Roll With the Ship

On our recent trip to Antarctica, we travelled on a small research ship, the Spirit of Enderby. A strong and resilient vessel, she brought us through the tough seas of the sub-Antarctic ocean, substantial pack ice, and into places a large cruise ship could never enter. 

Our cabin consisted of a sleeping berth tucked into a closet-like enclosure, which we quickly learned to love, as it kept us from being tossed out of bed in times of heavy weather! As the ship rolled, we went from hitting our heads on one bulkhead to bracing our feet against the opposite. When it pitched, we became human rolling pins, side to side. After awhile, we had cores of steel!

During the first few days, we worked to accustom ourselves to the constant motion of the ship. Walking taught us the origin of the “drunken sailor” saying, as we obeyed commands to keep “one hand for yourself, one hand for the ship.” This meant always to hold on to a rail or wall, and not carry anything with two hands. 

Sea sickness plagued many of our fellow passengers. We learned what worked for us (pressure bands, Bonine on the really bad days, and ginger lozenges). 

We learned never to fill coffee cups more than half way, and to seize any reasonably calm sea for the opportunity to shower without being thrown around on a naked bruise-hunting mission. We learned to walk. We learned to brace. We learned to live with the motion.

After awhile, we learned the real lesson: The ship is going to roll, so we might as well roll with it. There's nothing you can do about it anyway! 

And isn’t this lesson transferrable to real life and business? Sometimes storms come, and strong winds nearly blow you off your feet. Fighting the them results in sickness and stress, where rolling with them develops strong core muscles and greater balance. When the roll gets really bad, there's nothing for it but to tie yourself down and rest, meditate, or listen to a good book.

Ultimately, if we stay on dry land, we avoid the discomfort and challenge presented by stormy seas. But we also miss out on the adventure, and on the joyful discoveries of the journey and its destination. So I pick the ship. Always.

Things Are Not Always What They Seem!

Lessons from Antarctica, Part 3

We shared our flight to Invercargill with a tiny, bedraggled, elderly lady sporting a ruffled scrunchy and pink hair. I am ashamed to admit to inner eyebrow raising. She is now one of my favorite people on earth, a phenomenally gifted and successful sculptor and painter from Ireland with a lively wit and a very warm heart. 

I’m ashamed of my initial assessment, and must admit that my own appearance likely could have been more polished on that day. Beth was my first “things are not always what they seem” experience in Antarctica. 

There was also the hut at Cape Evans once occupied by Robert Falcon Scott in his effort to be the first to reach the South Pole. Scott's McMurdo hut is so much more than the remains of a camping trip. It offers history and lessons in the results of grandiosity. I spent much time pondering these.

And, the dead seal that wasn’t. As I leaned down for a closer look at this sofa-sized pile of fat and fur, it raised its head and barked its bestial bad breath right in my face!

Many of us learn over time not to take things at face value. Then we forget!

Antarctica gave me a fresh reminder to bring this caution to work with me. As a Benefit Auctioneer, my events usually involve fancy dresses and sparkly shoes. But I do one auction where the bidders show up in jeans, camo and well worn boots… and pay for their items with rolls of $100 bills. It’s one of my favorite events, because the crowd is so much fun.

Our awesome veterinarian, Dr. David Cloutier, mentioned to me once that he always asks to take on the difficult pet owners in his large practice. He’s learned that their attitude often reflects a total devotion to the welfare of their pets, sometimes moreso than the compliant people who do whatever is recommended without question.

I need to keep all these moments in mind as I go through work and life. Beth walks beside me every day now, in my heart. So does that seal!

Lessons from Antarctica: 2. Slow Down!

I'm always in a hurry, have so much to do, so little time. Yet In Antarctica, time just abides. Let me try to explain. 

Have you ever had the experience of going on a vacation, whether a relaxing week at the beach or an adventure-filled camping or skiing trip, only to find the week or two gone before you know it? You’ve had a great time, but, especially at the halfway mark, time speeds up.

In Antarctica, time takes on the opposite quality. It rests. It settles. It ceases to exist, at the same time that it becomes all.

For instance, whales: we saw them from time to time, sometimes in pods of 50 or more! Yet that seeing required time on the bridge, time with binoculars scanning the horizon for blows. 

