Finding the Favorite Moments

People keep asking me what my favorite part of the Britain trip was.  I should probably come up with something--true or not--that can be said in two sentences, since no one really wants to sit through the 24-page pamphlet of highlights that I'm keeping in my head.

I know what I should say.  I should say that the historic buildings were the best.   Yes, it was very cool seeing Shakespeare's grave, walking along Hadrian's Wall, and taking in Henry VIII's immense trail of ruin.

A part of me wants to say that the out-of-doors was my favorite thing.   Like the tucked-away villages of the Cotswolds, framed by fields of lavender.  Or the towering stands of trees punctuating the tiny, winding roads we drove upon.  Or the mysterious, expansive moors that welcomed us to Scotland.

And then there were the awesome people we met.  Funny, open, welcoming and generous, they certainly provided several highlights of my vacation.

But I'm not sure any of those was my favorite thing. 

Force my hand, though, and I know what I'd say.  My favorite thing about the trip is my favorite thing about life--the connections that were made--connections between me and history, me and the land, me and the people. 

Honestly, that's what gets me out of bed each day--the love of the synapse, that awesome feeling that comes when something or someone crosses my path and I happen to be paying attention.  And the more that I pay attention, it seems the more that life astounds me.  You'd think all that "rinse and repeat" would dull my senses, but it doesn't.  It only jazzes me more.

Isn't that amazing? 

Where we'd expect to find an inverse relationship--the rarer the recognition, the deeper the appreciation--we find instead a straightforward relationship between the two--the more I see, the more I love.  And, as if that isn't enough, it turns out that the more toned my observational muscles get, the more thrills I get from smaller and simpler things.

This is really good  news for me, because it takes me a long, long time to raise enough money to jump across the big pond.  And, while I hope to always make time to travel in my life, I also hope--more fervently--that I make time to take notice where it is that I am right now.  And to relish what it is that crosses within my sites each day.

Nailing It

I woke in a start around 4:30 this morning, my foggy eyes focused intently upon my fingertips.  Could it be true, or had I simply had some reality-bending kind of dream?

Indeed, each nail was blanketed in a rich swath of Indigo Blue.

I can recall exactly five times in my life when my fingernails have donned enamel paints.  Today, it turns out, is one of those times.  Really, though, what could I do but wander towards the next-door neighbor's home last evening, five wrinkled dollars jammed in my fist?  It was, after all, a legacy moment, the passing of a small yet significant torch, and I needed to support the event.

Six or seven summers ago, Allison and her friend Bailey started painting nails for the neighbor ladies (guys, too, on one occasion--an East High faculty function, in which a good cause was on the line and cheap beverages were available to provide courage).  The business, which flourished despite its sporadic operating hours, was evidence of at least two things:  These girls knew how to do nails and how to do them inexpensively; and our neighborhood was a happy place.

Still is.

Off and on, then--over the next two or three summers--a salon would appear in our tree-cooled front yard, and, like Kevin Costner in Iowa, the girls learned that, if they built it, people would come.

I could care not two whits about manis and pedis, but I know a glorious and symbolic thing when I see it.  Like some perkily stylish GDP indicator, this nail stand provided hard proof of the wellness of our local environment.  I'm happy to say that the indicators have been quite positive ever since.  And probably long before that stand first appeared, as well.

Which is why it was so heartening to see a new generation of nail artists emerge last evening.

What if it turned out that the answer to all the crud in the world--the cancers, the bombings, the immigrant children turned away--rested in a $3 bottle of OPI nail polish?  What if we could somehow find solace and strength and hope in the colorful brushstrokes of bright paint enthusiastically applied to our time-worn hands?  Who would turn away from such an offer?

...certainly not I, despite my general aversion to dolled-up fingernails.  Indeed, I think I would be first in line if such a simple act held even the tiniest prospect of tipping us back into the realm of a kinder, gentler, brighter way of living.  And I rather like the idea that a couple of pre-teen neighbor girls will be leading the charge.

Stay Calm and Be Happy

Travel is a sandwich made up of Remembering and Forgetting, held together with a thick swipe of Stuff I Did Not Know tucked in between.  It takes time and care to make such a sandwich, but it is always time well spent.

