WEST COAST ADVENTURE - DAY (2 of 9)

WOKEN BY A DUCK – July 12

I was woken this morning by the implausible sound of a quacking duck. Isaac is taking the contract to heart and set his phone alarm to rouse himself via quack this morning. This, along with a lovely breakfast on the hotel terrace was a great way to start our day.

We drove to Crystal Cove State Park for our initial interaction with the rolling surf and the misty morning beach.  Our early California morning jaunts through the dunes often began with a cool salty fog which soon transformed into a sunny treasure-trove of marine and plant life to discover.  This transition would come to hallmark most of our beach ventures on this trip. 

The fleshy-leafed plants, coastal sage scrub and flowering succulents along the seaside pathways were plentiful.  I had no idea that beach life included a squirrel population until the first scraggy ground squirrels nearly tripped me by racing across my path and into their holes in the sand.  Some of the open spaces nearby are home to coyotes, mountain lions and roadrunners and though I have a sentimental attachment to the roadrunner made famous by the cartoon version (who in the face of repeated attempts was never defeated with Wylie Coyote’s Acme-manufactured dynamite), I was admittedly thankful that squirrels were the only mammals encountered on our first morning. As the daybreak mist lifted, beautiful views of the Pacific were evident. 

Troops of pelicans flying in formation soared above us and out over the water.  Tide pools filled with all manner of sea life were as common as puddles on a rainy day back home. 

Impressive seaweed clumps were attracting a few too many sand flies to the party, making sections of the sand bear an unsettling resemblance to a poppy seed roll.

Isaac attempted to rescue some black canvas shoes from a seaweed knot but after finally extricating them, they were blessedly too large for his feet.  I, for one, was thankful.  Aubrey’s acquisition of a recently deceased starfish on our last trip to the West Coast caused a smelly drive which I didn’t care to repeat for a pair of shipwrecked shoes.

We drove on to San Clemente and were thrilled to discover some tenacious surfers trying to tame the waves just off the pier.

One daredevil in horrendous dreadlocks immediately captivated my daughter with his stunts and his mane.

 After walking the length of the surprisingly long pier, we walked up the street into town and visited some shops, one of the best being San Clemente Chocolates, where Aubrey found a chocolate covered banana. 

Had lunch at Avila’s El Ranchito Mexican Restaurant and it was delicious but huge. 

We were back on the road and Isaac noted that “things were looking pretty Spanish.”  It was evident that this beautiful state was heavily influenced by both the Spanish colonial period and the Mexican periods in state history. And what became abundantly clear as we drove south on the Pacific Coast Highway, is that Jim should have paid more attention to Senora Moyer in high school.  (Let’s just say he spent an inordinate amount of time in the back row humming the Wicked Witch of the West tune from Wizard of Oz when he should have been conjugating his Spanish verbs and learning his vocabulary..) He was at a complete loss for correctly pronouncing the names of the towns, street names, and most of the other words on the signs. So in true Jim fashion, he totally made it up as he went along.  This amusing trend persisted for the entire trip up the coast. 

Our next stop was the San Diego Zoo.  We visited the adorable koala bears, the orangutans (my favorite) and the polar bears. 

We were entertained by the startle reflex of two monkeys innocently sipping water on the side of a man-made stream when the large rock (or in this case the pygmy hippo) lifted his shiny massive head to see what was causing the stir in the water.  The monkeys jumped as though shocked by electricity.  Some really impressive leaps.

We were nearly as shocked to run into Jim’s sister Nancy and brother-in-law Don by the capuchin monkey cages.  The probability of seeing them in California….in San Diego….at the zoo…and exactly in front of the monkey cages is just about nil.  They live about 20 miles from our house.  Much as I adore them both, when you consider that about 5 million people visit the San Diego Zoo each year and the chances of finding someone you are actually LOOKING for are pretty slim, it was a little creepy!   Photo is of Isaac and his Uncle Don. It really is a small world.

