Last I heard (about 2 weeks ago), Derek had just entered the state of Maine and was atop a mountain somewhere looking down on the world. The tops of mountains apparently have better cell phone reception than most other sections of the trail. Also, the view is better.
Upon our return home, my husband spent several days getting ready for Maine himself. Not only was he going to pick up Derek and drive him home, but he wanted to hike The Hundred Mile Wilderness with him. He left on Monday, July 29th. I last heard from him on Wednesday, July 31st (also from atop a mountain). Apparently one of his new hiking poles had snapped and he was surprised by how difficult the early part of the wilderness was. He said it was comparable to skiing a steep, icy mogul field with bad equipment. I can only guess he more than likely has absolutely no cell phone reception or he's hurt or a little of both. It's hard, waiting to hear, but what other choice do I have? I have a feeling everybody is fine and, in fact, having a good time. When they can call, they will. So, here I sit....waiting and wondering..
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Following Your Heart
When I majored in English and French some years ago, I did so out of a love for language and literature, not because I was thinking about a career. Maybe I should have been thinking about a career but I was 17 at the time and had no clearly defined vision of what I wanted to be. Honestly, how many teenagers do? I knew I didn't want to spend my life parked permanently in the suburbs with 3 kids and a station wagon -- what all the women in my neighborhood did back then, with few exceptions.
So, off to college I went, not really certain what road I was going to take. But I enjoyed learning and that was fine. I took liberal arts courses - ecology, French 18h century literature, poetry, 19th century American lit., Shakespeare, creative writing, oceanography, art appreciation, sociology, nature study, math, western civilization etc. After a while, I noticed the way various fields of knowledge intertwined and complemented each other. I made new friends, studied, partied and learned a few hard lessons in love and independence. Time was suspended. One day, while home for Christmas break, an acquaintance of my dad's asked what I was majoring in. "English and French," I told him.
He frowned and said, "You'll never get anywhere with that." He went on to tell me I should be thinking about the future -- about taking classes that would help me get a job. "
Like what?" I asked him. And he told me. Like accounting, business or nursing. "But I'm not interested in those things and I faint at the sight of blood," I said.
"Well, you'll never get anywhere with English." I let it drop. What was the point of arguing with somebody who suffered from tunnel vision? Flash forward 25 years into the future. It's Easter. and we're at my brother in law's house for dinner. Our sons are with us. A friend of my brother in law - a rich guy with a 100 foot yacht and a huge lavish house -- asks my eldest, Derek, what he's majoring in.
"I'm majoring in English and minoring in political science and music," he says.
The guy frowns. "You'll never get anywhere with that," he tells him. I don't remember how Derek responded - or if he even responded at all - but I think he thought the guy was arrogant. What business was it of his, anyway? Lately, Derek has been thinking about pursuing a career in writing. I wonder what he'd say to that?
If all the artists of the world listened to the naysayers, we wouldn't have any writers, painters, dancers, sculptors, musicians, actors etc. Think how boring and sterile our world would be then. Yes, it's tough to make a living in the arts but it can be done, even if it means taking side jobs to keep a roof over your head and the wolf from the door. And just because you elect to go into the arts, it doesn't mean you're taking a vow of poverty -- almost, perhaps, but not necessarily.
Not too long ago, a high school student in my art class asked me if I thought it was a waste of time for him to go into art. Apparently a few guidance counselors and family friends had been advising him to pursue a more "sensible" field. "It might be hard," I told him, "but you have to listen to your heart and make your own decisions about your life. After all, you have to live with yourself a long time." He thanked me and walked away. I wondered, if I'd given him wise advice. I hope so.
So, off to college I went, not really certain what road I was going to take. But I enjoyed learning and that was fine. I took liberal arts courses - ecology, French 18h century literature, poetry, 19th century American lit., Shakespeare, creative writing, oceanography, art appreciation, sociology, nature study, math, western civilization etc. After a while, I noticed the way various fields of knowledge intertwined and complemented each other. I made new friends, studied, partied and learned a few hard lessons in love and independence. Time was suspended. One day, while home for Christmas break, an acquaintance of my dad's asked what I was majoring in. "English and French," I told him.
He frowned and said, "You'll never get anywhere with that." He went on to tell me I should be thinking about the future -- about taking classes that would help me get a job. "
Like what?" I asked him. And he told me. Like accounting, business or nursing. "But I'm not interested in those things and I faint at the sight of blood," I said.