Sometimes hours or even days passed with us seeing nothing but the waves and horizon. During that time, we would often find the giant Albatross and Petrels, who soar for hundreds and thousands of miles between land masses, stretching their wings to ride the currents of air, attuned to the nuance of the wind and waves.

That time offered its own reward: peace.

In my work and in my life, my default mode always has been speed. I pack as much as possible into every day. I schedule myself to the max, governed by the sense of passing time and an eagerness to be, do, experience it ALL. I drive fast cars and fast motorcycles. I drive them fast, on fast roads. I write fast. I talk fast (which is a good thing for an auctioneer after all).

Since Antarctica, I am learning to slow down, to let the peace of reflection and patience find its way into my days. By doing that, I have discovered new ways to look at challenges, keeping in mind the staggering beauty and immensity of the ice and the mountains and the water in a place where time stands still. 

I remember the whales.

Lessons from Antarctica: 1. Be Prepared!

While I’m a firm believer in keeping my work and my life in balance, my recent trip to Antarctica opened my mind to a new way of looking at how this balance can benefit my business. 

We were totally off the grid for 35 days, and only marginally on its edges for another 5. The distance freed me to look at life, and work, without the pressure of daily tasks and correspondence that get in the way of big picture thinking. 

My biggest takeaway was that, while it’s usually more effective to leave the office at the office, it can be tremendously enriching to bring “real life” to work! This series will explore some of the lessons I learned on that trip, and some others I am uncovering since our return. Here we go!

Be Prepared!

No matter how long it takes to put on layer upon layer of carefully selected clothing, and do it while precariously balanced on a deck that never stays flat, do it. 

On our first landing on one of the sub Antarctic islands, the sun was shining, the wind was calm, and a hike was planned. It never occurred to me to wear a raincoat or rainpants. But on reaching the bluff, the heavens opened up and the wind drove the icy rain harshly into my face. 

The next time, especially as we travelled further south, I was ready. Each morning as I leaned against the wall of my rolling cabin, I focussed not on the annoyance factor, but on the rich experiences in store that day. Layered up, I could go on that hike that suddenly presented itself. Yes, I could handle that wet zodiac landing without stress. 

The cold weather sucked the life out of camera batteries with relentless speed, so I learned to charge them all as soon as we returned to the ship, and to keep the fresh ones inside my clothing next to my body. In that way, I was able to capture forever the images of stunning majesty we encountered every day.

In business, readiness also pays off in possibility. Keeping my printed collateral up to date will pay off when I encounter a potential client. Practicing my elevator speech makes it easy and natural to talk to unanticipated prospects. Practicing my chant makes my auction delivery smooth and pleasing. Before Antarctica, I have to admit I would let these things slide in the face of more interesting or pressing demands on my time.

Now, I’m ready.

Time Travel with Tears

I went to church today. It wasn't my usual church here in Stockton Springs, but my first "real" church down in Bath. I went to get a table, and a cross, and a hymnal, and I left with a heart full of sorrow and of joy.

When I was a child, we walked to a huge gray gothic church, where the wisest, kindest, smartest, everythingest minister I have ever known, Rev. Ellis Eaton, guided our congregation through life and faith.

In the late 1960s, we realized we could no longer sustain the old, drafty, creaky, stunningly beautiful building, and began making a plan for a new space. We loved the old church, with its balconies and organ and choir loft and stained glass windows and fellowship hall, but God had another plan for it, and for us. We purchased some land in the woods on Congress Ave., and began saving to build. As soon as we could secure a mortgage, we broke ground.

During construction, I was in high school, and deeply involved in youth fellowship, choir, Bible study, committees, you name it. Our church was our family. My current pastor said recently that when he was young, if the doors of the church were open, he was there. That's the way it was in Bath, and not because it was our duty to be there, but because it was our joy and desire to be.

The ultra-modern new building featured a 30-foot glass wall at the rear of the sanctuary, anchored by a cross cut from a tree from one of our member's woods. Inside, the spare, Danish pews felt shockingly comfortable for their lack of cushions. Wide wood beams held up the soaring ceiling, directing our prayers to God.