Typically, I start with  "Remembering," which is a hearty, whole-grain slice of research I whip up long before I leave home.  This slice serves two important purposes.  First, it lights my fire, jazzing me up for the trip ahead.  Second, it provides context for what it is that I'm about to experience, which will (fingers crossed) help encourage a few synapses to fire while I'm away.

The remains of the sandwich can be prepared on the road, although some people can't help themselves and give in to the urges of "Forgetting" long before they pull out of the drive.  These urges typically lead to the act of buying underwear or toothpaste in another state or country, which really isn't the worst thing on earth, if you think about it.

For me, though, that slice of "Forgetting" doesn't manifest itself in what I leave out of my luggage.  Rather, for me, forgetting is the conscious act of ignoring what is in my rear-view mirror--all those people and pets that I love, the joy of reading the paper on the back patio, the finally-decent mattress we just purchased--so that I can enjoy what is yet to come.  It is, for me, the most challenging part of the sandwich, the part I sometimes struggle to swallow.

As for all that Stuff I Did Not Know?  That part of the sandwich is always prepared on the road and on the fly,  and it is where a person will find the real meat of a vacation.

Below is some of that Stuff I Did Not Know that made my trip to England and Scotland a terrific one.

1.  The People in Britain are Really Nice
It's not that I thought they wouldn't be friendly, but, honestly, I had no idea that the British people would be as memorable as their history and their architecture.  Take Leo and Jane from Suffolk.  They let us invade their table at an outdoor pub even though it was the 4th of July and everyone back home was blowing up their old Barbie Dolls in honor of our independence from Britain.

Then, there was our London cabbie, a fascinating fellow who told us never to get another cab in London because we could walk around that city just fine on our own. 

There were other fine folks, too--like Briney and Paul, two pub patrons who let us sit with them and then spent most of the evening talking with us, swapping sips of drinks and generally acting like we were fun to hang with.

And I thoroughly enjoyed meeting Emily, a hiker I met along Hadrian's Wall out in the beautiful nowhere.  She was walking the width of England and asked if she could take my photo.  Apparently, she's doing paintings of people she meets.  Either that, or I met a major creeper. . .

. . . And then, on our last day--on the airplane of all places!--there was Linda, our flight attendant from heaven.  After moving Mark and me to more comfortable seating, she caught wind of our 25th anniversary, which was the day before our flight.  Soon, glasses of champagne, a package of United napkins, an entire bottle of champagne and little United "flight" wing pins were raining upon us.  I felt like I'd won the lottery.

2.  Bacon is not bacon is not bacon
Apparently, in the UK, "bacon" means "long slices of Canadian Bacon," or "ham," depending on your perspective.  It was one of the few disappointments of the trip. 

3.  Not All Hand Dryers are Made the Same
First, I learned that almost no bathrooms in Britain have paper towels.  Rather, they have those really loud air dryers--like leaf blowers mounted on a wall.  Most of them run for about 2 seconds, long enough to spatter the water on your pants.  Ah, but then, there is the Dyson Hand Dryer, the Mercedes of dryers...sleek, fast and effective.   I get goosebumps just remembering them.

Speaking of Mercedes. . . .

4.  They'll Give a Mercedes to Anyone
We picked up our rental car in Bath.  While I never mustered up enough courage to drive in Britain,  I did at least ride in style. Why?  Because the Alamo clerk said it was a slow day that day so she gave us a Mercedes.  When I have a slow day, I assign more homework or nap during my plan period.

5.  There is No Separation of Church and State in Britain
Every church we visited (and we visited a lot) included memorials honoring Britain's armed forces.  It was rather stunning to see the patriotism and appreciation, something I've not really noticed in American churches.  And it was very moving.  I was haunted by one, in particular, in Edinburgh's St. Giles Cathedral, erected for a son who died in war, given by his "proud and afflicted father.  My son was gentle, kind and died a hero."  We in this country would do well to do better at this.

6.  Haggis and Whiskey Will Not Kill Me
I knew I'd face both on this trip--we were going with our "Just Say Yes" friends, Barry and Jeanne, after all.  I did not know if I would survive either.  And yet, I did.  Barely.

