Sounds

The sweltering days of summer are slowly releasing their oppressive grip on the upper Midwest. Blessed relief is blowing in from the north and I, for one, am doing cartwheels of joy (figuratively, of course...old ladies struggle with fancy tumbling). Gravity is tugging on colorful leaves, birds are gorging themselves for upcoming journeys and warm pots of soup burble away on the stove. Beleaguered air conditioners gasp a sigh of relief as their time of rest approaches and apples crisply adorn produce aisles. And, finally, windows are thrown open and fresh prairie air dislodges three months of trapped staleness.

One perk of open windows is the flow of sounds added to the usual mix of daily life. Chickadees chitter and chatter at bird feeding stations. Trees clap their leaves in response to the demanding winds. Trucks lumber down the street. Trains whistle and rattle along the tracks and dogs yap like town criers. Muffled conversations of neighbors float in the breeze. The sound of playing children fills the air with hope.

Our backyard neighbors have a trampoline for their three young, boisterous boys. Their conversations of play stream through my windows and make me smile. The sibling dynamics of my youth are obviously alive and well today. The oldest boy is usually the boss, calling the shots on whatever game they are developing. The youngest tearily protests the injustices of said games and the middle child tries to work out a compromise for all parties involved. All the while, the squeak of the trampoline keeps a steady beat.

Recently, the boys were playing a devised game of throw-the-ball-at-each-other-as-hard-as-you-can while bouncing on the trampoline. The game came dangerously close to collapsing with shouts of "Not fair" and "That hurts" when a neighborhood girl, pulling a wagon filled with house playing props, stopped by and joined the brothers. The oldest boy bailed out immediately, sensing an imminent imbalance in power. The wagon was loaded onto the trampoline and suddenly, the dynamics of play took a drastic turn. The young lady stated that they were going to play house. With that she proceeded to explain the roles and parameters of the next activity. From there, the play acting unfolded as the boys followed the lead of their neighborhood friend. The three children continued their pseudo-family re-enactment until the boys' mother called for them to come in the house.

My husband remarked that a psychologist would have a heyday analyzing the spontaneous dynamics of play that changed with the arrival of the girl. There were no adults orchestrating how things should be done. There were no video games demanding instant, prescribed reactions. There were no politically correct agendas forcing certain actions. The kids were just being kids, making up things as they went along. The girl wanted to feather the castle's nest and the boys wanted to slay dragons.

The best part of all was the sound of authentic play. It is sweet music to my ears, even if some of the notes are a little flat with discord.

Soon enough the frigid winds of winter will force me to close my windows again. Until then, let the music play.

Simple

This summer I drank deeply from the nectar of simplification. Due to life's circumstances, my family and my husband's family have been involved in various stages of cleaning, sorting and dumping the detritus of others. Such activity gave me pause and was the impetus for evaluating my own shelves, closets and drawers. I am a tosser by nature and my sentimental muscle has always been willing to let go. That being said, I still managed to accumulate more stuff than I really need. Boxes of "treasures" that have not been looked at in years taunted me with their excess and mystery. Ziploc bags of cords, adapters and unidentified electronic gizmos begged for usage or death. Drawers of sad little items waited to be claimed or called into action.

Here are a few of my simplification stats so far.

400 pounds (not a typo, folks) of treasure filled boxes were sent to my daughter across the country. Little Pooky, the well-loved stuffed bear, clearly belongs in her house, not in my basement. The Anne of Green Gables series we read together also needed to be in the hands that held them the first time around.

10 trips to Goodwill with goodie-laden boxes. Dishes, knick-knacks, clothes, blankets, pans, sheets and shoes continued their journey of usefulness. The gentlemen who always assist me at the drop-off station knew my vehicle well.

4 bookshelves are sporting newly cleared looks. Many books are now nestled in with new friends at Goodwill or resting in library heaven. Sorting books was a bit painful for me but I saved enough of them to keep me company until the itch to toss needs to be scratched again.

12 weeks of bulging trash cans for the dump truck drivers. I am sure they are waiting for the "For Sale" sign to pop up on my lawn. Surely, someone who throws away high school yearbooks is preparing for a move to lands afar.  Sorry, Mr. Trashman, I am hunkered down for the long haul.

