Do you feel lucky?

It must have been that penny I spied and picked-up in the Target parking lot on Monday.  I hit the jackpot on my visit to the SPCA on Tuesday.  I have been watching their website for weeks, waiting for a young medium-sized dog that wasn’t a pit bull (they are overloaded with old, fat dogs, too, if you’d like one). 

I still can’t get over how people can bring themselves to drop a faithful old friend off at a shelter (or worse, leave one or two behind at their house when they move) to let them sort out their fate on their own.  “Thanks for a few great years, but I’m finished with this scene.  Good luck to you, old pal.”

I went in looking for “Grace”—a three-year-old female lab/retriever mix and came out having found “Huck”—a one-year-old male that is part coon-hound.  I followed the sage advice of the trainer there and am choosing personality over breed.  I was hesitant to adopt a dog that I can’t have off leash, but I’ve been informed that there are training classes for that.  Huck is sweet and silly and he hit it off with all of us.  All he wants to do is kiss and hug and play.  He is smart and social and smells good.  I can’t wait to fold him into our mix.  We all have visions of walks and hikes and long, cuddly naps.

As they were interviewing me for the adoption, it struck me that it is easier to find out how to raise a dog than a child.  You are not quizzed if you’ve ever had a baby before, or encouraged to take a training class if you haven’t.  No one at the hospital wanted to know what my plans for discipline were or did reference checks to confirm I wasn’t secretly planning to use my new baby to make money fighting him in the basement.

We are going to go pick up Huck this weekend when I get back to town.  Meanwhile, the boys and the Professor have been busy setting up the house, gathering leashes and food bowls.  I can already see the decision is a good one.  Thinking about our new family member,  I am happy to help out the greater good by rescuing a pet, but, really, it's my day that's been made.

Markers of Time

Berkshires Summer 2010

Sometimes it’s obvious, like when you’re looking at school photos, displayed in chronological order, or maybe it’s sentimental, like height recorded along the length of a door jamb in the kitchen of a family home, but somehow at the end of our childhoods, there is a way to line up the markers of how we grew.

The emotional growth is a little trickier to track. One day we are asking our parents if we can please, please, please put the sugared corn flakes with the spy decoder prize into the cart, the next we are fighting them to pick up the dinner check.

This summer brought its own bittersweet milestone. First Born Prince is now taller than Grammy for the first time, and I’m sure he’ll tower over Grandma Irene when she comes to see us next week. It seems like yesterday Grammy was singing “The Noble Duke of York” to him while bouncing him on her knees and Grampy was buckling him into his car seat for a woad twip.

I am trying to stay cool and not get all crazy on everyone as I watch my boys shoot up past us all, as evidenced in the photographs I take every summer here in the Berkshires. I fear the photos from next summer…we all know who is next to be outgrown.

Catch a wave and you’re sittin on top of the world...

I just checked weather.com.  It’s already 75° F and it’s only seven in the morning.  The heat came on strong last Monday and doesn’t show signs of letting up anytime soon.  Any other week I would have lazed about, showing the boys how to wrap wet hand towels around a row of ice cubes to create little neck-cooling tubes you can wear around the house, but I have had my own wave of activity here--house guests, my first writing group meeting and a new community project.

The writing group is key--four other writers and I meet regularly to critique each other’s work.  It’s an impressive set and I feel honored and slightly suspect that they asked me to join them.  These women--published authors, literary agent, composer/musician--are bursting with creativity and talent and aren’t afraid to work.  We have lofty goals and the inspiration is contagious.

I also joined the board of the Ithaca Motion Picture Project—more dynamic professionals, launching a new museum by preserving and renovating a historic building here in Ithaca that will serve as a center devoted to multimedia education, exhibition and film development and production.  Volunteering to do something for our community is important to me, plus I can say things like "Sorry, I have a board meeting that night."

Our houseguests—the Professor’s buddy and his two GIRLS—arrived Tuesday.  Before they could even unpack, I took the little ladies to the spa for manicures and pedicures.  Finally, cohorts who understand the importance of debating Team Jacob vs. Team Edward.  We were then forced to get out and explore the cooler parts of Ithaca—I think our favorite was Treman State Park with a shady hike that led to a swimming hole by a waterfall, staffed with two young lifeguards.

It's a good thing I wasn’t able to sit in front of the 15,000 BTU air-conditioning unit the Professor dashed out, purchased, and installed all by himself in a fit of wild-eyed fear.  No, the week was full and I am ready to paddle out again.

The Pond

It first occurred to me in La Jolla two years ago that the type of 4th of July festivities I was participating in might be too much when one of my neighbors walked towards me at ten in the morning in high heels, a navy blue sundress with plunging neckline and a ruby, diamond and sapphire-star-spangled pendant, the kind you see in the Tiffany ads and wonder, “Who the hell has special occasion jewelry for the fourth?”