7.  Greenland is Stunning
I don't know why I looked out the airplane window when I did, but I do know that I could barely turn my head away after that.  There before me was a stunning, mountainous landscape dotted with glacial slides and turquoise lakes.  It was amazing.


8.  Beer is Not Bound by the Clock
I suppose I knew this one was true on paper, but hadn't previously lived it out like I did during this vacation.  Brits, it turns out, like their pubs and their beer and are not averse to having a pint at lunch on a weekday.  Or after lunch.  Or after dinner.

Alas, through all of those lessons, I did my best to learn them well.  But I'm still only human at the end of the day.

Vacating the Premises

Five summers ago, I was knee deep in planning an October trip to Italy that fall.  My planning--which I'd started at least a year before departure--was surprisingly elaborate for a person who imagines herself to be fairly flexible.  But I happily swam in all those details. From studying train tables to chasing down great rentals-by-owner,  I enjoyed the planning almost as much as I enjoyed the trip itself (okay, that's a lie, but it was lots of fun!).  So, I'm curious why it is that I have approached my upcoming UK trip--a trip whose kickoff is in a handful of days--with such a casual attitude.

I have no idea what changed between then and now.  Is it me?  Have I grown--gasp!--blase'?  Or maybe it is the lack of a language barrier on my upcoming trip (although I've been told that English in Edinburgh is no more understandable than Italian in Vernazza).  Another explanation is that I'm in "avoidance" mode, knowing that, if I go on this trip, I inevitably will return to a house teetering on change, since the two young adults living in this house are anxious to write the next, Woods Avenue-less chapters of their lives just weeks after I return.  My inclination is to side with the common-language explanation, because I never, ever want to be blase' about life, anymore than I want to get in the way of my children's futures.

Fortunately, yesterday--rainy, unscheduled, slow-as-taffy yesterday--was the perfect day to gleefully lose myself in the unglamorous details of my upcoming vacation.  My heart rate goes up when I eye the growing pile of vacation paraphernalia that has gathered across the room from me.  Is it weird that the sight of miniature bottles of shampoo, hand sanitizer and lotion gets me kind of jazzed?  Maybe I should have been a model-train enthusiast. . . .

And, really, why wouldn't I be a different person than I was five years ago?  More confident about international travel, less concerned about bringing only carry-ons, even a bit defiant about the TSA and its 3-ounce pat-down dance,  I'm no longer a slave to the unknown, certain that I can make it up as I go.  Or at least, pretend enough to get by.

Ultimately, then, I approach this trip with more confidence--and a rapidly dwindling savings account--knowing the UK holds myriad adventures, ale-tinged giggles, awe-inspired silences and a shockingly blank slate of promises that there is no such thing as wasted moments when you are exploring the larger world.

Bring it on!

Bon Voyage, Life as We Know It!

June 18, 2014.  Let the lies begin.

Tomorrow morning, as I head with old friends to the Ozarks, Allison will head to Costa Rica, for an 11-day adventure that includes kayaking and sea turtles, humidity and zip lines. The only thing our vacations will have in common is the humidity.

While it's true that I have no idea what's in store for me down in the Missouri hollers (Andy Williams is dead, after all), I have a thousand more questions about Allison's time away from home.  Will she get sick?  Find food she can eat?  Will others annoy her?  Will she hurt herself or be lonely?

Not that I'm voicing these questions to her.

And that's where the lying comes in.

I would sooner eat my hand than tell Allison of all the challenges that I suspect await her.  And, long after she's nudged the last sea turtle to water,  those challenges will just keep on coming for pretty much the rest of her life, picking up intensity in August when she moves to campus.

Does it make me a bad parent that I keep these things to myself?  Are Mark and I cruel for wanting her to stretch her wings and struggle a bit?  For not warning her ahead of time that things might get hairy?

Depending on the day, Mark and I can seem downright giddy as we anticipate this next chapter of Allison's life.  Like a young sea turtle angling its way to the waters, Allison is in charge of this new path she will make for herself and our job is to stand on the sidelines, occasionally shouting our encouragement as she manages all the challenges.  And we couldn't be happier for her to face them.

