snow on it. We got to work with shovels and scrapers and broom, and had it dug out in a quarter hour. Thanks to the power of German engineering, it started right up. Woo Hoo!

As it turned out, we would have been better off with more snow! It had rained heavily on top of the earlier dumping, and under the car was nothing but glare ice. Cat litter, help from parking lot guys, and many coaxing words would not move it. Can you say, frostbite? A quick call to AAA was in order. I nearly cried when the dispatcher told me it would be 45 minutes or more, and that I'd darned well better have my picture identification ready.

Just a half hour later, as the delightful driver finished his work, I started digging through my purse with frozen fingers, asking him, "ok, so you need my photo i.d. now?"

"I see you," he said, "that's enough."

Those words made me laugh with happiness for so many reasons, all having to do with the journey taken and the one begun.

This morning's email brought a message from Mom that Aunt Marilyn died while we were gone. She must have been about 147 years old, and was failing for some time, but when young, she was quite a powerhouse. The timing of her passage brought home to me the wonder of this trip, and of all the other crazy things I do. I am healthy, I have an adventurous spirit, and the ability to go where curiosity and passion take me. And while those gifts remain in my hands, I will treasure and honor them by using them to the fullest. "Someday" for me is right now.

On the way home, one of those annoying mandatory flight safety videos showed Richard Branson talking about how airplanes can't take off going downwind. They need a headwind before they can fly: "What you push against lifts you up." So Cyclone Wilma, the knife-edge switchbacks with no guardrails, the crosswinds in the plains, the Gulch of Death, the freezing sheet pouring rain, the challenges of a rookie riding with a talented team of motorcyclists... all those things, lifted me up.

Happy to be home, can't wait to go again. 

Grateful Heart

Tuesday, February 8, 2011



Cook to Christchurch

With every crazy and beautiful surprise this country has had to offer, I guess I shouldn't have been shocked by the magesty of Aoraki, or Mt. Cook as the English called it. From here, Sir Edmund Hillary prepared for his assault on Everest, and a monument along a hiking trail at the mountain's foot testifies to the tragedies of those who were not able to return from their adventures on her slopes.

The roads across the valley heading up to the mountain offered a beautiful album of photos for the mind, as Chris calls them, but one lone motorcycle dude simply demanded that I take his picture. That's another thing about New Zealand that delights me -- art, exuberant and moving, fills the landscape and buildings. The art of the earth, of the Maoris, and of recent dwellers of this paradise testifies to the magic of the place.


Heaing off the mountain in the morning, we crossed the Canterbury Plains, that kind of reminded me of New Mexico in places. Passing through the town of Fairlie, I nearly stopped for a photograph, but had to settle for the mind variety, thinking about all the years I spent in Fairlee, Vermont.



The day's fashion statement was a continuation of the possum theme of the week. As I wrote earlier, my hair is not quite long enough for the hair glove given to me by Lisa, our warrior princess known for her prowess with shape-shifting possum pteradactyls. Yesterday, Hugh gave me a possum tail, and I found that it made a perfect hair extension. Wonder if it will go through Customs.



After Fairlie, the next few hours offered a Maineiac landscape, rolling hills and farms, small towns, hills, orchards, cows, barns and such. Two notable exceptions were the abundance of sheep, and the total lack of frost heaves and potholes! I mean, motorcycle bliss doesn't even begin to describe it. Chris rode with David and me for the whole day, and following this highly skilled and experienced rider taught me heaps about lines, speed, and letting go. It felt like dancing! (or rather, what I imagine dancing would feel like to someone who had a clue and at least a modicum of grace)

The other Maine similarity, at least in summer, was the bugs! To borrow a New Zealand expression, my helmet ended up well and truly buggered.



But all good chapters must close, and Christchurch was at the end of the road for this day and this trip. Sigh. The zucchini made it safe and sound, and we must now turn our thoughts to finding the car in the parking lot at Bangor when we get home. I think if I add it up correctly, there's something like four feet of new snow waiting for us.


New Zealand, this amazing country, has invaded my heart.

Saturday, February 5, 2011





One Extreme to Another

There was no way I could miss an opportunity to fly while we're here, so we got up early yesterday to jump into a helicopter headed for the Franz Josef Glacier. Being the first flight of the morning, and being ready early, bought us the chance to get out and walk around on top. Yes, I know I came down here to get away from ice and snow, but oh my. Just five of us went, Yuri, Alexander, Leonid, David and I. How fitting that the only ones to head for the snow were the Maineiacs and the Russians.

Later in the day, we stopped at a national park with hiking trails through the bush, or rain forest, or dense greenery, whatever. Around a corner we came out by a calm reflecting pool, magical in its perfect stillness and beauty. It's a place that will remain in my heart for the rest of my life.


The day wound around rivers and lakes, up and down hills, with a few serious technical bits but mostly just a whole lot of fun and beauty. In Maine, David likes to sigh dramatically, "around every corner..." when we come upon slow drivers. We both tend to have a lead foot there. But here, around every corner is an eyeful of extreme beauty the likes of which defy reality.


