One stick at a time

The words haven't been coming to me this summer.  Frustratingly, I've started lots of posts never to finish them.  

Daytime firepit...who knew you could enjoy that?  My dad's a rulebreaker.

Our new lake house is a pleasant distraction from my distraction.  The house faces west so the sun is a long time coming over the trees to the dock, but it makes for a pretty morning with the creep of the light over the rooftop cutting through the trees, casting the brightest light and deepest shadows in the yard. Superimposed fern silhouettes layer one over another in a feathery pattern of every possible shade of green.  It's peaceful and natural.  But then when that gets boring, just follow me five miles up the road for cocktail hour and a cooked meal in Minocqua.

The paths begin to take shape

Olivia's gone to college and she's thriving according to local reports.  I'm more than surviving and less than thriving with her departure. It's just weird.  But as I've told my friends, all the registration stuff for high school came in the mail and none of it had Olivia's name on it so I knew she had to go.  You don't have to be independent but you can't stay here.

My dad and I headed north last weekend for a look at our house and it took him all of ten minutes before his knees were in the dirt.  A huge woodpile/mudpile had been plowed/bobcatted against a little grove of trees to clear the way for digging up the old septic tank.  A giant mess of tangled cut wood, plants and dirt that had been burrowed and co-opted by chipmunks who clucked and scampered and scolded whenever anybody came near.  So much literal dead wood, I couldn't face it!  Chip tried to tackle it a few weeks ago and I made him stop.  It seemed insurmountable.  But piece by piece, my dad, who doesn't heed me like Chip does, began to root through the pile pieces one by one for the most burnable to least burnable wood and stacked it painstakingly.

"Dad, stop. It's too much."

"Why should I stop?  I love working like this."

"How can you love it?  It's overwhelming.  I don't even know where to begin out here in the yard, there's so much debris."

"Jul, you just move it one stick at a time until it's done."

One stick at a time.  Big tasks have been scary lately.  I don't know if it's been the unsettling nature of sending a kid to college, going back to work, or just getting older.  But my dad's simple words freed me for the weekend, by simply telling me to start the task.

The heat was on.

Blistering heat.  It's finally moving east but the past week has been like a long plane ride for me. Trapped and airless days and nights strung together, stuck either inside work or inside the house.  I felt and behaved like a caged wild beast.

I pushed myself to go to the Concert on the Square this week despite the hysteria that it would be so hot people would die trying.  And what a good decision it was.  The Wisconsin Chamber Orchestra, incidentally conducted by our darling friend and neighbor Andrew Sewell, performs Wednesday evenings on the grounds of the Capitol (that's with an O, teachers) all summer.  It's free and a blanket and a bottle is the standard minimum-full on picnic dinners are common. It's a wine swillin' crowd generally.   What's stopping anybody from attending is a mystery to me.  This week, Andrew had recruited Revival, an ABBA tribute band, for the orchestra to accompany.  The band used the rotunda as their back stage and "took the stage" in a grand fashion on the Capitol steps to the sounds of a whoop whoop whoop of a chopper, as if they had somehow just landed downtown from Sweden just for us!  Hilariously cheesy but in the final analysis they brought some musical chops.  Showmanship if nothing else with gold capes and entreaties for getting the crowd on its feet, which they accomplished and was no small feat given the temperature.

Back in the day, when I was at the mercy of the disc jockey on WFIL FM radio, I was not a fan of ABBA, despite enduring the song Fernando incessantly.  The soaring melodies and the Swinglish lyrics made no sense to me as a kid, but then again, I hadn't yet traveled beyond Ohio and I loved the band, Kiss.  I'm not here to judge.

My friend Martha, with whom I braved the temperatures only to be rewarded with a cup of homemade gazpacho for my trouble, is a cellist and a lifelong musician/biology nerd by her description.  When I told her I didn't go for ABBA as a kid because I was pretty hard core rock, she replied, "For me, ABBA was hard core."  That was funny and of course, a little sad.  But the thing is,  I did eventually grow up and  began to see the merits of pop in my life.  And I'm not giving Mamma Mia any credit for this because I think that show, despite it's popularity with women, is lame-O!

Nearly 100 degrees.  Shout out to Chip Hunter for throwing out our blanket and
babysitting it until mid afternoon when the temperature was more like 120 degrees.