WEST COAST ADVENTURE - DAY 1 of 9

THE CONTRACT – July 11

Were an adept starry seamstress to stitch together the fragmented moments of sleep I actually acquired last night, the finished product would be woefully inadequate for the day before me. I stumbled out of bed at about 5:30 and headed in the general direction of the shower.  I was tired and I was cranky.  It didn’t help that my alarm clock was blinking bold red lies to me for half the night.  At some point during the night we lost electricity, giving new meaning and purpose to my pre-vacation tossing and turning. The sudden strange hum and unexpected pitch blackness brought Aubrey quickly to our room in the middle of the night.  Apparently she was sleeping as soundly as her mother.  So as I was stumbling to the shower, I told Jim (with only a sliver of sincerity) “It would be best for everyone concerned if you left me behind.”  My husband laughed gleefully in response.  He was fully dressed, improbably chipper, and folding polo shirts into his carry-on luggage.  He’d been up for all of about 5 minutes.  How does he do that?  He cheerfully reminded me, “The glass is half-full!”  Sure.  Throw “the contract” in my face when my weary body hasn’t yet managed full vertical.  The contract was my daughter’s idea. When she considered the notion of all four of us spending ten days together in such a confined space, she began writing the rules.  The signed and dated agreement per Aubrey contained the following guidelines. (Italics are mine.)

California Contract

Signers of this document are legally bound (sorta) to whatever they agree to…yep.  Consequence if agreement is broken, the result will be ostracization. (this word doesn’t actually exist- the word should be ostracism and is not meant to imply that one of us will suddenly become a cumbersome flightless and speedy bird, rather, that the rest of the group will shun or otherwise ignore the offender until reconciliation has been achieved.)  

Isaac had to agree that he would stay at a constant glycemic level (AKA if he turns into a Diva, he has to eat a Snickers bar or something.)  It was discovered long ago that my otherwise pleasant son can become enormously cantankerous when his blood sugar drops, requiring family members to shout “Feed him, feed him!”  He had to agree not to pick on his mother (which he can do tirelessly and efficiently while simultaneously making me laugh and making me furious, but Aubrey did allow that “a little picking on Mom” was fine, if not necessary for comic relief.) Mom (possibly in anticipation of being picked on) asked Aubrey to add that Isaac had to get out of bed at a reasonable hour.  And as Isaac’s final portion of the covenant, he was not allowed to whine about the backseat or about his overwhelming desire for the continual consumption of crab legs.  It should be mentioned that with only minor grievances, Isaac held up to his end of the bargain.

Jim’s restriction list included the following:  He was not allowed to eat loudly (to particularly include crunching and slurping) while in the car.  Aubrey is quite sensitive to the annoying sounds people make with their mouths and apparently the volume of Jim’s mouth tests at a higher decibel than the rest of the family… Jim was not permitted to flip out at other drivers or get testy if and when we became lost.  He was not allowed to get angry and he was not allowed to then become defensive when his family members asked WHY he was angry.  And he was forced to order a meal at restaurants or understand fully that if he did not, his family was prepared to order a meal FOR him. He has a longstanding tradition of allowing the entire family to place orders with the waitress, and then say “I don’t want anything.”  This scenario results in Jim watching us eat while all of us attempt to donate forkfuls of pasta, a corner of bread, a leaf of salad, or some such item to the poor hungry man at our table.  I know full well it is somehow based in his deep love to see his family well cared for and his inability to spend a dime on himself, and yet when he ends the meal by saying vexatious things like, “See? I didn’t have to order anything because you guys don’t eat all your food…..” it makes me want to pummel him.

For my part of the pact, I had to agree that I would not rush anyone.  I also had to remain in a positive “glass is half full” attitude.  And I was not to comment negatively about the persons in my family who chose to stay up late watching television in the hotel room when I was trying to fall asleep at a somewhat reasonable hour.