For the first time this trip, however, I had to get off the bike in the afternoon. Actually, our guides suggested it, knowing about my irrational terror of heights. So we loaded my beast and I climbed into the van with Chris. Oh. My. Gosh. Was that ever the right call. Switchbacks around knife-edge cliffsides in the wind and it even started to rain.... any one of which would put me into a serious stroke. Even in the van, I had to cover my eyes at times. But beautiful nonetheless. David said even he and John were going around at 5 to 10 kmh in some bits.


Arriving in Queenstown, we found the glowing emerald of Lake Wakatipu and our hotel by the shore.



Just two more days. I'm beginning to miss Rastro and Danny and the Rowdies, although not the snow of course. But it will be so hard to leave here. I'm thinking a return trip is in my future.

Friday, February 4, 2011


More Dramatic at Every Turn

We've been riding down the West Coast of the South Island for a couple of days, sometimes winding through twisties in the mountains and lush rain forests, other times popping out onto dramatic coastline of the Tasman Sea. My speeds through the turns are getting faster and smoother by the day, and I'm not as scared of the technical bits as I was when I got here.

On the way to the place in the above picture, we were all rolling happily along down a beautiful country road, when everyone came to a dead stop. Hundreds of white sheep filled the way in front of us, and a skilled dog worked hard at getting a stray out of a culvert into which it had strayed. Thousands more sheep crowded the meadows on either side. Unfortunately, no one had a camera handy, and it wasn't really safe to stop.



Last night found us in Punakaiki, at a modern resort set amongst the Pancake Rocks. One can walk miles along the Maine-like beach at low tide, and even find millions of mussel beds. The rock formations are easy to climb, and the surf loud and constant. We had our windows wide open all night (no screens, no bugs, no crime) and I woke up at 2:00 a.m. to the sound of howling wind and sheet-pouring rain. There was no way I could stop thinking about what it would be like to ride in those conditions. Fortunately by 4:30, the wind machine turned off and the rain tapered to a drizzle, but much of the day today was in fog. Far from being unpleasant, it only made the rain forest more lush and the coast more dramatic.

Do we really have to return to the land of ice and snow?



Merge Like a Zip

Now that we're getting more comfortable riding on the left side of the road, we're having more fun taking in the signage, like the one coming into the rotary at Taupo. Merge like a zip. Really does make sense, doesn't it? Too bad the Russians couldn't figure it out in time to follow instructions, but no harm done.

Then there are the one-lane bridges. All over the place. Every dozen miles or so. Through a complicated system of street signs involving opposing arrows, and triangles and lines painted in the road, it's very obvious who has the right of way. And in this land of endless twisties, every one is marked with an appropriate speed. Whether you're able to go faster or slower than that, you at least have a clear indication of what's ahead. Learning to trust that signage has enabled me to pick up my speed considerably.

We're having a bunch of fun with the rest of the group as we get to know each other better. One source of amusement and amazement has been the food. Like the ice cream a few days ago, the mussels here are radioactive. Green lipped mussels, however, taste just like the ones at home.


Coffee is an art form, in description and in presentation. If you just order a cup of coffee, you'll get instant. Nuf said. If you're lucky, you'll find filter coffee (like just plain brewed), but more often your choices will be long black, flat white, latte bowl, etc. These are all variations on a very stark espresso. If you get anything with milk in it, you'll be served a beautiful art piece with designs swirled into the foam. Chris says that's a competition here between cafés, to see who can serve the most complicated design. David had a maple leaf yesterday, but he sipped it before I could get a picture.


And then there are the possums. Screaming, tears running down your face, fun every day with these little guys, even the flat fauna variety. A possum here isn't a big ugly rat with a naked tail, but rather a fluffy little beast that looks like a racoon got frisky with a meerkat. Their fur is lovely, soft, and weaveable, and is often combined with merino for heavenly sweaters. I bought one of these yesterday. The Russians bought huge possum blankets, and Warner gave them each a hide with tail. We suspect they're trying to work out a way to hunt them, but the language barrier has its own challenges.



Like the challenge of making my new hair glove stay put. A gift from Warner's wife, Lisa, it's lovely, but I think I'll either have to grow more hair (like another couple months' worth) or cut off a couple inches from the glove. All in good fun.


Today we head over the mountains to Queenstown, where we'll have a day off before the last two days of riding. Do we REALLY have to go back to the land of whiteout?

Tuesday, February 1, 2011


A Day Off, Most Welcome!

The scheduled day off in Nelson offered several options, including riding up around the coast. We, however, opted for a day on our feet instead, and it felt wonderful to move the lower halves of our bodies for a change. What a beautiful city! The more time we spend in this lovely country, the more time I want to spend. David is looking at real estate ads in every window.

Walking past a row of historical houses on the way to dinner tonight, we passed the strangest tree I've ever seen -- the bark looks like it's wearing military fatigues.


Up the row of cottages, built for workers in the mid-1800s, a black cat with big green eyes came out to say hello. It gave me a long story about how I should bring my black cat and come to live here, offered its ears for a rub, and then said goodnight. So shall we. Back on the bikes tomorrow.