"Well, you'll never get anywhere with English." I let it drop. What was the point of arguing with somebody who suffered from tunnel vision? Flash forward 25 years into the future. It's Easter. and we're at my brother in law's house for dinner. Our sons are with us. A friend of my brother in law - a rich guy with a 100 foot yacht and a huge lavish house -- asks my eldest, Derek, what he's majoring in.
"I'm majoring in English and minoring in political science and music," he says.
The guy frowns. "You'll never get anywhere with that," he tells him. I don't remember how Derek responded - or if he even responded at all - but I think he thought the guy was arrogant. What business was it of his, anyway? Lately, Derek has been thinking about pursuing a career in writing. I wonder what he'd say to that?
If all the artists of the world listened to the naysayers, we wouldn't have any writers, painters, dancers, sculptors, musicians, actors etc. Think how boring and sterile our world would be then. Yes, it's tough to make a living in the arts but it can be done, even if it means taking side jobs to keep a roof over your head and the wolf from the door. And just because you elect to go into the arts, it doesn't mean you're taking a vow of poverty -- almost, perhaps, but not necessarily.
Not too long ago, a high school student in my art class asked me if I thought it was a waste of time for him to go into art. Apparently a few guidance counselors and family friends had been advising him to pursue a more "sensible" field. "It might be hard," I told him, "but you have to listen to your heart and make your own decisions about your life. After all, you have to live with yourself a long time." He thanked me and walked away. I wondered, if I'd given him wise advice. I hope so.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Onward to Maine
I spoke with Derek yesterday. He'd left his cell phone behind at one of the hostels so we weren't able to contact him for a while. When he finally did call, we were already in Michigan for my mom's funeral. He was shaken, to say the least, and took a zero (or a do nothing) day. My mom had been one of Derek's biggest supporters and was very proud of her grandson for not only graduating from college last year, but for his courage to follow through on his hike. She was also very proud of the articles he'd written for our local newspaper chronicling his journey (I'd been mailing her copies).
On speaking with Derek yesterday, he'd just entered the state of Maine and was about 25 miles into it. This is the last leg of his journey which ends at Mt. Katahdin Mt. Katahdin reaches a height of 5,268 feet and is the highest peak in the state. It's situated in Baxter State Park in an area known as the Hundred Mile Wilderness (not to be confused with The Hundred Acre Wood). The second highest peak, by the way, is Sugarloaf Mt. where we skied some years ago. While it only goes up to about 4300 feet, the temperature in the winter never seems to rise much above 10 degrees, especially at the top. Brrrr!
Is he looking forward to the end? Yes, but he said he's also going to miss lots of things -- the heartstopping scenery, the friends he's made etc. Maybe, when he gets home, he'll post something here on my blog.
On speaking with Derek yesterday, he'd just entered the state of Maine and was about 25 miles into it. This is the last leg of his journey which ends at Mt. Katahdin Mt. Katahdin reaches a height of 5,268 feet and is the highest peak in the state. It's situated in Baxter State Park in an area known as the Hundred Mile Wilderness (not to be confused with The Hundred Acre Wood). The second highest peak, by the way, is Sugarloaf Mt. where we skied some years ago. While it only goes up to about 4300 feet, the temperature in the winter never seems to rise much above 10 degrees, especially at the top. Brrrr!
Is he looking forward to the end? Yes, but he said he's also going to miss lots of things -- the heartstopping scenery, the friends he's made etc. Maybe, when he gets home, he'll post something here on my blog.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Goodbye, Mom
I got a 3:00 o'clock phone call early Sunday morning -- one of those calls that makes your blood run cold. For me, a middle of the night call can only mean one of three things: 1. somebody dialed the wrong number 2. somebody got hurt 3. somebody died. For me, it was number three. It was my sister, Vicky, on the other end. She lives in Baton Rouge and wouldn't think of calling in the middle of the night. Our mom, she said, had died in a violent car accident - side impacted by a Suburban (she drove a Toyota Corolla) as she turned left out of her subdivision onto a busy street.
For us it's been a sad and chaotic time. My mom lived in Michigan and so we packed up and drove out to her home to tend to funeral arrangements and the legalities of death.
The hardest part, for me, was going into her house for the first time since she'd died. A cup of tea on the counter had chilled. Her cat was crying for food. Mail had collected in her box and everywhere I looked I sensed my mother's presence. Only one thing was missing -- my mom. I cried. I wanted to give her a big hug and tell her how special she was to me, how much I loved her. Not that I didn't tell her that every time I talked to her.