It’s hard for me to admit I was dependent on a blur of social activities for the holiday.  There were so many people, parades and parties that I can barely keep them all straight in my mind.  One year I dropped into bed at the end of the day realizing I didn't know the woman who kept refilling my mimosa glass and wondering whether or not Charming Baby was the reason for the missing bag of marshmallows.

Ithaca has a different speed. We were invited to spend the afternoon and evening out at our friends' pond, which was a very special way to celebrate. So, after a quiet morning at home, a small group of us, linked mostly through school and work, got together to swim and set off fireworks in the most magical setting you can imagine. The family who owns the property built a little cottage and has set up an outdoor dining area complete with plaid tablecloths and candle lanterns. There are hammocks and fishing polls and an island in the middle of the pond for camping.

 
My fourth of July was mellow and relaxing and I know exactly how many s'mores were consumed.  I watched my kids swim and fish while we got to know our friends a little better.  Independence Day has never felt so good.

End of an Era

Carol Livingston Bowen Barnhouse, my grandmother, passed away the day before yesterday.  She was 98 years old, survived by her four daughters (her son, my father, died almost twenty years ago), nine grandchildren, and 13 great grandchildren.

This was a woman you didn’t screw with.  She did the Times crossword puzzle for breakfast and could carry on a conversation with three different people while she beat you at Scrabble during cocktail hour.  Once she found some cash my grandfather had been secretly squirreling away in his sock drawer.  She didn’t get mad or feel betrayed.  She left him with my aunt and went to China with her friends.

When we visited Grandma Barnhouse before moving to Ithaca she was quiet and didn’t say a word the whole time except at the very end.  She was low on energy and barely talked to anyone anymore.

“You sure do have small breasts for being such a large woman.”

I feared that may have been our last exchange and would joke around about it afterwards.  First Born Prince must have overheard me tell that story a dozen times.

But we did get to see Grandma Barnhouse again last Christmas.  She seemed a little more lively than usual.  I suspect it was because I brought the Professor.  She kept peering over at him.  She was either wondering who the hell the giant Jew was or wanted to impress him.

“I love you, too, Lisa,” Grandma said as we were leaving.  That did it.  The tears streamed down my face.  As I started walking quickly down the corridor away from her room, First Born Prince came up beside me, took my hand and squeezed it.

“Well, at least now the last words she said to you aren’t about your breasts!”

The Jane Ithaca Book Club

My book club in San Diego had three rules: Try to have your book selections two months in advance, make sure it's a book that you enjoyed or comes highly recommended by a trusted friend, and no sleeping with anyone’s husband. When they were first told to me, I laughed out loud.

“You girls are such a hoot!”

“No, Lisa, we’re serious. It happened last year. She’s not in the club anymore.”

No offense, but it’s not like anyone is married to Clive Owen.

“Got it. You can count on me!”

I am a long way from California. Even though I am pretty sure none of the ladies in the Monday night Cornell Campus Club Book Club swing, our rules are much stricter.  The reading list is voted on and set a year in advance.

We spent last Monday reviewing options for the upcoming year and it was a knock-down drag-out. Since I didn’t have an infant glued to my breast or an oxygen tank to wheel around, I put on some boxing gloves and got busy. I noticed most of the women in the room were ignoring me and deferring to Jane on almost every book and I couldn’t understand why. I did my homework and had good book suggestions. I brought a nice bottle of wine and vegan dish-to-pass and didn’t take too many meatless balls from the buffet.

My friend and sometimes partner-in-crime saw I was getting flustered. She leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Jane has a P.h.D in literature from Harvard.”

Why is it that in California you are warned about your potential naughty behavior and in Ithaca you are warned about your so-not-great-intelligence?

Forget-Me-Not

We were walking to school yesterday, talking about the end-of-year celebrations.  I looked over at Charming Baby, amazed at how independent he has become.   He organizes his backpack, remembers his sharing, and dresses himself.  Is that pasta sauce on his Spiderman t-shirt?

“Sam!  Are you wearing the same t-shirt as yesterday?”

“Yes.  And the same shorts.  I pulled them out of my dirty clothes bin.”  He grins, not an ounce of remorse.

“Sam!  Do you realize you have smudges of food all over yourself and today is your special class party and everyone is going to be taking pictures?”

“Yes!  That’s why I picked this shirt!”

“If I bring a clean one when I come to the picnic, will you put it on?”  Jesus, my standards have slipped.  I used to insist on collared shirts for special occasions…now I am begging my child to wear something that doesn’t have Monday’s dinner encrusted on the shoulder.

“Awww, Mom there are no good ones left that I like!”

“Your Cornell one is clean.”

“Okay.”  He seemed slightly defeated.

Later, as I was headed over to the party, I was congratulating myself for being on time and on the ball with my bag full of teacher gifts, food to share, real camera and…oh man.

I waited until after lunch before taking the picture that really mattered, figuring that even if I had brought the t-shirt, it would have had food stains on it by then.  Sam may forget to use a napkin, but he will always remember the two things he loved best about kindergarten--Mrs. Philipson and his Spiderman t-shirt.