Probably the best advice for keeping things simple came from a service repairman. My dryer went on strike just before back-to-school week and a service call was necessary. I paced the floor while I listened to the technician trying to wrestle the dryer into submission. I added up the minutes times the dollars for a new machine in the event the prognosis was terminal. Finally, I heard a call, "Ma'am, can you come here a minute?" My mind conjured up the worst as I approached the ailing machine. The technician handed me a small fuse and said, "It was just a blown thermal fuse. An easy fix and it's all taken care of."

I sighed with relief and thanked him for his time and help. As I was paying the bill, he continued to impart laundry machine wisdom.

"You know, most folks go through 2-3 washers for every dryer. Washers have water pumps, detergent dispensers, drain hoses, agitators and so forth. Lots of things to go wrong. But a dryer, it's a simple machine with two main functions, tumble clothes and add heat. Not too complicated."

I handed him the check and as he left my driveway, I realized I want to be a dryer, not a washing machine. When life's curveballs come my way, I prefer not to have a lot of stuff around me that needs to be cleaned, organized and moved around.

Tumble and heat. That should be enough.

Challenge

The world of Facebook has developed a culture of sharing, liking and socializing. There is also the phenom of pop-up challenges such as ice baths for ALS awareness and scriptural posts for a designated number of days. The intent of most challenges is certainly laudable, however, there is something unsettling about calling out friends and family in a public venue. Please understand, I harbor no ill will toward anyone participating in such challenges. Many have been blessed by them. My uneasiness is born of a need for filtering challenge requirements.

A recent challenge requires participants to post pictures of themselves with their smiling spouses for seven consecutive days. The intent is to celebrate love and promote marriage. Excellent premise. Questionable process. Certainly, it is entertaining to gawk at wedding day photos of couples filled with promise and blissful expectations. Pictures of fun-filled vacations and church directory moments seal the deal for marital harmony. But, do seven photos times the number of your married FB friends really meet the intended goal? My guess is there are a lot of stories stitched between each polished photo that truly tell the story of what it takes to be married. I also feel a sense of empathy for my FB friends who are single or have recently lost spouses due to divorce or death. Splashing twosome photos on their pages seems tantamount to sharing a random couples powerpoint at a singles event.

A photo that spoke volumes to me was recently posted (the old-fashioned way) in my hometown newspaper on the obituary page. It was of a couple who I had the honor of knowing as a child and during my early married years. They had been married for almost 63 years. (Their story has since been picked up by the media.) By the grace of God, the husband and wife passed away peacefully within the same hour. Two of their five children were at their bedsides. The circumstances of their deaths are not pleasant. The wife had suffered from Alzheimer's disease and was confined to a nursing home. The husband had only recently gone to an assisted living facility due to his own health struggles and I suspect, somewhat of a broken heart. On a warm summer's day, he went to visit his wife in the nursing home and sustained a fall that put him in the same room as his wife.  Together once again, God called them home as a couple, the ultimate celebration of love, marriage and commitment, through good times and bad.  If they were alive and well today, I am sure they could tell many tales about the struggles of marriage, child-rearing and making a living during the volatility of economic swings. Maybe our ancestors were on to something when the only photos shared with the masses were a baby picture, a family picture and an obituary picture selected by others.

That being said, please don't de-friend me on FB. I do enjoy escape time into the virtual worlds of others. And I promise never to challenge anyone with a task.

Unless it involves Cheetos.

(Purchased for blogging purposes only.)

Geography

A random question arose in our household a few weeks ago prompted by something I was reading, "How far is it from the Arctic Circle to the North Pole?" I could see the look of despair on my husband's face as he tried to muster up an answer that would stop such nonsense. My college-aged niece was also with us and she politely looked interested. I teach middle school so I am accustomed to blank stares and apathy. I repeated the question again and my husband finally responded with another question, "Isn't the Arctic Circle and the North Pole the same?"

Now I knew I had my work cut out for me. "No, they are not the same. It's like the Tropic of Capricorn not being the same as the equator."

He gave me another loud and clear look of you-are-not-seriously-going-to-continue-with-this-Jeopardy-question, are you?