So, we try to remember my mom how she was -- the good times and the many kind and wonderful things she did for so many people. She volunteered for The American Cancer Society, for her church where she worked in their office and always made newcomers feel welcome. When an elderly neighbor suddenly found herself widowed and alone in the world, my mom brought her dinner each night and often sat watching television with her to keep her company. When another elderly friend lost her sight, she drove her to the doctor's and ran errands for her. My mom sold Avon but, more often than not, became good friends with her clients, bringing them baby gifts, housewarming presents etc. My mom never forgot a birthday, an anniversary or a special occasion until the past few years when she began showing some early signs of dementia.
My mom was born in Manchester, England, the youngest of five children. During WWII she was evacuated to the countryside to live with a farm couple, Mr. and Mrs. Beddoes, at their home in Shropshire (Manchester was being bombed by the Germans). The house was over 700 years old and had a cobblestone kitchen floor and a big pump at the kitchen sink. It was the first time my mom had ever seen apples growing on trees, picked blueberries for pies or held a baby chick in her hands. After the war was over, she returned to Manchester. Eventually she met my dad, a reporter and editor for The Manchester Guardian. Before long, my parents married, moved to Canada and then the US and settled outside of Detroit where my sisters and I grew up. In 1993, she became an American citizen, something she studied hard for and was very proud of.
We were proud of her too. More than anything, though, we miss her.
For us it's been a sad and chaotic time. My mom lived in Michigan and so we packed up and drove out to her home to tend to funeral arrangements and the legalities of death.
The hardest part, for me, was going into her house for the first time since she'd died. A cup of tea on the counter had chilled. Her cat was crying for food. Mail had collected in her box and everywhere I looked I sensed my mother's presence. Only one thing was missing -- my mom. I cried. I wanted to give her a big hug and tell her how special she was to me, how much I loved her. Not that I didn't tell her that every time I talked to her.
So, we try to remember my mom how she was -- the good times and the many kind and wonderful things she did for so many people. She volunteered for The American Cancer Society, for her church where she worked in their office and always made newcomers feel welcome. When an elderly neighbor suddenly found herself widowed and alone in the world, my mom brought her dinner each night and often sat watching television with her to keep her company. When another elderly friend lost her sight, she drove her to the doctor's and ran errands for her. My mom sold Avon but, more often than not, became good friends with her clients, bringing them baby gifts, housewarming presents etc. My mom never forgot a birthday, an anniversary or a special occasion until the past few years when she began showing some early signs of dementia.
My mom was born in Manchester, England, the youngest of five children. During WWII she was evacuated to the countryside to live with a farm couple, Mr. and Mrs. Beddoes, at their home in Shropshire (Manchester was being bombed by the Germans). The house was over 700 years old and had a cobblestone kitchen floor and a big pump at the kitchen sink. It was the first time my mom had ever seen apples growing on trees, picked blueberries for pies or held a baby chick in her hands. After the war was over, she returned to Manchester. Eventually she met my dad, a reporter and editor for The Manchester Guardian. Before long, my parents married, moved to Canada and then the US and settled outside of Detroit where my sisters and I grew up. In 1993, she became an American citizen, something she studied hard for and was very proud of.
We were proud of her too. More than anything, though, we miss her.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Stick To Your Apples
Well, I finally finished my enormous still life. It's nearly four feet long and two feet wide. Actually, I don't know the exact measurements but it required a lot of time, paint and hair pulling. The silver pitcher itself gave me fits. I must have spent three four to five hour sessions mixing and mixing to get the color right and then mixing some more in an effort to make it look metallic. My palette was a smear of umbers, yellows, blacks and blues. Then the green apples began to turn yellowish. Painting has it downside. Fruit and vegetables rot, flowers wilt. I always get paint over me - my hands, face, legs - you name it. Some of the paints aren't really safe -- namely the cadmiums which are heavy metals and penetrate the skin. I run to the bathroom many times during the course of a painting session to wash up.
There were many times when I got frustrated and almost painted a big X across the entire board, times when I felt like smashing it on the ground. But where would I have been then? No, to get something the way you want it, you have to persevere. Nothing comes of nothing, as somebody sang. The same applies to writing. If we give up on our work, then we have nothing to show. So, stick to you apples.
