Following Elias

And the Sun Shines

"Mom I like my new school," Olive tells me, "Because it has a view of a glacier."

Its true. It does.

And we may live in a trailer, but our driveway marks the start of Tonsina Trail, so after we dropped the kids at school we made a second pot of coffee, and I walked the trail down to the mudflats of low tide, disturbing two eagle who looked for salmon making their way upstream to spawn.

This is my extended yard. 

My yard includes Eagle's nests, giant old Hemlock trees and wild mushrooms, which a neighbor just showed Nick two edible kinds. Last night Nick and David made four-cheese gluten-free pasta with moose meat and "Hedgehog" mushrooms we harvested that afternoon.

I'm not sure if I remember a better meal.

Yesterday morning, Elias shook his head when I asked him if he was ready for school. He refused to get dressed or answer my questions: "Why? What's wrong?" He glared at the ground and stretched, something he does when he doesn't want to talk.

I gave him space, my worry beginning to match his.

Elias's lower lip started to jut out, and just when my imagination started creating all kinds of bully scenarios, the tears came and he said, "We're having a fire drill today and I don't know how loud it will be."

"Oh, thank you for telling me," I sighed.

This I can handle, a known fear, a sudden loud noise that jangles his altered immune system from spending months in the alarming Newborn Intensive Care Unit instead of the dark quiet of my womb.

"Maybe we can ask your teacher if you can be outside for this first one. So you know what to expect."

This at least got him dressed and in the truck for the drive along Resurrection Bay and through town to school.

I warned his teacher that he may be more anxious than normal today and may have a hard time pulling it together after the drill. She seemed more than prepared to get my boy through his first middle school fire alarm and even met us at the end of the day with a big warm smile.

"It wasn't that bad," Elias said. "It wasn't too loud."

"He had a really good day," his teacher said.

Later, as we sat at the beach watching Nick and Olive fish, I asked Elias more about school.

"Is there any kid that you think is really nice?"

And he named an eighth grade boy, a cool kid-- smart, athletic, attractive--who he met this summer and I secretly hoped would look out for Elias, but didn't dare ask. I smiled and text the boy's Mom.

I just love when its cool to be kind. 

This morning, another athletic older boy, one I didn't know, turned to Elias as we walked in the door, and called him the wrong name but, went out of his way to say hello to my quirky kid.

Carrying his own backpack, Elias trotted off to his resource room, without saying goodbye.

And out into the sunshine I walked, beaming.

Middle School, Ready or Not

To the parents of the two middle school girls who recognized Elias as we walked into the elementary school to pick up Olive, who smiled, waved, and said hi to my awkward boy, thank you, you are raising your girls right. Or maybe you aren't. Maybe their innate goodness came with them at birth, but I want you to know your girls' gesture warmed my heart on our first day of school in Seward.

To the parents of the boy Elias hit on the second day of school, I'm sorry, we didn't teach him this behavior at home and, believe me, we are working on his tendency to react with his hands instead of his words. For what its worth, he didn't want to hurt your boy, he just wanted him to stop "acting crazy" which Elias later defined as running and jumping around the room during lunch, an act that does not deserve an open-handed smack in the chest from a boy who doesn't know his own strength. I hope you'll forgive my son and if Elias hits your boy again and your child retaliates, its alright by me. Maybe it'll take getting clocked for Elias to learn not to hit, not that I want him hurt, but I'd take a bruised kid over an unpredictably violent one.

To the teacher who held Elias accountable for his actions, not just the hitting, but his denial of doing it and refusing to cooperate, thank you, thanks for reading him the rule book, for calling him out for assault, lying, and insubordination. His disabilities may play a part in his behavior, but we want Elias to learn there are consequences to every action, and we can't do it without the support of all who work with him. Thank you for being firm and fair, for understanding that Elias's challenges preclude him from the typical discipline process this time, but for letting him know there are limits to the school's tolerance of his aggression and refusal to admit or comply.

To the students who will share the classrooms and hallways with Elias, please be patient with our boy, try not to judge and make assumptions, give yourself time to know Elias, if you do, he might make you smile with his quirky humor, humility, and ability to laugh at himself, a trait that every middle-schooler could harness to make this time of your life a little less painful.

To Elias, first things first, keep your hands to yourself-- how many times do I need to say it?-- keep your hands to yourself, please Bud, it will make all of our lives better.

Second, I still can't believe you are now a middle schooler with a locker, the combination already memorized, even as you fight your own body to slowly turn the dial, sitting in the hallway with your eyes mere inches from the lock, I watched as you tried, and tried again, with the support of your teacher and T.A. until finally the door opened.

I hope even more doors open for you this year, as you grow into your twelve-year-old self, as you step into adolescence with all the emotional turmoil that rides on the hormones of this quirky period of time, may you find your way, even as those who support you take a tentative step back.