Aubrey was not permitted to “death stare” anyone.  (This is a look of disdain that comes over Aubrey’s face- in which if the offending person were liquid and Aubrey’s eyes had glacial capabilities, the wrongdoer would become frozen solid within seconds. The “death stare” is usually a result of someone in her family doing or saying something that might be in any way construed as embarrassing.  She gives the stare when she believes she will somehow be guilty by association with said embarrassment or if in a private moment at home she just cannot tolerate the idiocy of her family member for another second…)  Additionally, Aubrey was not allowed to give unsolicited fashion advice about the chosen attire of her parents.  (This was particularly difficult for her since she could also not give the death stare.) And adding insult to injury, Aubrey was not allowed to do the “heavy sigh.”  Obviously Jim and I “helped” Aubrey come up with HER terms since she would not have seen any of these things as problematic.

So with the contract in place, we headed to the airport for our painfully long day of flying.  You see, Jim was trying to find the best airfare bargains out there.  And he was successful.  And that meant that the first of our THREE PLANES for the day was a puddle-jumper.  The toy plane we rode from Allentown to Washington D.C. was just large enough to hold us and a few other daring passengers.  There was no carry-on luggage as there was no over-the-head rack.  Jim, thoroughly amused by the plane (and I’m using the term loosely) insisted upon making annoying toy propeller sounds in anticipation of lift-off.  (It should be noted that the sounds coming from Jim’s mouth were eerily accurate when compared to the droning wind-up sound we endured for our entire first flight.)

Aubrey (who was about as enthused as her mother) asked her father a probing question.  “Aren’t you going to feel bad when we die in a fiery crash?”  Jim’s response:  “Not for long.”  I hold firm to the theory that you shouldn’t be able to see the pilot on your plane and I could not only see him, but I took a picture of him and his controls from my seat.

Thankfully we didn’t dust any crops on our way to D.C. and we found Isaac waiting at the gate for our next flight.  It was the only plane (of six total) that we shared with Isaac. 

Coming out of the Santa Ana airport, we were beginning to believe we were on vacation.  Palm trees tend to have that effect on East Coast dwellers.  Our first hotel, the La Quinta Inn, was a lovely hacienda-style building with a beautiful pool area all lit up under the palm trees in the moonlight.

Starving, we ventured out for food but it was too late to find anything decent and we ended up having our worst meal of the entire trip.  It was our first (and last) trip to a Jack in the Box restaurant.  They are all over California and every time we drove by one for the next 9 days, we groaned. The disturbing photos of their mascot used to adorn the restaurant walls and most of their advertisements should have been warning enough. 

WAITING FOR RETIREMENT

This was the first item that was published in my column Musings of the Amused for Purpose Magazine.  The theme of that particular issue was RETIREMENT. I'm pretty sure my parents have forgiven me for making them my very first published guinea pigs. 

I had serious concerns about the ability of my parents to cohabitate peacefully in a state of retired bliss.  Both spent years in management.  There were schedules and regimens.  How these two worlds would mesh, I had no idea.  I held my breath.

Years later, I am pleased to say that not only are they managing a serene coexistence, they are enjoying their shared freedom.  And they are laughing.  Sometimes with each other, more often at each other.  It is a scientific reality that laughter relieves stress and boosts the immune system.  Calculating the rate at which they make fun of each other, they could live to be 150. 

That is not to say that there aren’t occasional blowups about which route is most direct from the flea market.  (I believe they even argue with their GPS….)  Maps are pulled out, geographic lessons are offered, and somehow after a good deal of spar and rebuttal, they are still both “right.”

I have great plans for my own retirement.  I wish to see the world.  I’ve got enormous aspirations to make the 7, 463 recipes which I have meticulously clipped and stuffed into my straining recipe box.  I shall read that wall of books I own, and perhaps take up watercolors.  I imagine myself an efficient cashier at the local MCC thrift shop.  While I volunteer, I will peruse the racks and purchase large bags of ridiculous attire for my family members.  I’ll buy wonderful things that they would never consider wearing.  I long to dote on my currently nonexistent grandchildren, baking them cookies peppered with chocolate candy bits to make them smile and make their parents (my own dear children) groan.  Doesn’t it sound heavenly?  I suspect by the time I achieve retirement age, a well-intentioned bureaucrat will pass new legislation requiring me to work until I can no longer see my travel brochures, read the fine print on my aged recipe clippings, or choose wildly colored neckties with which to annoy my husband. 