While a professional crew did some of the major construction initially, our new home was mostly built by its inhabitants. After school or work, weekends, vacations, we all pitched in at whatever task we could.

Rev. Eaton and the others at that church, taught me, showed me, the meaning of true faith. During those years, I came to a personal relationship with my Savior that has been, and will always be the center of my life. I learned to love God, and that He loved me, passionately and without reservation.

That relationship and the church, were about joy and fellowship and love and prayer. It was about Advent Events with ginger snaps and hot cider and tromping around in the woods to gather each year's greenery for the building, then gathering for dinner in fellowship hall, exhausted and thankful and happy. It was about caroling through the streets of Bath every Christmas. It was about sunrise Easter services and confirmation classes and adult baptisms in the Atlantic ocean and prayer meetings and prayer life.  It was about tremendous support in times of tremendous sorrow, and exultant celebration in times of joy. Most of all, it was about serving God, learning His will for us, listening to that still small voice.

My youth fellowship friends and I grew up and moved away, to college, jobs, marriages, nearly all in places away from Bath. Some of us came back, and found the church much as we had left it -- vibrant, spirit-centered, growing.

Yet as the years went by, things began to change. After several years back in Maine, I moved away again. Family and friends told me attendance was down, the mission changed. My mother relayed her experience of receiving a form letter telling her she was being dropped from the enrollment lists for lack of attendance, without even a phone call to see if she was ok. (She wasn't, in fact; she was in a deep depression following the sudden death of my father.) A FORM LETTER??????? Without even her name typed in at the top?

In recent years, Mom has been attending a book club at the church, made up mostly of women from the old Women's Fellowship there. The congregation, she said, had shrunk to 40 or so members, and they were having a hard time keeping the heat on.

In August, I read the building would be sold. The remaining congregation, now focussed on social justice issues, would move to a boarded up storefront downtown.

Last week, Mom called to tell me that the church was selling the remaining furnishings, and told me who to call if I were interested. I was, and immediately called Jane, whom I had not seen in 30 years or more. She told me what was available, including a table and a cross.

Today David and I went to Bath. The front door of the church was locked, so I went in through Fellowship Hall. Immediately, waves of memory washed over me, along with an entire ocean of tears.  There was the spot where I gave Rev. Eaton a huge hug at his retirement celebration. And the place where we sewed Gloria into her dress (broken zipper) at my sister's wedding. The building was shabby from deferred maintenance and neglect.

In the sanctuary, I found my table, in which we had kept the attendance count forms (usually over 400) and on which we put the bulletins for the ushers on Sunday. On it rested the large brass cross from Fellowship Lounge, where prayer meetings and youth fellowship and bridal preparation had taken place. Jane also left four of the blocks we had made from leftover wood from that huge, blessed cross. The once-beautiful table was rickety and covered in cobwebs, and the cross pitted and unpolished.

Over lunch, Mom and I shared a good cry over the fate of the place we had loved so much. At one point I asked her, "What do you think Rev. Eaton would say?" And suddenly I knew. He would say that the church was not the building. The church was the family within it, and that the Christian works and Christian love of our church family had gone out into the world and multiplied by a factor we would never know. He would say it was ok. It was a building.

He would be right.

Several hours into polishing that dear cross, I realized that the building was like a wedding dress, all beautiful and special when it was new, now faded and worn with age. But the church itself represents the marriage -- created with vows before God, and sanctified forever. We'll remember the dress and the building, but we live the church, the marriage, every day.

My artifacts, especially the cross, feel as dear to me as my wedding ring.

Flush Grammie Down the Toilet

 

I don’t know why this story bothers me so much.

Bangor Daily News, which I always check on the iPad with my morning coffee, held a story today about a local crematory offering a new service. http://tinyurl.com/flushgrammie 

For a mere $1,995, you can now get your dearly departed boiled in water and lye for twelve hours, with the resulting liquid remains simply deposited in the town “wastewater system.” In other words, dissolve Grammie in a harsh chemical and flush her down the toilet. The remaining bones will be ground up and delivered to you as a “cremation-style” by-product.

Seriously?

