My mother called

My mother called me in the Spring.

“So, Honey, what are your plans for this summer?”

“Well, Mom, we have a lot of travel planned, but we’d really like to see you. Do you have some time to come up to Cleveland?”

“That isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

She was vague. My mother is vague occasionally, like anyone, but I wasn’t following her this time.

“Will you be at home long enough for us to come down?” I offered. “If we’re around, I could probably come to you.”

My parents travel a lot. My dad works out West. My mother works on the East Coast. They travel more than your average grandparents, and are thus rather difficult to visit.

“That would be nice. I would like to see the kids, but that isn’t what I had in mind.”

“What did you have in mind?” I finally asked. My kids were beginning to get restless, in spite of the fact that I had only been on the phone a few minutes.

“I have quite a few frequent flyer miles. You know, your father and I travel quite a bit.”

“Yes, I noticed that. What did you have in mind?” I was trying to think ahead. Maybe she would suggest my sister and I meet her in Vegas. That might be fun. Hmm.

“I was thinking we might go to Japan.”

My reaction was visceral. I started to sweat.

“Japan? Really?”

“Yes. Well, you haven’t been in quite awhile. I thought it would be fun, but maybe you don’t have time.”

“Um, I could probably work that out,” my mind raced, my heart pumped, my body sweated. I started going through the weeks of the summer. They were pretty full. I tried to start switching things around in my head. I started imagining who would watch the kids. What would I do? I couldn’t say ‘no.’ I couldn’t say ‘yes.’

“Maybe in the Fall? Would the Fall work?” my mother asked calmly.

She was serious.

“Um, the Fall?” Yes. My husband had to take a week off every quarter. I might even be able to do the Fall. “Yeah, the Fall. Are some weeks better than others? I’ll call Jay.”

And thus our trip planning began, all those months ago. My head has spun in disbelief ever since. So much has changed since I left in 1999. So many plans must be made before I go. What will we do? What will we bring? Where will we stay? What do you say after all these years?

We are on our way. By Saturday night, I will be bowing in salutation to Kawa-san in Kyoto Station. I will tuck myself into a futon under his roof. I will smell the reedy smell of tatami mats and the smoky, salty grease of tako-yaki at the stand near the Station.

I remember standing at Hiroshima Station in 1994 on the day I moved to Japan.

The smells in the air, the background noise, the high-pitched woman on the train imploring us “wasuremono ga nai you ni go chui kudasai” – “Don’t forget anything.”

In 1994, I remembered Japan as it was in 1987 during my exchange student days in high school. I remembered Japan as it was in 1990 during my days as a college student interning at a Japanese company. The emotions returned, as clear as you would expect if you could travel through time. Standing in the Station in 1994, seven years after my high school exchange experience, I felt the emotions of a high school student, thrust into a country without her parents, barely able to introduce herself – excited and anxious and alone and proud.

I remembered the book I was reading on the plane in high school. I expected to look down and see my old shoes.

And now, in 2009, I remember my going away party in 1999. The most poignant memory of my last days in Japan was that I did not feel like I was going home.

I felt like I was leaving home.

I grew up in the U.S. I spent my childhood in the U.S.

I became an adult in Japan.

If you have ever lived in a foreign country, you know that repatriation is far more difficult than orientation. If you have never lived in a foreign country, I’m not sure I could adequately explain it.

You can’t go home again. It won’t be the same. I’m not the same. But I can’t wait to get there.

Thanks Mom (and Dad)

Dreams of the Open Road

I wake slowly from my long summer dreams,
My thoughts still wand’ring down the open road,
Merely two weeks since our return it seems,
Two thousand mornings since those red rocks glowed.
My mem’ries collect into this small ode.

Twelve thousand miles on an edu-vacation,
Our family adopted the traveling mode,
We stopped at every Ranger Station,
Hot springs and canyons our children we showed,
No hesitation to go off the road.

Our journeys took us to locations where,
We saw the mem’ries of where water flowed,
And when the rain threatened us to fill the air,
The beautiful desert became land forbode,
We scurried quickly to that well-paved road.

We drove through vibrant towns left in despair,
Empty shells of cars, last century towed,
Left outside to rust no one seemed to care,
I cared often to find a clean commode.
We found Route 66 – the Mother Road.

We send our kids off now to school with walls,
They must learn to read and write and follow code,
But as they follow those straight, narrow halls,
They dream of mountain meadows never mowed,
Their mind’s eyes made rich from the open road.

Hold close your babies, let the big ones free,
Imagine rain puddle tadpoles grown into toads.
They must get dirty before we can see
One day we reap from what we sowed,
The dreams made real along life’s open road.


