Posted on by jsmith

What I’ll be thinking about on September 11th.

I’ve been thinking about how Sunday will mark the ten-year anniversary of September 11th.

Have you?

Large scale commemorations and broadcasts will grace that day, as they should. But remembering September 11th has always led me down a quieter road, to a little place and time in my life that now, a decade later, seems no more than a tiny speck on my well-weathered windshield.

I remember that Tuesday morning so clearly.

Do you?

We were living in a tiny rental home that sat sixty rural miles east of Pheonix, on an old military base that had been converted into married housing for students at ASU.   At that time, the side of the base to which we’d moved had opened up very few homes for occupancy, so we were surrounded by rows and rows of empty square houses that looked like neatly discarded shoe boxes.  The exterior of our little abode was a light pink stucco (my two-year old was thrilled), while the inside boasted blindingly blank white plaster walls that, to me, always looked thirsty for an Italian fresco.  The kitchen, however, had been updated, and I was in love with the first gas stove I’d ever used.  Even now, when I light a burner, the smell of the new flame takes me back ten years to my snug little kitchen on “the base.”

That Tuesday morning, I padded barefoot across the cool tiled floor of the living room.  The tiles were large, flat and gray–like that of a grocery store–and covered the entire house, bedrooms and all.  Exhausted from yet another sleepless night with my newborn, I slowly made my way to the cupboard where I reached clumsily for bowls and spoons to make my two-year old breakfast; we’d just moved in a few weeks earlier, and feeling my way through the house was not yet automatic.

My husband had left earlier that morning to catch the forty-minute bus ride to his classes in Mesa, and I was facing another long hot day, alone and inside, with my girls.  It was not wholly unpleasant, just painfully quiet.  We had moved from Portland to Pheonix just a few weeks before, leaving the northwestern city at its summertime peak:  brilliant flowers, shady trees and balmy, eighty-degree days.  We had also left both of our families, a lovely circle of good friends, and the colorful bustle of city life.  We arrived in East Mesa to one hundred and eighteen-degree days, hardly a soul in sight, and a house that looked like it had landed on Mars.  Where were the palm trees and swimming pools of our imaginings?  The landscape was dusty, brown and bare.  So empty, so silent.  We were excited about grad school, but this move had been hard.  Especially for me.  I missed our family and friends and pretty little city on the river.

But overall, I knew that life was still good.  I knew the days would eventually cool down enough to take the girls to the park, that I would eventually make new friends, that I would eventually sleep a full seven hours again.  I knew Derrick would eventually get his degree and hopefully, a better job for it.  Despite my homesickness, I knew that the future was bright.  That thought comforted me every morning when I woke up, that particular Tuesday morning included.  I made toast and grabbed a yogurt from the fridge, then walked back into the living room with the intention of telling my daughter it was time to come to the table and turn off the tv.

Instead, I found myself frozen in front of it as I watched a huge skyscraper collapse into rubble.  For a moment I thought I was watching some kind of documentary on demolishing old buildings; the destruction looked intentional.  But as I sat down, yogurt unopened in my hand, I saw the same events unfold that everyone else was watching on that bright fall morning.  And I heard the phone ring and my husband’s voice telling me he was coming home early per the instructions of the university.  I was upset, but mostly confused.  How scared should we be?  What would be hit next?  Who else was going to die?  Would we?  Our children won’t understand that at first, we really didn’t know.

I was thinking about all of this during my run this morning, and how it seemed impossible that ten years have passed since that surreal day.  And I was thinking about how small my world was against the backdrop of that day’s enormity.  And how my own little life has unfolded so kindly since then, despite the murky waters we’ve all had to swim through.  My family’s hopes and dreams have, for the most part, been realized since that Tuesday morning.  And I was thinking, as I ran, of what a tremendous thing it is that our society–rumpled and bruised as it’s been–has still provided us with infinite opportunities to chase those hopes and dreams, rumpled and bruised as they may be, too.

And maybe it was the endorphins, but a sudden rush of gratitude filled my beating heart as I ran, and I felt a stab of excitement about the future that quickened my pace just a little.  And I thought about our country then and our country now and all of the problems it’s faced in between.  But I also thought about all of the good people trying to solve them.  And I thought about my little adobe house with my little babies then and my bigger house with my bigger children now and all of the problems that we’ve faced in between.  And I thought about all of the good people who’ve helped us to face them.