And so I will enjoy employment.  And maybe get started on those watercolors. 

FINE PRINT

Downright smug in childhood with my nearly bionic ability to read fine print on tiny objects, I considered my vision impervious to decline. I regularly congratulated myself for being the only person in my family without corrective lenses. My unearned superiority was shameless.

Those were the days.  And now I am eating humble pie as I try to make out fuzzy sentences in the church bulletin. And what cruel joke is the phone book?  My arms are no longer of sufficient length to grasp the hymnal as I try to discern lyrics.  My long-spectacled husband occasionally feigns helpfulness, moving back the hymnal a full yardstick-length so I can see more clearly.  His helpfulness usually paves the way for his being whacked squarely by said hymnal. I know I should consider my nonviolent beliefs, but his mischievous smirk causes an unfortunate impulsivity to rise up behind my straining eyes.  I need to work on that. 

My Dad found a good deal.  Now there are 99 cent reading glasses scattered strategically throughout my house.  I’ve got a pair in every room so I can circumvent wearing a telltale ‘middle-aged necklace.”  My family finds amusement watching me run for a pair when I am trying to cook, work on the computer, or read.   My daughter, a glasses-wearer since age 3, cannot abide the way my glasses hang precariously on the distal edge of my nose as I peer at her above them.  Just like Grandpa Stroehmann.  She does not understand that she becomes a swirl of nausea when I try to see her through the lens.

So I’ve experienced a little loss.  Something I once had, failed to truly appreciate, and now it is gone.  We humans are renowned for our ability to take things for granted. 

The loss of near vision is nothing in comparison to the loss of a job, a home, or a loved one.  So I’m trying my best to start recognizing blessings.  It’s too late to value fine print, but there are lots of more important things to appreciate.  And I can see them pretty clearly with my 99 cent glasses. 

NO PLACE LIKE HOME

When parents arrive to pick up children at day care, it is not uncommon for a child to burst into tears. To the untrained eye, a small unassuming child suddenly morphs into a frightful whirling dervish, sporting Dennis the Menace tendencies and other traits which appear to require some serious parental intervention.  But a hug will usually do it.  Because this sorry display is probably a reflection of the child’s eternally grateful relief.  He's been trying to be good for these strangers ALL DAY.  He's been sitting precariously on a little volcano of fear, uncertainty, and pent-up emotion. The eruption is pretty much inevitable upon seeing a person with whom this little peanut can gratefully and finally be himself. That is not to say he didn't have a fabulous day with his caretakers. It is more a matter of acknowledging the truth in Dorothy’s post-Oz declaration. There is no place like home!

Like it or not, our families get the very worst of us. We walk around the house looking a fright. Hair standing on end and sweatpants from our college days stretched beyond recognition. Some of us are too grouchy for conversation until after the second cup of caffeine. Others, who have been productive and engaging members of society all day, arrive home and beeline for the recliner to recharge before any helpful interaction with family members can occur. Yet with a foundation of love and acceptance, there is something wonderful about a safe landing pad. And that’s the beauty of family. They know you. And they love you anyway.

My husband and I were enjoying a nice dinner together last night. Our firstborn is in his twenties and living out of state. Our youngest was off with her youth group to a music festival. Unwinding from his day, my husband indulged in a sigh of contentment. He looked over at me and said, “I’m glad you’re the person I married.” Well I thought this was about the sweetest thing I’d heard all day. Fishing for more romance, I unwisely asked, “Why is that?” His answer was honest and remarkable. “I just find most other people SO annoying.” I do love my blessedly straightforward man. 