Undeterred by the lackluster conversation engagement, I asked a leading question, "Let's start by determining the latitude of the North Pole, which is....?"

< Insert crickets chirping>

"You know, the lines that circle the earth parallel to the equator," I added.

It was crystal clear to my husband and niece that there was no way off this convo train until resolution of the matter occurred. Each of them threw out a number with hopeful lilts in their voices. Neither was correct, so I dazzled them with my reasoning, "We live at 44 degrees N. latitude, halfway between the equator and the North Pole. The Arctic Circle is a little more than halfway between us and the North Pole so my guess is that the Arctic Circle is about 70 degrees N. latitude."

Suffice it to say no one was dazzled.

"Okay, let's settle this and look it up in the atlas."

I pulled out my handy dandy World Atlas, circa 1990, and flipped to the map of North America. "Now all we have to do is figure out how many miles are in each degree per latitude and we'll have this puzzle solved."

I dusted off my map skills and began measuring distances and converting them to miles. As I computed out loud, it was clear to all parties that I was losing myself in the weeds. Somehow my math was not matching distances and I was no closer to an answer than when the madness began. My husband was mentally checking out and reaching for the TV remote to create a diversion.

Finally, my niece sweetly responded, "You could Google it."

My husband and I locked eyes and exhaled a sigh of relief. Yes. Yes. That made perfect sense.

I handed my computer over to my niece and she started tap-tap-tapping away and in a few seconds she had the answer to my question. Problem solved.

Clearly, my brain is still paper wired. Telephone books and fold-out maps feel comfortable in my hands. Siri and search engines require concentration and translation. Writing a reminder note in cursive flows easily. Finding the memo app on a screen demands closer scrutiny. My world thinks in World Book rather than Wikipedia.

And just in case you are curious, the North Pole is about 1600 miles from the Arctic Circle. Such information could come in handy the next time you are wandering around in the Yukon Territory.

Homerun

Thirty-nine years ago, my husband received a phone call from a friend with some exciting news. "I just won four tickets to a Minnesota Twins game. Do you think you and your wife can join us?"

It didn't take long for my husband's reply, "Free tickets? Are you kidding? We're Dutch, sign us up!"

There was one catch, however. The date on the tickets was just a couple of days away and the game was at least a 7-hour drive one way. This was during our newly married, pre-kid days so it made perfect sense to all of us to throw a few things into the car, book a room and head down the road with minimal preparation. I have very little recollection of the game, but the thought of that trip always makes me smile. My guess is that we did silly stupid things, embarrassed ourselves in the big city and laughed until liquid squirted out of our noses. Not a bad memory.

Fast forward thirty-nine years and time for another phone call from our friend. "Hey, I just snagged four free tickets to a Twins game. Do you think it will work out for you to join us?"

Much has changed for all of us since that first phone call. My husband and I moved away from our home town. Kids are out of the house. Careers are sputtering through waning gasps. Grandchildren are waiting to be spoiled. Hair is thinning, graying or gone. Knees snap, crackle and pop. Parents are in need of caretaking. Vehicles have GPS systems and reliability.

What hasn't changed is my husband's response to free tickets. "We're Dutch, sign us up!"

This time the tickets were for a game a month away so we had time to make sure our medication pill packs, antacids supply and sunscreen were all in order. Expedia helped select a hotel with cutesy toiletry items and baby coffee pots in the room. Destinations were programmed into the navigator. A high school friend from the cities was contacted for a dinner out the night before the game. Departure times were orchestrated and parents were notified of our upcoming absence.

In the instant that our friends pulled into our driveway it was clear that our long-standing-many-years-separated friendship had not lost its zest. We were little country mice heading to the big city and the inside jokes that were funny thirty-nine years ago were just as entertaining as we rolled our way down the interstate.

That evening we met our high school friend and his wife at a nearby restaurant and hence, the storytelling began. Pranks in school, antics of questionable judgment, capers on road trips and the delights of youth were the common threads in all our tales. We laughed until we cramped our sides and agreed we were grateful for our long-suffering guardian angels. All too soon, our evening ended (due mostly to waning energy levels).

Quite frankly, I remember little of the ballgame itself. The Twins were not hitting well and I know they lost. Despite my foggy recollection of the details of the game, I smile every time I think of the trip.

