Deliberately preserving a memory

I just spent some time viewing images and videos from September 11. Yes, it was upsetting. Yes, it made me feel ill; it always does. Yes, once again Google has failed to observe this day in any way, even though they celebrated the invention of a toy recently, and a somewhat obscure artist's birthday, and all sorts of wishy-washy, grey events that offend no one. Pansies.

I remember being at work that day. In the kitchen at the office, which was always crowded on Tuesdays because, in the golden days, Tuesdays were "bagel days." The toaster got a workout, the butter and creamed cheese ended up smeared on the counter, and while we were milling and toasting and spreading fatty goodness, a co-worker stepped in from the back door and announced that a plane had just hit the World Trade Center.

We were all stunned. At first, people thought it was a small plane, some clueless person, perhaps a pilot who'd suffered medical duress. And it went on. I remember when we heard about the second plane, saying to someone, "This is an attack." I knew it, then. No accident, no human illness had caused such damage. And again, it went on. More people hurt and killed. More flames and debris, paper and soot raining down on the streets of New York City, at the Pentagon. We all gathered in a back meeting room, someone found the old TV on a cart, and an intern acted as a human antennae so we could get a clear enough picture to view the screen without headaches—and the view was so clear that we watched the second plane hit the towers. The woman next to me gasped when it struck, inhaling with such horror that the sound represented every agonized soul in that room.

A friend called me when I was back at my desk for a brief moment; he was in some other, far-flung state. Texas? I can't even recall. He'd heard about the Shanksville plane before I did. He told me another one had gone down, not far from Pittsburgh. "What the hell is going on?" he asked me, aghast. I did not know. We hung up, and I found more updates confirming what he'd said. No one really knew what the hell was going on. We knew it was bad, very bad.

Another friend who sat across from my desk was frantically phoning her husband, a pilot. Who'd flown out that morning. Was he okay? Yes. It took many minutes, but she reached him. He'd had to fly back, or land somewhere unplanned. He was okay.

Should we stay at work? Should we go home? No one knew what to do. We were on the North Shore, not really downtown, and even though the folks in the heart of the city were evacuating, many of us were loathe to do the same for reasons we couldn't quite express. Was it fear? Many of us were young and single, living alone. Perhaps we glimpsed the terror and uncertainty that waited in our empty apartments. At the office, we were together, united, shocked as one. We knew, even then, that leaving that communal space and returning home meant hours and hours of watching the coverage, reliving the stomach-turning moment of those buildings imploding in a downward peeling motion. Most of us stuck around until mid-afternoon; nothing was accomplished.

Even in the days that followed, little was accomplished. Everything was changed. I remember walking to get lunch somewhere, and looking up at the beautiful, clear, empty skies. No planes, No air travel whatsoever. The vast blue was strangely silent, after years of constant airport and hospital traffic. It was eerie. It made me feel like hiding. Even when the skies reopened, I can remember rushing out to look when a plane sounded too close, an awful fear clamping down on me when anything looked remotely abnormal up there.

It will never be the same. I still cannot comprehend that sort of hatred. I found a little editorial that pretty much captures my feelings, so I will defer to this fine author and let my flag and my defiant Christianity say the rest. I know the Crusades happened, and were misguided and terrible; I'm sure those aren't the only negative examples of my Jesus-loving forefathers. However, I also know that the faith I follow today, the faith that predominantly built this nation, condemns heinous acts like those of nine years ago.

I encourage you to read this (below). And AGAIN I apologize for the non-link; please just copy and paste it in your browser. I think I need to switch servers, for many reasons.

http://boatdrinkbaby.wordpress.com/2010/08/21/dear-nancy-pelosi/

Why are my eyes stinging?

Surely you must know that this breaks my heart.

Into sharp fragments.

That keep poking me on the inside of my chest.



Let us speak of it no more.

Other people's birthdays and conquering fears

I'll bet you're wondering where I found that nice photo of our fair city.

Well, I took it.

Or, my husband took it. I'd already taken a few, but I was in the back seat and the wing was in my viewfinder. So he snapped some photos from the front seat—his birthday seat of honor.

He turned 40 today. I tried and tried to think of a nifty gift, and then I remembered that I know I certified pilot—a calm, capable, experienced fellow who'd volunteered at my last workplace. I felt out the husband in casual conversation: have you ever been up in one of those little, bitty planes? Ever wanted to? He was gung ho, thought it would be fun, and that sealed the deal. I contacted the pilot privately and the covert planning began.

Except I figured I'd just send my husband on the flight, because the mere thought of being up there in a tiny propeller plane, at the mercy of buffeting winds and unpredictable drafts, was enough to make me hurl. Then I thought, perhaps I'll let Marcus go, too. He'd love it. He's transfixed by planes and helicopters and flying in general. But I realized quickly that would be a disaster, because if that plane went down, there goes my life too, plus or minus an eternity of survivor's guilt. So. Nix that.

But I'd already asked my friend the pilot if he'd take a child, and he was delighted. "Kids are the most fun," he said. The idea was planted. I told him I'd think about it. He told me it would be a shame if my boy missed the ride because "his mother was a chicken."

Well, the gauntlet was thrown. And I, with much hesitation and trepidation, picked it up. And thought many times about throwing it down again. Thank goodness this little idea came together quickly, because since I've learned it would be a reality, I've felt slightly sick. I mean, I've flown before...but in commercial aircraft, the big guys, the ones with phenomenal safety records. And I don't like those trips, either.

The momentous morning came, and somehow, the boy and I had both managed to keep the secret. I told Todd when we were leaving and to be ready. We departed, and as I drove, I remembered the JFK Jr. accident, the recent wreck of a small plane carrying Alaska's former governor and others, the long list of light flights that inexplicably fell from the sky or crashed into mountains or resulted in cannibalism. Fun stuff to consider, whilst you drive to your doom.