 

Middle School, ready or not, here we come...

PS. This picture was taken after the FIRST day of school.

Shift

So we did it.

We moved to Seward on Saturday.

Moved from our house in Anchorage to a 30 foot trailer on the side of a mountain.

And this morning, we dropped Elias at the middle school, Olive at the elementary, and then Nick and I drove off in the fog and rain, leaving our kids within the walls of academia unknown to me, where I am not pacing the halls, listening for signs of unrest.

Instead, I paced the trailer, until Nick sent me on a walk, and I found myself with my hands in the dirt, pulling grass and chickweed from my new perennial garden site, the roots releasing easily after a couple inches of rain saturated the soil these last few days.

"It rains every day in Seward," Olive said to her brother, not glum, just matter of fact, like a teacher telling her class the rules of the room.

And I'm OK with her believing this, so that the first rays of sunshine arrive like fairy dust, casting a spell of appreciation and joy.

I just encountered my own magic mist at our local post office, the only one in a town without a stop light.

"It might be something I ordered," Nick assumed, as we waited in line for a package.

The kind man who sold us a storage unit, mere minutes before, stood a few people in front of us in line, reminding me how Olive saw two children she remembered from camp at the grocery store the previous day and another new camp friend at the middle school when we dropped of supplies for Elias on the eve of the first day.

As we talked with members of Elias's team, all fully competent, that classic teacher mix of warm and stern that leaves you feeling like your kids will be cared for as they are contained, Olive took off her boots and socks and ran through the halls with two other elementary girls, teacher's kids, hanging out on an inservice day, prancing in a line of three behind the music teacher as he set up his new space, peaking at the big kids playing ball in the gym, going out a parent's classroom door to stomp in a puddle or two. Olive said goodbye to the girls two times before we left and still turned on the tears when we wouldn't let her run back for a third time before departing, my girl who worried nightly about leaving all her friends in Anchorage, bonding so easily with a couple Sewardites. 

She's gonna be Ok, I thought, as I watched her play. 

He's gonna be ok, I thought, when we said goodbye to Elias's resource teacher and T.A.'s.

When we reached the counter, the mail clerk took our slip and returned with a box with my name on it. A package from Colby College, my alma matter.

"Did you order something for me?" I asked Nick.

"No."

I opened the box to find a brand new Pendleton wool blanket, blue with a big C, for Colby, for captain, for Christy. Along with this note:

Colby Women's soccer heard about your blanket being stolen, so with the help of some amazing people in Athletics, we hope this one brings you joy and you can create new memories with it. Wishing you all the best in your new place and you always have a home here on "the hill" with Colby Women's soccer.

I learned that my old teammate Kara Hooper contacted the new coach at Colby, someone I never even played for, never sweat for, never knew, and she worked with Colby athletics to not only give me a new blanket, but to find the only one left that still looks like the one I earned over twenty years ago as a young scrappy slide tackler who wanted nothing more than to get dirty and play. 

And so in the span of ten days, I went from waking up to our car stolen and the feeling that people generally suck, to an overwhelming love for my community, which includes folks I've never met but who span out from my hearts center like the fog drifting over Resurrection bay. 

May we all remember our connections to each other, and live in a way that speaks to the goodness of it all.

Cheers my friends!

How Facebook Found our Stolen Car

When Nick walked into the bedroom, his face told me something bad happened, and when he couldn't get the words out right away, I sat up.

"Our cars gone."

"What?"

"Its not in the driveway."

It was Saturday morning, Nick had just returned the night before from a week in the village of Port Graham, where everyone knows everyone, and if a car was missing, it would have just been borrowed by a cousin, and left parked at the community center.

"Its my fault. I drove it last and didn't lock it."

"No, I locked it last night before bed."

I need to pause here.

First of all, why the hell do I so easily take the blame for a thief's decision to trespass on our property and commit a felony?  Grand theft auto: Oh that's my fault, I left the car unlocked. I collect guilt, like plants, watering my sense of responsibility for all that goes wrong with the world.

Second, I am both trusting and forgetful, which means I often leave our back door unlocked on purpose and the cars unlocked by accident. I grew up on a school campus where most of our neighbors not just lived but worked together, leading me to believe that most folks are looking out for me. And I spend a lot of time in my head, dreaming, remembering, writing, so I don't always pay attention to what I'm doing in the moment. Like where I put my coffee cup or beer, Find Mom's Drink is a game we play often at our house. Not only do I forget to lock doors, I forget to close them.

As it turns out, Our Honda Element was locked but I had moved the truck while Nick was away so a neighbor could back in our driveway and load a pile of pavers into her vehicle.  I didn't re-lock the truck and an extra set of keys for the Element and house was still in there from our dipnetting trip a few weeks back.