And I thought about how, when I finished my sunny, sweaty run this morning, I would have the comfort and autonomy to sit down at a keyboard and type out all of these thoughts.  And with a deep breath that filled my lungs to soaring, I thought about how I could share those thoughts openly with whomever chose to listen.  Because while sharing them I would know, as I’ve always had the privilege of knowing,  that I am safe, and free, and home.

Posted on by jsmith

If the scriptures are true, then camping is a sin.

I just got back from a Labor Day weekend camping trip.  Did you go camping over Labor Day?  It seems that’s what everyone does on this particular holiday, at least up here in the good ‘ole Pacific Northwest.  We were up by Mt. Rainier and boy, was it fun/dirty.  I mean, fun.  I mean:  dirty.

I had dirt in my hair and in my ears and in my peg-legged Lucky jeans that I got at Ross a few years ago and really aren’t all that cute, but they say “Lucky” on them and have the cute shamrock pocket lining and were only thirty dollars and that’s a small price to pay to feel hip and young.  Hence,  they are now my Cleaning the Garage/Camping Jeans.  But I digress.

I had dirt in my eyelids, under my fingernails, and between my toes.  My previously lime-green flipflops turned khaki-colored from the dirt that was encrusted on them by the end of Day One.  I had dirt behind my knees and between my teeth and under my tongue.   A fine mist of dirt settled upon the inside of the camper in which we slept, seeping into our pillows and blankets, jammies and socks. Large dirtclods replaced what had once been my children.  On Day Two I looked up and saw them standing a ways off facing me, three brown figures in a row, lined up by size like Goldilock’s bears.  I waved and called out to them, but they just stared past me with a blank look on their dark faces, seemingly intent on the dirt their cousins were kicking up before them.  This moment should have motivated me to wash them up, but that seemed like a heckuva lot of work.  Besides, the only thing worse than dirty kids is muddy kids, which is all that “camping showers” (talk about a euphamism) can usually offer.  So I just yelled at them to enjoy their dirtiness until we got home, and that I would be by the campfire reading my book, not to be disturbed for awhile, thankyouverymuch.  The Dirtclods nodded silently back to me, mouths hanging open.  (I think I saw a little dirt spilling out of Ethan’s lower lip about then.  No wonder he couldn’t talk.)

I woke up on Day Three in my dirty bed and thought of only two things:

1.  I wish we had another day to ride bikes, go on hikes to bridges and waterfalls, play games, eat junk, and sit by the campfire.

2.  Only 240 minutes until I will be standing in my own white, shiny, spotlessly clean shower. (That included packing and travel time.)

For all the talk about “roughing it” in an attempt to get back to our natural state, I personally have decided that human beings are just not meant to be that dirty.  How did this become virtuous?  I feel a need, as a wife and mother, to prove my Fun Factor by showing that I can handle–even enjoy–the dirt.  My kids have no idea it bothers me.  But I’m gonna confide in you right now, my three faithfuls:  I do not like the dirt.  It is uncomfortable.  It is itchy.  It is sticky.  It is icky.  It is far, far away from cleanliness, which, we are told, is next to godliness.  So if we visit Mother Nature to get in touch with our Divine Nature, then–and this is according to scripture, which, as you know, is where I get all of my ideas–shouldn’t it be a lot cleaner out there?  In fact, I thought the earth was supposed to have been immaculate until we nasty humans nasted it up.  If so, then why isn’t the earth in its untouched, pristine state–ala Mt. Rainier–more, well, pristine?  I need to talk this over with an environmentalist, but I don’t know any.  (I may live in the Pacific Northwest, but I also live by a nuclear power plant.  Not a lot of tree-huggers in these parts.)

Do you hug trees?  Do you like to camp?  Do you live by a nuclear power plant?  (I’m just throwing that last question in for fun.  If you do, let’s talk.  I may have some shampoo that can help.)  I’ve decided that I do not hug trees, I do like to camp, I do live by a nuclear power plant, and I do hate The Dirt.  But my husband and my kids love The Dirt, and I love them, and I love watching them get dirty together.  And most of all, I lovelovelove  coming home to my cleancleanclean shower and getting all of that dirt off of me.  The high after that wash-up is almost as intense as what you get after running a marathon, but with none of the training.  And between three months of running and three days of dirt, I just might take the running.  At least sweat runs clear.