Along the way, I suspect Mark and I will lie--or at least withhold evidence--at an astounding rate, telling her she'll be fine, saying it's no big deal to travel between campuses, wishing her well as she figures out Calculus 106.  These are her mysteries and I'm not sure we'd do much good if we walked in front of her as she navigated them.

Enough, then, with providing Allison shelter.  Enough with walking beside her or helping her forge the path.  It's time for bald-faced lies, sideline cheers and a house suddenly void of a young woman's messes.

It's time for the next chapter.  For all of us.

Father Time

My dad,  Jim Raglin (second from right),  died in October 1993--about a year after Eric was born.  As far as timing goes,  it wasn't my dad's best move, although I believe he'd just run out of fight and did what he needed to do.

Who knows why I just Googled him--an act that would be utterly foreign to this savvy, pre-Internet journalist who happened to be my dad.   Maybe I was just looking for some proof that this funny, thoughtful, bridge-building man who'd greatly influenced me still mattered, despite having died nearly 21 years ago.

What I found, though, caught me off guard.  Here's an excerpt that popped up from a website when I did the search:

I could find little else about this man--a Vietnam vet--that would offer some explanation of his gratitude for my father.

I rather like the idea of my dad possessing some dust-laden secrets, even now, when his bones have become food for the plants--at least those plants that are still allowed to grow at the local Catholic cemetery (mea culpa--I could not help myself).  Yes, I'd really, really like to know who this guy is and how it was that my dad's "courage and conviction saved my life in the fall of 1977."  But, mostly, I'm glad to know that my dad--and his published words, I suspect--made a positive difference in this man's life.

In honor of Father's Day, I'd like to thank my dad for some of the best things he left behind for his family, even now, when so much time has passed since his death:

--Humor  is a gift as well as a bridge.  And it is also a great source of release when you just can't imagine how it is that you will face tomorrow.

-- Labels are silly.  Screw popular opinion and make friends with folks who don't share your skin color, your religion, your political party, your income.

--Do a few good things in secret, even though you know how important storytelling can be.

--Pay attention and give life a whirl, because there are a million stories out there that are worth hearing and telling and experiencing.

I may be a warts-and-all kind of gal, but I know that I am a better person, having lived for 31 years  under the influence of my fine and funny father, Jim Raglin.

Dad, here's hoping you've found all the great fishing holes and funny folks, wherever you may be right now.

It's Time for a Label-ectomy

I still can't believe that clothes come in size 0.  In my youth, no one wanted to be called a "zero," although there certainly were worse names.  Beyond the incomprehensible notion of someone other than a specter or wraith being a size zero, though--are the "zero" racks at Dillards just empty?--any single-digit clothing size seems a bit impractical to me.  Single digits conjure up images of infants and children, not child-bearing women with mama hips and fleshy breasts.

Yes, labels have their place in our lives ("may contain nuts," for instance, is a life-saving bit of information for someone who is allergic or considering a run for Congress).  But, beyond the practical, many labels have outlived their usefulness, or taken on new, sinister meanings.

Take former Nebraska senator Shirley Marsh, who died recently.  I've become so label saturated that I considered it an egregious, sloppy error when the local paper described her as a pro-choice Republican.  Well, it turns out that such people actually exist.  Or at least once existed, before labels became so inflexible and exclusive.

And the whole Eric Cantor defeat has left his colleagues--people who may actually have been willing to meet halfway on contentious issues like immigration--scrambling to outdo each other in their newly-forged "south-of-the-border"paranoia.  Tell me that labels aren't behind this latest hoopla. 


These days, we seem more content to let labels guide us than to actually step into the messy ring ourselves and wrangle a bit with all those competing, complex ideas, and everyone suffers in the aftermath.

What good are these political bookends without a few good books tucked between them?

I know, I know.  

What on earth does a size-14 female--a moderate Democrat who actually once voted for Dave Heineman (not proud of that at this particular moment)--have to offer to this conversation?  Well, first of all, there really doesn't seem to be a conversation on this particular topic, but, aside from that, I have nothing but my muddled, complicated, middle-aged humanity to offer up.

Back in the day, those labels might have been enough to earn me a place at the table.  Now, though, I suppose those same labels have relegated me to "inconsequential" status.

...not that anyone's sitting at the table anyway.