I welcome September, knowing that not a single moment of summer with my children (and husband too) was squandered. And yet, while one might say that the children need to read and write - I have found that reading and writing is a very basic need in my life as well.

I am glad to be back.

Day 1 - Evening Departure on Thursday, June 11th

A journey of 6,425 miles starts with one step – and sometimes that is indeed the most difficult. I had told a friend that we would leave on Thursday, even if we only made it as far as her driveway - a mere two miles closer to the Interstate. I wasn’t exactly kidding.

At some point, you have to fire all the planners, throw away the lists, and simply leave. At 6:35pm, we did just that.

Of course, at 6:35pm the children hadn’t eaten (nor had we). We needed ice. We needed gas. So, John stopped at Sheets and I ran across the street to the McDonalds in the rain.

The trailer did not fit in the parking lot.

On my way back across, arms loaded with dinner and drinks for five, I saw our fully loaded truck and trailer at the gas station. The bikes on the rear rack hinted at the size of its occupants, and anticipated their adventures to come.

Still, I couldn’t believe that this is us – our family.

Jay pulled around. Realizing the precariousness of my load, he jumped out of the F-150 and ran around to open the door. The rain seemed to pause for a moment, giving way to his chivalry.

Indeed. My family. Our trailer. My husband. He was rewarded with a kiss as I hopped into the truck.

The children played car bingo and shape games until they fell asleep around 10pm. We drove on until midnight, finally stopping at a KOA somewhere in Indiana.

The picture above shows our happy children, the so-called ‘pit crew’ helping to ready the camper for our departure early Friday morning.

An hour or so later, we would experience a very, very embarrassing setback.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself. You'll have to enjoy their smiles until Day 2.

Home Again Home Again

We are back. We rolled in last night, the 4th of July, at 11:30pm.

The last few hundred miles in the car, we pointed out the fireworks to each other as our final ‘car game.’ It was after 10pm and I heard Andrew and Gladys talking.

“I remember everything that is in our house,” Andrew boasted.

“I remember everything too,” Gladys agreed quickly.

“I hope there is really ripe fruit at home now. I can’t wait to see!”

“Ripe fruit!” George agreed.

“I don’t think so,” my husband replied, “or at least I hope not.”

I chuckled to myself. “I threw away all the fruit on the counter before we left. There won’t be any food at home, much less any over-ripe fruit.”

“No, Dad, I meant the raspberries!” Andrew explained.

Ah, yes, the raspberries in the backyard. They were ripening when we left. I had told the kids they might be ready when we returned home.

After 23 days, nine National Parks, 11 states, and 6,425 miles, one might think five reasonably intelligent humans would come to understand each other implicitly.

No, of course not. We are who we are.

I do think we all grew a little closer. We wrote another chapter of shared history. We made some new connections. We all learned something new every day.

And, we made a really, really big mess of the truck. (Which, as I reminded my husband, is WHY.WE.BOUGHT.THE.TRUCK - yes, we bought the truck to use it. And, boy-oh-boy did we use the truck - inside and out.)

We had a really, really good time. And, I am going to tell you all about it, page by page from my journal – the highlights, the changed plans, the minor calamities, and even a few dead animals.

My several memory cards are downloading as I write.

I am not sure what to say about not having internet access for 24 days. That is probably a post in itself, but I will say that I devoured the posts written by my guest-bloggers like a starved animal wandering out of the desert. Wondering what my friends would write left me anticipating home more than anything else.

I loved them all, every last post – every word. They made me nod and smile and even brought a tear to the eye now and then. Yes, I have my googlereader set up to show me my favorite blogs – but having my blog full of posts from my friends was better than ten sacks full of birthday cards.

Thank you all. Sincerely.

I already commented on all of them.

Tomorrow I will begin transcribing my epic tale.

We conquered the mess before sunset tonight. The memories will last forever.

My wireless, analog laptop

Most people simply call it a journal.

This is the first page. As you can see, it is blank sheet of paper. I am wondering what it will say.

I know we all write our own stories. We make decisions. We go places. We fall in love. But, I have to admit that I often feel that the stories write themselves and I am merely an actor in them. Thoughts and outlines bounce around in my mind throughout the day. Even when I have my entire post written in my head, the ending occasionally surprises me.

I see it differently on paper.

In a few moments, we depart for the Great American West – Yellowstone, Grand Tetons, Canyonlands, Rocky Mountains. For 24 days, we will live in our 26-foot box, with the largest backyard in America.