Posted on by jsmith

I’m kind of freaking out…

 

…about my three kids suddenly in school all day?  About reaching my late thirties, letting go of young motherhood, and staring down an entirely new, as-of-yet-blank chapter in my life?  About my beloved children growing so big and so tall and so fast that tears spring to my eyes if I let myself even think about it?

No, my friends.  Read a different blog for that kind of sentiment.  Here’s why I’m really freaking out:

I lost my wedding ring.  And.

No one has hit on me.  At all.

Not a man, not a woman, not even my usual crowd of admirers at the gas station down the street.  (I don’t want to brag, but I’ve had quite a bit of success there in the past.)

No one seems to have noticed that a) I’m painfully attractive, and b) I’m not wearing a wedding ring, which means I’m also, presumably, painfully available.  I haven’t gotten so much as a sidelong glance from a potbellied greaseball in his sixties.  Where have all the cowboys gone?

Now, I feel inclined to assure my three faithfuls that I did not lose my wedding ring on purpose.  I was applying lotion (okay, bronzer) after a shower the other night and took off my wedding ring to avoid gunking it up.  I didn’t notice it was gone until the next morning, and I expected to find it right on the bathroom counter where I left it.  I looked to the left, to the right, upwards and downwards and sidewards and still…no bling.  I sighed and figured it would turn up soon, but a week later, still no bling.  I have since deeply intensified my search tactics but as of this morning, I am still without bling.  What’s a girl to do?  I’ve always believed in making lemonade out of lemons, so there was really only one way for me to handle this problem:  work the ringlessness like nobody’s business.  I’ve been dieting, working out, applying extra thick layers of the bronzer and actually washing–and styling!–my hair since that ring disappeared, all with the bottled hope that my youthful splendor would revisit me in the form of a compliment or pick-up line.  But apparently even the biggest hair and the orangest skin and the barest finger are not enough to make a married thirtysomething look like a single twentysomething.  Who knew.

This entire episode brought to mind a conversation I had with my good friend Rachel at the lake this summer.  She was lamenting about how she had lost her wedding ring also, and not a man alive seemed to notice.  She even had her own husband calling her daily to see if anyone had asked his wife out on a date.  It was important to him that this should happen.  Their conversations, she told me, went something like this:

Jason:  “So, how’d it go today?”

Rachel:  “Nothing.”

Jason:  “Nothing?  No one?”

Rachel:  “Nope.”

Jason:  “Did you shower and shave?”

Rachel:  “Yep.  Hair and lip gloss, too.”

Jason: “Well, something will turn up.  Maybe you should hit Costco tomorrow.”

You can never presume to know the secrets of a marriage, but I’d say this is a couple who loves each other.

Rachel and Jason’s team-building experience illustrates a point I’ve been trying to articulate in my head for some time.  Isn’t it interesting (and a little grotesque) how we married couples eventually, inevitably, morph into a single person?  I’m not talking about the whole Cleaving-To-His-Wife kind of thing, which is the pretty part.  I’m talking about how I sometimes meet an interesting, attractive woman and think, I should introduce her Derrick–they’d be perfect for each other! This happy thought is always immediately toppled over by another one:  He’s already married to you, dummy.

Oh yeah, that’s right, I reply to myself, ever surprised by how surprised I am in remembering this.  Geez, I was just looking out for him.  It’s like we’re so overlapped with each other, I’m actually checking out girls for him.  I’m not sure exactly what this means, but my gosh it can’t be healthy.

Which brings me a reassuring thought:  Have strangers failed to notice me because Derrick is losing some of his mojo, too?  Perhaps my husband’s stuffy, tangible married-ness is seeping out of my own pores, deflecting any good pick-me-up karma that would normally come my way. Yes, that’s it.  That must be it. If he would just buff and bronze himself up a little more it would spill over into me, and surely the potbellied greaseballs would vie for my affections once again.  And then I could finally bat my eyelashes, toss my hair, and shake my head down at them with the compassionate, heavy-lidded eyes of a woman who’s seen too much of the world.

“Sorry, sweetie.  I’m so flattered, but you see…(sigh and another head shake)…I’m married.”

(Oh please, Universe.  Let me need to say it just once.)

“I figured you might be.  Your husband’s one lucky man.”

“Thank you.”  (Coy smile.)  “Thanks very much.  You’re too kind.”

“Not kind, miss.  Just honest.”

(And please let him say miss and not ma’am.)