I'm off now to the studio. I talked with Robert yesterday who told me there's still a small problem with a couple of the apples. "It's worth spending a little more time on them." He gives us plenty of encouragement but never lets us get away with sloppy work either. I'm grateful for that.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Stopping Home
Last week, when Derek made his way into New York State, he called. Could he bring some friends home for a few days? Of course, we said. So, my husband drove to Harriman State Park and picked up him and three of his hiking friends, and brought them all here for a brief sojourn from their arduous journey. So, we had Widowmaker, Cheeze, Katerpillar, Matt and Udog ( possibly the most well behaved dog I've ever met) stay with us for a few days. Matt found Udog in a state park last year, beaten and starving. He took her in, had her spayed and nursed her back to health. Now she accompanies Matt on his hike along the AT. She even carries her own little doggie backpack containing her food and leash.
On his first night camping on the trail, Widowmaker pitched his tent under a dead tree. That night a storm toppled the tree onto his tent. He was all right but it a close call. He was immediately dubbed Widowmaker.
The guys camped out on our den floor, grateful for a hot shower, some home cooked meals and a chance to rest their weary feet. Derek took them across the bay to Sunken Forest, Fire Island where they gazed at the ocean and took a quick swim in the chilly salt water. Salt water, by the way, has wonderful healing powers and the dip in the ocean helped to heal their sore feet. If you think of the ocean as a big Epsom Salts bath and you get the general picture. On their last night here, Widowmaker, who attended cooking school, whipped up a chocolate mousse to die for and we treated them to a Long Island specialty -- spaghetti with Littleneck clam sauce. The next morning, Dennis drove them back to the trail and they continued on their trek northward.
Derek, by the way, is now in Vermont where last night the temperature plunged into the upper 30s. This is July? Today he'll be going over Bromley ski area -- a place we skiied as a family many years ago.
On his first night camping on the trail, Widowmaker pitched his tent under a dead tree. That night a storm toppled the tree onto his tent. He was all right but it a close call. He was immediately dubbed Widowmaker.
The guys camped out on our den floor, grateful for a hot shower, some home cooked meals and a chance to rest their weary feet. Derek took them across the bay to Sunken Forest, Fire Island where they gazed at the ocean and took a quick swim in the chilly salt water. Salt water, by the way, has wonderful healing powers and the dip in the ocean helped to heal their sore feet. If you think of the ocean as a big Epsom Salts bath and you get the general picture. On their last night here, Widowmaker, who attended cooking school, whipped up a chocolate mousse to die for and we treated them to a Long Island specialty -- spaghetti with Littleneck clam sauce. The next morning, Dennis drove them back to the trail and they continued on their trek northward.
Derek, by the way, is now in Vermont where last night the temperature plunged into the upper 30s. This is July? Today he'll be going over Bromley ski area -- a place we skiied as a family many years ago.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Sad News
Some sad news. This past weekend one of my former students died in a motorcycle accident. Apparently, he was drunk and when his friends took his car keys away from him he took off on somebody's motorcycle and lost control, hitting the side of a store. He was booking so it couldn't have been a pretty sight. I'm glad nobody else was hurt or killed.
Jonathan was basically a good hearted guy. He was good looking, charming, talked incessantly and was a gifted athlete. He was also impulsive and his parents were not very involved, at least academically. He had some learning disabilities. I hate this kind of news. I've had other former students die. Two were shot in drug deals gone bad and another died of AIDS. They were all basically good kids with terrible parents.
When you've been teaching for a while, this happens. You lose former students. It comes with the job. Some make it and some don't. My husband taught math for so many years and he lost students as well -- to accidents, disease, suicide and one heroin overdose of a truly gifted pianist. Losing a student never ceases to shock us. All you can say is, "What a waste of a precious life."
When you work in an elementary school, though, as I do, you almost feel that you've lost one of your own. I see these kids every six schools days from the time they enter kindergarten until they graduate in sixth grade. In some small sense, I feel I've helped raised them. If only we could do something to prevent these tragedies.
Jonathan was basically a good hearted guy. He was good looking, charming, talked incessantly and was a gifted athlete. He was also impulsive and his parents were not very involved, at least academically. He had some learning disabilities. I hate this kind of news. I've had other former students die. Two were shot in drug deals gone bad and another died of AIDS. They were all basically good kids with terrible parents.
When you've been teaching for a while, this happens. You lose former students. It comes with the job. Some make it and some don't. My husband taught math for so many years and he lost students as well -- to accidents, disease, suicide and one heroin overdose of a truly gifted pianist. Losing a student never ceases to shock us. All you can say is, "What a waste of a precious life."
When you work in an elementary school, though, as I do, you almost feel that you've lost one of your own. I see these kids every six schools days from the time they enter kindergarten until they graduate in sixth grade. In some small sense, I feel I've helped raised them. If only we could do something to prevent these tragedies.
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