The ABBA allure has got to be about its retro-ness and also generational shareability.  As a middle-ager, you hear an ABBA song and for good or bad, you remember a moment or an event or even a vibe from the past.  I don't even think you have to like the music to experience the nostalgia.  And the crazy thing is, at the height of their stardom in the seventies, the band was probably the least popular in the United States than anywhere in the world.  I guess that's the thing about retro is that it's more popular in its resurrection than it ever was in its hey day.

Martha and I watched over the course of the evening as pockets of people began standing up to dance or sway, young and old folks, moms and daughters, girlfriends, little kids, and even a few guys.  We were swept up in the good feeling of the crowd and the music made the heat almost a non-issue.  My kid and her friends knew all the words to the songs and they were eventually up dancing, although not until moving to a secure location away from me and Martha and our attempts to mimic all of the choreography of the background singers.  Arm movements are easy to do from a beach chair but it does sometimes cause you to spill your wine, so it's important to take care.

New generation ABBA fans

Reunion 2011

Northwoods sky

My first official weekend at our cabin.  Alone with the dog.  Everybody else is busy as usual so Minnie and I ventured north to welcome a new bed being delivered and start surveying the work ahead.  I'm surprised because I think there is more work outside than in.  Paths are overgrown both front and back and I'm reminded of Burnt Offerings, the movie (and book) about a family that buys a rundown old house with a crazy lady in the attic and the mom becomes obsessed with the house to the point of maybe murdering her family, I think?   I can't quite remember the whole story but I do remember that as the house got fixed up, she got crazier and eventually the family runs away and leaves her to be the new old lady in the attic.  Hmmmmm.

The past week has been full of 2 year old.  The former preemie who battled uphill for much of her first year is now a skinny, wily, fast grabbing (no kidding, knives!), bilingual, sassyfrass beauty.  And the gift and blessing is that...she knows me.  I can tell by the way she looks at me that I'm a notch above random stranger.  We have a connection and it's love, baby.  Her parents are wonderful but they are like blurry shapes that satellite around our love affair.   That's the cold hard truth and I can write freely since my blog doesn't penetrate the Great Firewall of China.

Genius marketing that set us apart and above the Lutz Family Reunion

An amazing journey to Kansas for a 66 person-strong Hunter Family Reunion.  Amazing in that our family (and that means America) is beginning to reflect the colors of our world.  Chinese, African-American, Filipino, Latino in-laws and descendants blending in with each subsequent generation.  The Hunters are turning beautifully brown.

Aunt Judy and Aunt Ann get the shirts divided up by family

second cousins

um....what a production this was.  you can see the level of cooperation on their faces

A quilt of all the t-shirts over the years

Grabbing a signal at The Vine in Minocqua with a glass of syrah beside me while Misty Mountain Hop plays overhead.  I must remember this in February.

Jello at my age

A woman of a certain age acknowledges she has occasions for flights of fancy but when she has jello shots two weekends in a row, it makes her reflective.

My tailgating buddy

The first week out of school has gone by so after going into liquid state, the girls have re-materialized into solid form and are into the swing of their summer rituals:  babysitting, diving, running, piano playing, malling, lunching, TV watching.  Jobs you ask?  Well....Chip and I have them.

The cats are having the summer I used to have as a kid.  Out at 9am, home at 9pm.  Dirty and up to no good, holding back their stories because I would worry.

Darling girls at Jimmy Buffett, beautiful and chill

My first summer working in 10 years so far?  Difficult.  Teachers, stay-at-home moms and part-time professionals make up my social circle so while they’re working hard for their kids this summer back and forth to camps, the pool, family vacations, they are “off” in my mind.  I wake up each morning wishing I could just sit in my garden and drink coffee for a few hours then head to the pool or take a bike ride or a paddle or even just clean out a closet.  But then I remember how much that work pays.  I want to say that it makes me savor the weekends and that I make the most of that time, but really it just makes me greedy and anxious for more.  I’m still adjusting, is the politically correct answer and the one people close to me want to hear because they love me.  I’m crabby and unsettled, is the reality.