So some scoundrel walked up our driveway, found the driver's door open on our Nissan, rummaged through the truck, found the Element keys, and drove "Mom's dream car" away.

All while Nick and I slept, bodies entwined, after a week apart. Happy fuckin' homecoming Nick, and what a way to celebrate our last week in Anchorage, a city where crime has been on the rise for the the past few years, with homicides making regular appearances on the daily news.

Our faith in our decision to move to Seward, amplified.

So we called the police and our insurance company and we both posted pictures of our bright orange Element on Facebook asking Anchorage folks to be on the lookout. Our friends shared our post, and their friends, and we turned our phones off their normal setting of silent, ringer at full volume, waiting for the police to call.

Nothing. 

Lots of messages of condolence, but no car.

Nick drove around the city, checking out trailer parks and parking lots. A neighbor almost got in trouble with security at the Century 16 theater for checking the plates on another orange Element.

"The plates could be changed. The box, laden with stickers, off the top," we said. "It could be anywhere."

Nick had the house re-keyed and still sleep didn't come as easy Saturday night.

On Sunday afternoon, our friend Karen (Also known as Ms. Karen, Elias's T. A. for the past three years) called and told Nick her friend saw our car turning on the Seward Highway, driving fast towards downtown. Same plates. Yakima box, with stickers, still on top. The friend had called it in to the police. Nick jumped in the truck and joined the search, only to come home without a sighting.

Still, hope, someone's driving our highly recognizable car around the city, plates and all.

As a kid my parents drove a bright orange station wagon that in middle school embarrassed me to the point of asking them to drop me off around the corner from places, they threatened to keep it for me until I turned 16, I'd roll my eyes, and all I can say is I'm glad I grew up to love the color orange, especially for a car.

I usually leave my phone, like my coffee mugs and beer bottles, in random spots throughout our house, but I kept it close waiting for the police to call. I checked Facebook incessantly hoping for leads.

Nothing more.

So Nick woke early on Monday and did another drive around in the area where the woman had first seen the car. He came home an hour or so later with no luck.

And then he checked Facebook.

Another friend of a friend of a friend saw our car, and this time, parked on the street by her house. Nick called her and confirmed the address, she sent a picture, and off he drove to Meadow Street only to call me minutes later.

"I got it."

"Call the police."

And that is how Facebook, not the police, who are understaffed and overworked with more serious crimes, found our car.

The police came and dusted the Big Gulp cups and mirror for prints. Our car is being detailed as I write. The Mike and Ike's candy and fluorescent orange chips on the floor, the smell of smoke, erased, so we can reclaim the orange Honda Element as our own.

The thieves took or dumped my wool college captain's blanket, blue with a big C on it, a blanket that travelled with me from Maine to Alaska and sure, I use it for the dogs, but I earned it years ago on those manicured soccer fields. Olive's car seat and her stickers she just got from the doctor after her TB test. Elias's accessible parking pass. Two bags of 50 tulip bulbs I just bought at Costco to plant up at our clearing above Lowell Point in Seward, the space where we will someday build our new home. A pair of Smith sunglasses with extra lens. A stone pendant that hung from the rearview mirror, mine since the late 90's, a reminder to be brave in the face of change, that sometimes letting go is the only way to live more authentically.

And for a couple days they stole my faith in people-- but they did not get to keep it.

Or the car.

The community of helpers outnumbered and outsmarted the robbers. And for this, I will go on trusting my community, even if I am a little more vigilant about locking my doors-- that is, until I forget again.

Thank you Facebook for helping us spread the word, and thank you to the kind people who didn't know us personally but took a moment out of their day to respond to information about my stolen "dream car."

Some dreams, after all, come true.

Everything I Know About Love

I first learned from these two:

My Mom and Dad, Sue and Jol, Nana and Papa, married fifty years ago today.

Anyone who knows them would agree with me when I say they epitomize what it means to hold a balanced relationship, fueled by a deep respect and love for each other, that has only increased with age.

I had the honor of wearing my Mom's dress for our Cape Cod wedding, already legally married in Alaska the month before, donned in pants and boots, I fused the two parts of myself with a second ceremony dressed in silk.

May the fibers of my relationship with Nick, strengthened by my parents love, only grow stronger as the years pass, so that we too may someday celebrate fifty years of marriage.

May we all love long and well.

Happy Friday.

...And On

There's something about a music festival, about spending a weekend walking between stages, where the only difficult decision is deciding which bands to miss in order to refuel at our campsite, that suspends me from the normal stresses of life, the music acting like a shot of tranquility, transporting me to an easier place, beyond parenthood, beyond adulthood even, where all I have to do is dance.

If only life could be about dancing, even in the rain-- especially when it rains.