The story touts the environmental benefits (save 40 gallons of propane!). The liquidators say their service is extremely popular, one that will appeal to “people who choose to drive a Prius,” according to the Bangor Daily News. And this is the first place in the country to offer it for any purpose other than disposing of medical cadavers and animals! Woo Hoo! Aren’t we the innovators! 

Funny, I drive a hybrid, albeit not a Prius, yet this process doesn't appeal to me one bit. Never mind that a regular old cremation costs half that much.

EEUUWW!!

If environmental awareness is your motive, can’t you just wrap Grammie in a cotton sheet and bury her sans coffin in a green cemetery, letting nature take its course? In my case, it would be cool to use quilting fabric, but either way, it would keep me out of the sewer! I am a sew-er, as in one who sews. I do not want my remains in the shit plant.

And as a marketing tool, is flushing Grammie that appealing? Really?

Now I’m the first to say I really don’t care, at least I haven’t until now, what happens to my physical body after death. David and I have an agreement, whomever has to deal with the departed spouse may do as the survivor needs/wants to do to facilitate healthy grieving and healing. But I think I’ll have to put my foot down on this.

Speaking of putting my foot down, there is a legend near us about a general who allegedly had his wife burned for a witch, and she pledged to have her foot on his neck forever. In perpetuity, a stain in the shape of a woman’s stocking has appeared on his gravestone. Whether you believe it or not, it’s a cool story.

But if David decides to flush my dissolved remains into the Searsport sewer, as in waste disposal plant, a foot on his gravestone will be the least of his worries.

Getting Ready

Dereka shamed me into it. My friend and fellow Friendship Sampler Quilter, Dereka Smith, is riding her bicycle (as in, no clutch, no throttle) from San Diego to St. Augustine, camping along the way. Dereka, sweetie, you have moxie to spare. When a guild member posted her blog url derekasblog-dereka.blogspot.com, I realized that I’ve sadly neglected my own blogging responsibilities, and should get back into the habit before we go to Africa.

David and I leave in just under two weeks on our third Ayres Adventure, Call of the Wild ayresadventures.com/Africa_CallOfTheWild, where we’ll ride BMW motorcycles through South Africa, Botswana and Namibia, with a possible short jaunt into Zambia to see Victoria Falls. We’ve been assured our trip will include lots of wildlife, and at least one spa. What camping will be involved is promised to include luxury tents with ensuite bathrooms. If not, one smiling tour leader will have a very cranky grammie on his hands!

As I continue to struggle with competence and confidence on the bike, I’ve been working with Mark Brown of MotoMark1 motomark1.com. Since mid-January, Mark has made bi-monthly trips to Greensboro to work with me one-on-one, and he and I both see real progress.

Mark was a professional motorcycle driver (he scorns the word, “rider”) for many years with the North Carolina State Police, and has trained Marines, adventure riders, beginners and everyone along the motorcycle continuum. He has a rare gift: the talent to teach, as well as the talent to ride. We have one more lesson next week, then it’s off to Africa!

In the mean time, I’m riding nearly every day here in Greensboro, and spending my Maine days compiling lists and piles of stuff for the trip. This being our third Ayres Adventure, we have a much better idea what to expect. My last stabbing happened Friday, a yellow fever shot allegedly good for ten years. I’ve had hepatitis A and B, tetanus and typhoid shots, giving me more pincushion experience than I normally have in the sewing room, and malaria pills are on the dresser ready to go.

Plus I’ve been reading books on Africa, watching National Geographic pieces arriving daily in red Netflix envelopes and listening to my No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency audio books with a new attentiveness.

LL Bean has made their first quarter earnings on my purchases of insect-repellant clothing. The molded earplugs we ordered at the IMS Charlotte show last month have yet to arrive, despite the salesman’s promise of their being here within a week. If they don’t make it, we’ll take the Shoei helmets instead of the Schuberth, which are far too noisy to ride all day without better hearing protection than what we have. I also scored an awesome, orange, vented Olympia riding jacket at the show for less than half price. I’ve test driven it several times here, and it will do nicely.

Are we ready? But for the actual packing, I believe we are, physically anyway. In my stomach though, it isn’t quite real, not yet.

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.

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.

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?