Click on the above photo, and you'll get a good view of the heron in flight.Monday, August 4, 2008
5 a.m. Refuge
The girls and I went camping Friday evening. Eliza swam in the camp pool. Maggie latched on to a noodle and paddled furiously; she actually navigated the entire length of the pool several times -- unlike a few weeks ago where the only distance gained was when Gramma Nete played tow barge. After swimming, we ate hot dogs encased in corn tortillas with shredded cheese -- except Maggie, who wanted hers sans cheese. And dessert, of course, was S'mores.And then Eliza, reminding me of her Mama and Auntie Ana's eagerness to explore, announced, "Let's go for a walk." She found a trail, which joined a National Forest Park Trail. Maggie walked the entire distance, a good half hour I think. Afterward we headed back for camp, and then on a trek to the bathhouse during which Maggie got her first piggy back ride of the day. Historically she's piggy backed for all of our excursions. But this time, as I hoisted her up on my back after seeing her lagging, she asked, "My legs are so tired from swimming and hiking. It's okay if I ride a while now, right?"
Back at the tent, I pulled tee shirts from my bag -- one for each of us. Another night-with-Grammie tradition. I earn the tees at races; they wear them for slumber parties. We fell asleep almost as soon as we crawled into our sleeping bags. But then about 5 a.m., the wind shifted and I bolted, wide awake. Lightening flashed in the distance. Heat lightening? I gathered up all the food and stuffed it in the tent, just in case. I waited a bit longer, and heard thunder. So I unlocked the car door and then unzipped the tent. "Maggie, I need you to come with me." She reached up, wrapped her arms around me and hung on tight as I carried her to the safety of the car. Back for Liza. "Eliza, I need you to come with me." She crawled out on her own, and I hoisted her to save time and shoved her in the car. The storm didn't last long, nor did it get real intense.
I had grand delusions of sleeping once we were back in the tent. Instead they enjoyed pecan rolls and chocolate soy milk in the "water beds" we now had. The girls showered, as we decided what to do next. We went ahead and loaded up the soggy wet mess into my car since we couldn't do much else anyway. And then the weather cleared just long enough for some more playground and swim time before check out.
As I drove toward their house, the girls took turns chatting to their daddy on my cell phone. I learned a lot about their personalities by listening to each one tell their version of the highlights of the trip.
After hanging up, Eliza asked, "Now when are we doing this again?"
That's Eliza-speak for "Great job, Grammie."
Bubblers & Garbage Bag Fairies
Liza (above) and Maggie take turns blowing dish soap bubbles with the boat bubbler. . .
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Beaten Soundly
It was a chest heaving, heavy breathing, arms pumping, leg churning race to the 400-meter finish. And I lost -- to my six-year-old granddaughter, who had asked to race on her elementary school track.
"Remember when I was little and you always won?" she asked.
Oh yes, I did. She was about 2 1/2 and I'd take Eliza and her sister to the track in Houghton. Eliza and I would run 100-meter "races", me jogging alongside as she ran as hard as her little legs would go. I taught her not to cross her arms across her chest, as girls are prone to do. I taught her to pump her arms; she tended to run with her arms at her side. But even then, she needed no coaching on her legwork. She loved to run and she ran fast.
"I couldn't run very far then," Eliza said. 100-meters, maybe 200, that was all. This year at school she earned two key chains, both with the emblem of a foot with a heart cut out of the middle -- one for every five miles she logged at school. One time she beat everyone in her class. Another time she beat all but one boy. And yesterday she beat her gramma.
"You must have run that in about. . ."
"I don't want to know the time," Eliza said. "I just like to run."
And I like to run with her -- especially when she wins. It's time. She is young; I am old.
"Remember when I was little and you always won?" she asked.
Oh yes, I did. She was about 2 1/2 and I'd take Eliza and her sister to the track in Houghton. Eliza and I would run 100-meter "races", me jogging alongside as she ran as hard as her little legs would go. I taught her not to cross her arms across her chest, as girls are prone to do. I taught her to pump her arms; she tended to run with her arms at her side. But even then, she needed no coaching on her legwork. She loved to run and she ran fast.