Glow bracelets really complete an outfit

Outdoor lunch with a friend, Jimmy Buffett, Trivia Night at the pool, gardening, family reunion, glass of wine on the patio…our grown-up summer rituals have also begun.  Despite the feeling that there's never quite enough time on the weekends, all possibilities are entertained and planning is rich with verdant and abundant blooms like my garden.  Not until my ferns start to get crispy and I begin to look at weeds and think, “meh…” will I feel that wistful slide of summer on the down slope.   I hope at that point I can look back and feel like I found that balance, enjoying both summer and working simultaneously.  Jimmy Buffett works all summer, I tell myself.

The sun sets behind a sea of happy drunks--the steep grade of the hill at Alpine Valley
is a cruel joke on all these people after dark.  Many of those above us on the hill were below us later in the evening,
not of their own accord.

A new perspective

 

And the new view is not just out my window.  Although that's changed, too.  This lovely shot is the view from the porch of my new lake house.  Ok, ours.  That feels very weird to say aloud, even in print.  And so we get to watch a new chapter in our family's life write itself from this vantage point, perhaps even quite literally if I can get Internet there.  Liv and Ally are only mildly impressed and somewhat baffled.  I don't think they see the relevance of a lakehouse to their lives right now and that's probably appropriate from the perspective of a teenager.  It's just a place with a lot of attention-seeking dragonflies and sketchy cell phone service.

front and center which is how we see her

Olivia's high school graduation was executed with Wisconsin precision.  On time start, the reading of each individual's name graduating -- 480 plus students-- in addition to hosting five speakers all in under 90 minutes.  Mussolini must have consulted here at one point in history as I've never been to a school, arts or public event that hasn't run on time or finished within 10 minutes of its scheduled completion.  Compared to Philadelphia time, where start times are merely suggestions for the under part of an over/under bet, Madison time is laughably accurate.

Catching up with Aunt Pol

And the million dollar question?  How does it all feel?  It feels like it's time.  It was nice for our crazy families (ok, just mine is crazy and it may be a small betrayal to write that...and yet I write it anyway) to see each other again.   It came together before the ceremony in a day's long arrival of family like stars on the red carpet one after the other building to a crescendo of an Italian feast at a local restaurant.

I hear they all had fun

The scene from my kitchen window on many sunny summer days

Absolutely no idea if Olivia is the brown haired one or the blond haired one.

It resumed after the ceremony as a wonderful thank-you gathering for family and the neighbors who helped me bring this here child to adulthood with sanitys intact.  Each friend in her own way has had a hand in making this kid feel safe and secure in this world.  She calls them collectively the "aunties" and many live in our backyard.  The phrase "it takes a village..." may be trite from overuse but it's not without absolute meaning.  Because if you can raise a kid by yourself for 18 years, you deserve some sort of recognition or some sort of a job from the United Nations or the Pope or maybe Desmond Tutu.

dinner at Bella Vita, new locally owned restaurant that shows some local love

Almost as good as a hug from JJ Hardy...but not quite

Advice taken with some skepticism

a video assembled by some girls in Liv's class.  truly artful.  liv at around 1:50 secs.

Management 101

I spoke up in a meeting today, a big monthly sort of deal with women all doing my job plus a director or two.  I try to contribute, to be visible, because the truth is if I didn't show up they wouldn't even miss me.  Just a little pediatric fish in a big pond of sickest of sick adult care practitioners.  I'm alone in my sunny disposition and pediatric friendly colors.  They rarely smile except when I alone try out some material on them and they think big thoughts about wound healing, urinary infections and heart disease.  Some scary bitches I tell you, although you'd probably want them taking care of you if you were sick.

Later, a woman introduced herself to me because she was "interested to hear my comments" at the meeting.  Uh oh.  Is that a good thing or an "I want to remember your name so I can avoid committee work with you."

My comment was in reference to a journal article about nurses needing to break through professional silence to protect patient safety.  Never having been silent my whole life, it was hard to relate.  But the conversation turned to communication and I reflected that as tricky as it can be for women to manage other women, ironically in the female dominated nursing field we end up spending most of our professional lives deftly managing everybody from patients to doctors without ever having any formal management education or training.  A lot of nurses are just winging it so maybe as advanced practice nurses we should advocate better for management education for our staff groups.

Speaking of women ineffectively managing women, there are 7 days of school left and somebody needs to finish 10th grade before her mother a) checks into Betty Ford or b) sells her to the carnival folk in the deserted defunct Italian restaurant parking lot behind the mall or c) both.