We have a basic itinerary. We have some reservations, and a list of must-sees and must-dos, and festival dates. My husband and I have seen many of these places before. The kids will see it fresh. They will remember a little bit. They will read about it later.

Of course, it will look different on paper.

I am desperately pleased to have the opportunity to spend 24 days with my family. Everyone seems to struggle finding the time to slow down, and our family is no different. We wonder how to slow down: how to savor life just a little bit more, how to say what we want to say and not forget to say the little things, or spend so much time on the little things that the big things go undone.

When I need to remember, I write it down on paper.

And so, we leave behind the big things and the little things and hope to see the forest for the trees. I look forward to seeing Yellowstone, Grand Tetons, Canyonlands, and the Rocky Mountains. I do. They are beautiful places – the air cleans my body and the endless stars refresh my mind. I also hope to look back and see Cleveland from a distance. I’ll see my house without noticing the cracked windowsill. I will see a few pieces of precious childhood artwork and remember that the rest of the pile is trash. I will see the beautiful connections I have made with friends and forgive my intended-but-forgotten playdates.

I will start fresh, with a clean sheet of paper.

The thought of leaving my blog (and my friend’s blogs) saddened me two weeks ago. For another few days, I wondered how I make something useful from my disappointment. I know the world will not stop turning if I am not here. (Tom will tell you that the magnetic fields won’t change either.) If I ever believe that my writing is more interesting than listening to my friends, the loss will certainly be all mine.

A friend offered to guest blog. The blog should be fun, never a source of sadness or stress. I hesitated to take her offer, only because I wouldn't be around for weeks - surely traffic would be low.

And then I listened to her a little closer (and maybe even heard what she was trying to say). After all, isn’t ‘talk less and listen more’ part of slowing down and savoring life?

I will talk less and listen more.

I have invited ten incredible people to blog for me over the next 24 days. They all fit into my life like a crazy-quilt, beautiful fully-stitched, in a way you may never have expected. They range in age from 12 to 70. They live from coast to coast. They are professional writers and childhood friends. I want to listen to what they have to say. I hope you enjoy them too.

And while you enjoy listening, I will be living something new – starting with that first blank sheet of paper.

North Coast Girl

Her favorite place is the beach.

She has been in fifteen states. She has seen the Statue of Liberty, Devil's Tower, and the Washington Monument.

She has gazed at the stars in the desert at night, seen snow in the Rocky Mountains in summer, and experienced pitch darkness in the depths of Wind Cave.

She's flown in a plane, ridden in a kayak, enjoyed horse-drawn carriages, and a chair-lift to the summit.

But, I don't think, even once, has she ever played in salt water.

She's a North Coast Girl.

Mula Hula

A Mula is Mandatory Unpaid Leave of Absence. Call it a furlough if you prefer. It means you are unemployed, at least for a week, or maybe its two weeks, or maybe someone is just calling it a ‘furlough,’ but you know the real word is ‘layoff.’

Call it what you want.

I call it the Mula Hula. It’s a new dance craze.

Some people are dancing to just barely keep those hoops from touching the ground. Other people have decided that it’s the chance of a lifetime – they are showing off those sweet behinds and enjoying the dance.

It is some combination of attitude, financial stability, and plain, old-fashioned faith that everything will be just fine.

Anyway, we have our health. It is just money. We can always go live with your brother, right? They keep dancing – smiling at least some of the time.

My husband has been awarded a few weeks of Mula Hula over the next year. I have a half-dozen friends who have actually been laid-off. And, the truth is, we DO have our health and ingenuity and that little chump change that is left of our savings. We are planning to enjoy the dance. (After all, I DO have a pretty sweet behind for my age, or at least I did when I last looked back there a decade ago).

And now, you understand why we bought Jessie Marie (known for two days as Bessy G II, until Andrew and Gladys announced her name had changed).

I have a few weeks to wrestle with Cleveland City Hall to make sure her name is right on the birth certificate (okay, a little sick humor). And then, we go out West in an F-150 off-road pick-up truck hauling a 26-foot trailer into the sunset.

I am alternately excited and dumbfounded. I never, ever expected to own a trailer. Ever!
But, I really do want to show our kids every inch of America, one mile at a time. We can leave whenever we want. The kids can throw a dart at the U.S map and we’ll go there.

My husband and I have been to 17 time zones together. The rest of the world still beckons me. The first time I traveled overseas, I was 17 years old and without my parents. It did me good. You never truly understand America until you leave it behind.

Our kids will need to experience that too.

When they do, they will remember dancing through mile after mile of America.

And, they will understand why a little Mula, still makes their parents Hula.