During our three days at Salmonfest, a music festival in Ninilchick to support wild salmon, it rained every day, so we all donned our Xtra Tuff boots and stomped down the grass at the fairgrounds, which soon turned to mud, bolstered each morning with bales of hay strewn about by festival volunteers, just so the dancing could go on...

...and on.

The older couple, both with white hair and braids, alone at the front of the dance floor, moving so gracefully in unison that even the teenagers step out of themselves to watch the symmetry of bodies in motion, beauty in comfort, only possible with time.

The tall one who brings an umbrella to the dance floor.

The dreadlocked one, arms like a windmill, eyes wild, dancing to music beyond the stage.

The other tall one, standing in the middle of the crowd. Not dancing. Holding high an iPhone, turning around to take a selfie with the band.

The five-year-old with moves like velvet, part Elvis, part Michael Jackson, wooing all the ladies, oblivious to the smiles in his wake.

The groper, hands traveling south as his partner deflects them, for later, their bodies in constant contact, like water pouring over rocks.

The young ones, who move as a pack, pushing their way through an already jam-packed crowd, hurried along with a pat and a wave by the 40-something women who no longer worry what others think, not on the dance floor.

The tall two, leaning their heads into the window between them, talking loud, missing the music, enthralled with each other.

The barefoot woman with mud-caked legs getting down center stage, friends joining her now and then, her mission to move greater than theirs, content to dance alone, with energy that only increases as the bands play on...

...and on.

The short one, wide-stance-dancing--elbows and hips beware--claiming her space on the floor, tilting her head back to feel the rain, her arms reaching for her husband's hands, a smile on her face that says: This is it, this is all I need.

Oh wait, that's me.

A woman walked up to Nick and me and said: "I've been watching you two dance and its just so obvious that you love each other."

I gave her a hug and said, "Thank you for saying that. We do."

Our life isn't easy.

At times it downright sucks.

It doesn't just rain it pours. Sleets. Hails sideways.

And yet.

We have love.

The kind that calls for kindness between us when the skies unleash, that allows our bodies to move in synch as the drum beats on...

...and on. 

 

Transplants

I clip the spent blooms from the lower branches of my lilac trees, knowing I won't be here next spring to smell their blossoms as I walk out my front or back door.

Its an act of love, really, this tending to a garden I will soon depart.

"Your yard is beautiful," people often say, as they pass by on their way to or from Fire Island Bakery, and I think: You should see it when I'm not in transition. When my Dahlias fill giant colorful pots instead of blooming alone in black plastic ones on our clearing above Lowell Point in Seward, our soon-to-be home. You should see it when my days are spent weeding and pruning not sorting through years of collected items--photographs, dishes, office supplies, toys, clothes, outdoor gear--and deciding what to keep and what to give away.

The Clover, Chickweed, and grass creep between my perennials, left on their own, they multiply and spread, a reminder that my hands haven't been as dirty as usual. With summer ahead of herself, opening blooms weeks before their standard time, most of my perennials stand petal-less, seeds forming, leaves turning brown. 

But yes, the gardens are still beautiful and soon, no longer mine.

If only I could take them with me, and the four Lilac trees, and the giant Birch on the corner, adorned with an assortment of homemade swings. And while I'm at it, I'll take the master suite Nick built with his own nimble hands, the rocks on the shower floor,  the Hemlock countertop and windowsills where I placed seashells, brought from Cape Cod to Alaska, reminders of the sand dunes and mighty waves of the Atlantic, my first summer home.

This is obviously not the first time I've moved, and two-and-a-half hours by car is a mere jaunt compared to two planes and thousands of miles to reach my childhood home on the East Coast, split between Watertown Ct. and Eastham Mass.

Still, I wish I could bring aspects of Airport Heights with me to Seward. Our neighbors who brought homemade muffins the week we moved across Anchorage, leaving our Spenard home two weeks after Olive's birth, if only they could come too. And all the friendly faces who walk by our corner house and stop to talk across our rose bushes, whose children end up hopping our fence to play on the swings, the way a conversation turns into drinks and before we know it other neighbors join in, prompting Elias to declare: "Its a mini block party!"

Airport Heights has been so good to us, and now its almost time to go. To relocate to Seward, to a mountainside home, with trees for neighbors, and views not of other folks' ranch homes but of the glacier-fed water of resurrection Bay. I'm an ocean girl returning to a seaside town, only one with giant peeks instead of dunes, not the Atlantic but the Pacific ocean, subdued as it moves through the bay to lap the beaches of Lowell Point.

We are returning to Alaska, as the joke goes, as Anchorage is more modern city than last frontier, and though I can't bring my beloved neighbors, nor my Lilac, Birch, Apple or Mountain Ash trees, I did get my hands dirty yesterday afternoon as I dug up Golden Globe, Tiger Lillies, Bleeding Heart, and Forget Me Not to bring to my new home.