As for the graduating senior, she's unusually sassy as hay'll.  I literally waved a pencil under both their noses tonight and used the words "I'm your mother and I want respect."  It was so absurd, I think it worked.  Thinking that demanding respect will be my new thing.

Thing 1

Thing 2

My first. There's only one.

That's the face of butterbeer

Liv’s prom pictures made me realize we are reaching milestones almost daily around here. The lasts of a lot of things…band concerts, forensics banquets, booster shots.  As I consider all these lasts, I can’t help going back to that skinny yet improbably hard-to-carry toddler who never held on to us so much as used us as perches from which to view and delight in the world around her.  Who she’s become and will yet become is largely who we always thought she was.  Kids are puzzles in the box, the pieces are all a jumble.  The keen observer can start to see the whole for those little pieces pretty quickly.  And over time in our case, the edge pieces have all been found and framed a wonderful 18 year old that has emerged her senior year. I think back to some of my favorite Olivia moments and the puzzle pieces that have fallen into place. 

my traveling buddy

As a toddler, with the precision and silence of the Stealth Bomber, she crawled from the kitchen while my back was turned, scaling a chair to reach the top of the dining room table where she teeteringly must have turned around to sit cross legged so she could carefully open a box of jelly beans that I assumed had been stashed above her view.  The puzzle pieces here still remain.  She has an amazing memory and she still loves candy. 

As a kid of 5 or 6 she once crept downstairs on a weekend morning and opened the back door triggering the whoop whoop of the burglar alarm.  She scaled the baby gate off the back porch, walked down the side alley of our city block in nightgown and barefeet to the front of the house to get the newspaper.  The house alarm blared and Chip and I went to the open back door with the cricket bat poised to brain someone, only to catch the tail end of that spritely little return walk back down the alley, Liv smiling to herself with newspaper in hand.  And to this day, she cannot really start her morning without reading the newspaper.

On our trip to Harry Potter world, she was decidedly disappointed in her geriatric mom’s inability to ride the rides fanatically and repeatedly with her--oh, yeah, that's why we made you a sister!  It was clear to me on our trip that NASA doesn’t know about this diamond in the rough living in Wisconsin, who could take space and time exploration to a whole new level with her love of physical sensation.  Her preschool teacher said it first.  She has always and still does love sensation of most kinds; fast, spinning, sweet, salty, sour, upside down. 

And she's a talker.  She’s been babbling since she was about two weeks old, on trains and planes, in the tub, pointing and squawking from her stroller, following us around the house to chat sports or reflections of her day.  Despite having to tell her to zip it occasionally, whether it’s a trip to Harry Potter world or a trip to the grocery store, she’s a low maintenance, sweet, positive, flexible companion at home or on the road, especially if there's a snack in it for her.  I can’t really imagine what it will be like around here without her daily presence.  But I’m feeling great so far, steeped in my denial.

she went on, I did not.  I could not.

Classic tourists...full of chicken fingers, soda and nachos.

I see many friends on Facebook are also facing their own firstborns leaving home this summer.  Like the Decorah eaglets, they all seem big enough, they all technically look ready to fly, but it’s such a long drop down from the nest.  Scary stuff.  Their lives are starting “for reals” and in a way we as parents are appropriately being nudged unwillingly to bystander status.  What can we do?  I can't make her do anything.  I think the police could arrest me for that now.  And I resent those grownups who think they get to call the shots because they pay the bills--nuh uh, it's her time now.  My parents were so good about letting me live my life that I want to honor them by doing the same for Liv, as much as it pains me to let her make the decisions now.  If it keeps her out of living in my basement at age 26, well, the pain will have been worth it.   

I am not weepy but I am sad and afraid to let go…let go of the baby, the toddler, the little kid we took to Disney, even that teenager I took to Harry Potter world just a month ago.  And at the same time I can’t wait for her to have her chance at living her life without having me pawing at her daily like a lioness keeping her cub close.  And I look forward to watching the rest of this puzzle come together.  The edges were ours to put together but the middle is for her to fill in with the picture she imagines that is her life and her passions and her future.  I'm going to miss you fiercely, kid, but I love you enough to not make it all about me this one time.