And how awesome is that? God has given us our own little circle of people to love AND ANNOY! Whether it is your parent, your brother, your spouse or your child, remember to be thankful for the amazing gift that is your family. There is certainly no place like home. 

DISOBEDIENT WISE GUYS

Dumb as a box of hair.  A surprisingly accurate descriptor for my miserable cat Harley…

Not unlike a human, disobedience comes quite naturally to him.  For over twelve years we have attempted to correct him with swats and shouts when discovering him on the kitchen counter.  His startled tail expands appropriately each time he is caught trespassing.  Wide-eyed, he skids unceremoniously across the laminate flooring in his remorseful attempt to flee.  I am certain his heart rate doubles as well.  Yet somehow despite repeated attempts, we have been unsuccessful in any long-term persuasion. There is daily proof of his impropriety in the telltale paw prints across our shiny black stove cook top. He is without a shred of wisdom.  His mind is a sieve.    

Though I don’t customarily walk inappropriately across the counters of my home, I would argue that at times I am as dense as Harley. And risking insult, I suspect you are too.  How many of us have had to learn the same lesson repeatedly before something clicks and behavioral change follows?  One needs to accumulate a good collection of ‘clicks’ before wisdom can ever tag along.  Some call this knowledge.

When I think about wisdom, I think about Solomon.  He had the gift of discernment and the wherewithal to do immeasurable good with what he was given.  Most times he used the gift well.  Does the church seek God’s wisdom or is our seeking lopsided because our pews are packed with disobedient wise guys?

I, for one, am thankful that my heavenly father loves me infinitely more than the love I profess for my tiresomely noncompliant cat.  God doesn’t swat me and he doesn’t shout at me.  Instead, he sends gentle and persistent reminders of his love and forgiveness.  And with a thankful heart I store that precious learning in my growing bank of knowledge.  Priceless souvenirs collected over years of trial and error, and most times despite my own foolishness. 

I am told that wisdom makes good use of knowledge.  And I’m hoping someday my collection comes in handy. 

It may be time to forgive the cat.   

CATCHING SHINGLES

This is one of the many stories I wrote about a memorable service trip in 2007

“I have never seen a female so dirty.”    The woman speaking was in awe at the revised state of my formerly pale complexion.  We were two of the brave feminine volunteers at SWAP in Kentucky and I was on my way to the “shower” (…and trust me, I am using that term loosely). 

Reminiscent of an owl, I sported white circles around my eyes from sunglasses.  My burnt skin was precisely the color of slate, having spent a blazing hot day removing an ancient splintering roof.  My morning had begun on the ground.  Naively wearing my fancy new nail belt and uncomfortable boots, I occupied myself by re-positioning old roofing material as it was flung willy-nilly from the roof of a tiny dilapidated house.  The ‘flingers’ were my church friends.  They were male, bursting with testosterone, and pleased with their Spiderman-like ability to walk vertically and swiftly on a slanted roof without appearing the least bit concerned about gravity.  Serious show-offs...  After backbreaking hours of shoveling heavy fractured shingles onto my wheelbarrow, I’d had enough.  So I bravely ascended the ladder to join the shingle-throwers. 

I spent a good hour on top of the house (otherwise known as the surface of the sun.)  My concerned husband checked on me regularly, certain I would return prudently to the ground.  But I was determined.  To the delight of the "He-Men" with whom I shared the roof, I never did manage to stand fully erect.  I preferred instead to travel like a handicapped crab, getting pretty efficient at yanking old nails with the back of my hammer.  Who knew those hammer "horns" had a use other than providing Feng Shui balance to the tool?  Flinging shingles was a little more exhilarating than it appeared from below.  But roof rubble packs considerably more weight than imagined. On several occasions I nearly flung myself off the roof with my cargo. 

 And so it was, I learned the art of roofing and volunteer service.  Lying in my musty bunk that week, my aching muscles told an emerging story.  The tale of a fragile Mennonite woman venturing out of her safe cocoon and into a place where filthy sunburned skin translated wonderfully into a more inhabitable home for some new-found friends.