Time with good friends is always a homerun.

Quick

Fast food is a convenience many folks partake of on hectic days. Truth to be told, I have limited experience in the fast food world and lest ye think I am a health snob, I am most certainly not. Goodness knows I could live on french fries for the rest of my living days without a murmur. My hesitancy in the quick food routine is my unfamiliarity with the lingo. Add to that my diminished hearing acuity and I am ordering with my fingers crossed, hoping to get what I want.

Case in point. I treated my niece to a Happy Meal last week. She is fairly savvy with the little box of goodies so she promised to coach me through the experience. We pulled up to the ordering screen and I confidently asked for one Happy Meal with chicken nuggets, Gogurt and milk. The faceless voice repeated my request and I confirmed her response. Just as I breathed a sigh of relief, the faceless one squawked "bozh or gurzh?" What? I repeated my order again, thinking I missed something. The garbly voice once again asked, "bozh or gurzh?" Desperate to comply, I said "Gogurt?", hoping I could just throw another word out and get this over with. Once again I hear "bozh or gurzh" and one more word, "toy." Now my niece realized the dilemma and said, "I think they want to know if I want a boy or girl toy in the Happy Meal." Last chance for me to get the drive through line moving again and I blurted out "Girl." Winner, winner, chicken dinner. We got the go ahead to pull forward. My niece sweetly consoled me and said, "My family always has trouble ordering, too." What she should have said was, "They have cheap hearing aids at Costco."

My husband is much more competent in the procedural requirements of ordering quick food. He usually knows what he wants and how to select items from multiple choice menus. He often has his food ordered before I have found the section on french fries. One gift we share, however, is difficulty in deciphering the voice on the other end of the drive through speaker. On our way out of town a couple of weeks ago, we found ourselves talking with the faceless one, hoping to get a cheeseburger, chicken nuggets and, of course, fries. All went well, until we heard, "You can get 2 muzmets for $5.00." What? "You can get 2 muzmets for $5.00." I looked at my husband and asked, "Do you know what she said?" He shook his head and was ready to ask for another repeat. At this point, I was getting impatient. We were already running late so I am thinking whatever deal she is offering is going to have to be ours. How much food can it be for $5.00? So, I yelled out to the faceless one, "Sure." My husband just shrugged his shoulders and pulled ahead. We grabbed our rather hefty looking bag of food and expectantly opened it up. In addition to our order, we were now the proud parents of 2 orders of chicken nuggets (10 each) for five bucks. Yes, that is 20 chicken nuggets. And this is where the story really takes a tragic turn. Twenty miles down the road, all nuggets were consumed and a few miles later, I was licking the last of the french fry salt from my fingers.  I looked at my husband and said, "I guess we were hungry." 

What I should have said is, "I'll pack sandwiches next time."

Unplugged

Once a year my husband and I step off the hamster wheel of daily life and take a week-long vacation to a cabin filled with solitude and serenity. The days leading up to our departure date, however, are anything but serene. Both of us experience moments of frenzy and frazzledness as we snarl our way through vacation preparations. The question is often asked, "Is this really worth it?" It would certainly be easier to stay home, but without a shadow of a doubt I know that our mental health depends on occasionally fracturing the mundane. With that in mind, suitcases are packed, meals are planned and supplies are wrestled into the vehicle. We grimly head down the road and wait for the cloak of demands to melt away.

During the first 24-48 hours, the vacation valves slowly release the tyranny of routine demands and we settle into a luxurious calm. Here is a pictorial rendering of my top ten reasons for committing to vacations each year.

...being welcomed in beastly style.

...wicking off the day's ills with a fluffy white towel. (My household towels should have an expiration date. They are no longer fluffy and white is too dangerous.)

...reading, glorious reading.

...nestling into a comfy reading chair.

...nodding off for a mid-afternoon nap, or mid-morning, or both.

...sipping freshly ground coffee, many cups.

...acquiescing to new trails.

...making new friends.

...relinquishing cell phone service. (My personal favorite.)

...greeting a full moon, veranda style.

I hope you are able to spend a few days vacationing this summer. Rest assured, your mental health will send you a postcard thanking you for it.