"I couldn't run very far then," Eliza said. 100-meters, maybe 200, that was all. This year at school she earned two key chains, both with the emblem of a foot with a heart cut out of the middle -- one for every five miles she logged at school. One time she beat everyone in her class. Another time she beat all but one boy. And yesterday she beat her gramma.
"You must have run that in about. . ."
"I don't want to know the time," Eliza said. "I just like to run."
And I like to run with her -- especially when she wins. It's time. She is young; I am old.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
I Choose a Skirt
A recent Runners' World article, "Skirt Culture", discussed the controversy about skirts and running. Before reading that, I didn't know a controversy existed, although I DO know that some women do and some women don't. Me? I usually choose a skort (a skirt with inner shorts) -- for Mom's sake.
Mom revived worn-out furniture for a living. Antique fainting couches with only shreds of fabric remaining would become plantation worthy under her skillful hands. She doted the same gentle care toward a family's favorite sofa, a dad's recliner and a momma's favorite rocker.
After loading and hauling a piece of furniture to her shop (Mom always said we could "do anything a man can; it just might take us a little longer"), I'd help her hoist the furniture up on saw horses. We'd then take that piece down to just the wood, or sometimes bare wood in which case she'd also sand and refinish the wood as well. She'd then tie springs, add burlap and lots of cotton batting. Finally after taking careful measurements, she'd make patterns using old newspapers, use the patterns to cut fabric, and then sew and staple the fabric atop. I can still hear her special sewing machine start up in its two-tone pitch: mmmm UMMMM. She had a foot-long special needle she used to tie buttons onto the back -- fainting couches had hundreds, it seemed to me. And tying those buttons on was monotonously repetitive.
Though Mom's job was traditionally a male's job, Mom always maintained her feminine side. Instead of a toolbox she carried bags she herself designed to hold her staple gun, hammer, tape measure and other tools. She wore slacks, as her job demanded it; but she wore the slacks with a blouse or sweatshirt with feminine designs. And she wore a tad bit of makeup. She was a female who just happened to love her traditionally-male job; not a female trying to be a male. And she made that distinction quite clear in her mannerisms and dress.
If she could see me run, I'm not sure she'd appreciate my bun completely covered by a cap, and the unisex impression that leaves. She'd be dismayed to know that in extreme heat I let my midriff show by wearing a sports bra sans outer top. But the skort with the outer skirt flapping in the breeze as if displaying the statement, I AM a female who happens to run . . . .She'd be very pleased indeed. She'd know that she did pass one of her values on to me. And that would bring her honor.
Mom revived worn-out furniture for a living. Antique fainting couches with only shreds of fabric remaining would become plantation worthy under her skillful hands. She doted the same gentle care toward a family's favorite sofa, a dad's recliner and a momma's favorite rocker.
After loading and hauling a piece of furniture to her shop (Mom always said we could "do anything a man can; it just might take us a little longer"), I'd help her hoist the furniture up on saw horses. We'd then take that piece down to just the wood, or sometimes bare wood in which case she'd also sand and refinish the wood as well. She'd then tie springs, add burlap and lots of cotton batting. Finally after taking careful measurements, she'd make patterns using old newspapers, use the patterns to cut fabric, and then sew and staple the fabric atop. I can still hear her special sewing machine start up in its two-tone pitch: mmmm UMMMM. She had a foot-long special needle she used to tie buttons onto the back -- fainting couches had hundreds, it seemed to me. And tying those buttons on was monotonously repetitive.
Though Mom's job was traditionally a male's job, Mom always maintained her feminine side. Instead of a toolbox she carried bags she herself designed to hold her staple gun, hammer, tape measure and other tools. She wore slacks, as her job demanded it; but she wore the slacks with a blouse or sweatshirt with feminine designs. And she wore a tad bit of makeup. She was a female who just happened to love her traditionally-male job; not a female trying to be a male. And she made that distinction quite clear in her mannerisms and dress.
If she could see me run, I'm not sure she'd appreciate my bun completely covered by a cap, and the unisex impression that leaves. She'd be dismayed to know that in extreme heat I let my midriff show by wearing a sports bra sans outer top. But the skort with the outer skirt flapping in the breeze as if displaying the statement, I AM a female who happens to run . . . .She'd be very pleased indeed. She'd know that she did pass one of her values on to me. And that would bring her honor.
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