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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.