We got there, the pilot was waiting, and Todd figured out our scheme (after sharing his slight alarm at the thought that we might be dropping him out of one of these things). We went into the office to pick up necessary headphones and paperwork; I hit the ladies' head and called home to leave a message detailing where we kept the last will and testament. We stepped outside (no excuses there, because the weather was absolutely perfect) and I saw the tiny craft we'd be squeezed into. Wow. Small.

Gary, the pilot, was completely in his element. He showed Todd the plane, the gas tanks, the rudder, all the moving parts. He had already been up in the air earlier that morning, so the machine was checked and tip-top. Without much delay, we were loading Marcus into the back seat, adjusting his headset, and then it was my turn to squeeze my much larger self in beside the child. We buckled up, waited for Todd to climb in and do the same, and then watched Gary go through his checklist and start 'er up.

You taxi just like any other plane... but you feel everything. And you can see the birds that have built nests in the shelter of the runway lights and signs, because you're pretty much on the same level as those birds. You begin moving and speed up just like on a commercial flight, but it doesn't take nearly as much time or speed to lift up into the sky. I was amazed at how quickly we were zooming above the trees. The whole thing was honestly sort of surreal, from the climbing-in moment to the perfect landing. Looking out the window was akin to looking at simulation screens, in that I couldn't quite grasp that we were, indeed, flying over the mall, downtown, stadiums and rivers. It was insane, and great, and scary, and nauseating at the same time. (I forgot to buy Dramamine. I kept the birthday secret, the kid kept the secret, but I forgot to buy motion sickness pills. Don't worry, though—I'm the only one who needs them.)

We all survived. I'm glad I went. It was definitely out of my comfort zone, but Todd loved it and Marcus did too. And I enjoyed it, honestly, except for the last ten minutes when I had to stare at my own thigh to fend off barfing. But other than that, it was awesome. Mostly, I just felt a teensy bit proud of myself, as I climbed out of the plane and hunkered down with head between knees. This little foray into the near sky was not easy for me, as you might have guessed. No regrets, though. (Of course there are no regrets; I'm still here to tell the story.) It was a fun way for our family to ring in Todd's 40th, to round out the summer, to celebrate a glorious August day, and to try something challenging and different.

Still? If it never happens again, I'd be okay with that, too.

Grande dame of the chlorinated world

In a mildly frenzied attempt to fit in all the activities we'd wanted to try before summer's end, we've been doing some running around in the past couple of weeks. Trips to fairs, museums, theaters, and water parks have all occurred here recently. One of the unexpected highlights, for me at least, was a recent afternoon at North Park Pool.

Now, North Park is huge, and I've canoed on the lake and taken walks and attended various picnics and parties there. But until last weekend, I'd never visited the pool. We simply live too close to our local pool to justify driving the extra 5 or 10 minutes to that old northern behemoth. However, after our last trip to the nearby pool, Marcus declared it too "splashy" (translation: too overpopulated with mostly older kids who kicked, jumped, and otherwise disturbed his watery revery). I'd read about the monstrous North Park pool and wanted to check it out.

I called on Saturday at lunchtime for prices and hours, and found out from the recording that the pool would be closing in just two days because they simply could not keep it staffed adequately beyond that very weekend. We panicked, threw sunscreen and drinking water into the trusty beach bag, and headed north. That day, the pool's next-to-last day, was our only chance to go this season since we'd been gifted with baseball tickets for the following Sunday afternoon.

The vast pool parking lot alone is impressive; it has to cover 4 or 5 acres, or I've lost my spatial gauge altogether. We found a spot with ease, locked my ancient vehicle, and carried our goods to the window to pay admission. Following the signs led us through the women's shower and locker rooms (the only way to reach the pool). Those spaces, too, were unbelievably large—I stepped into more than one wrong passageway before finally finding my pathetic way, kid in tow, and emerging into warm sunshine.

The view hit me immediately. Both restrooms exit onto a huge concrete patio, the largest I've ever seen. Gigantic welcoming steps lead down to the pool, which is surprisingly enormous. The boy and I carefully descended those steps, going toward the separate baby pool which is also immense. We found a spot on the grass in between baby and "big" pools, spread our blanket, and hit the water. (No plastic adjustable chaise lounges here—this is old school, people.)

There was no danger whatsoever of splashy kids. The shallow end stretches for what seems like miles; any trouble is easily visible from some distance away. It was a cinch to avoid the few bigger boys who'd rented large, yellow tubes on which to float (and to upset from underneath unsuspecting buddies). The space along the wall, normally coveted areas of moms and small kids everywhere, was so ridiculously available that we didn't even feel the need to linger there. The water was perfect, not too warm but warm enough; we could look down to the other end and watch kids zip out of the big slide, observe others jumping into a deep end that was flocked on both sides by solid, red brick bleachers. Those babies weren't going anywhere. There must have been swim competitions here back in the day—perhaps there still are, for all I know.

When we headed up to the snack bar for goodies, peering inside revealed how it was also absolutely huge. The choices were limited; the management was trying to unload all the current stuff and hadn't ordered anything new in light of the next-day closing. We got some fries and I asked about taking them to our blanket. The young girl who served us explained that no food was permitted off of the veranda.

Yes, the veranda. I noticed the same message on a sign posted near the snack window. Now, I ask you: how many pools have you visited that have a veranda? Heck, how many homes have you visited with a veranda? My answer is none. Unless you count Fallingwater. But I didn't know those people, and it's not a home these days. So.

While we sat at one of the many picnic tables, I read bits from an old plague posted on a large brick wall that keeps snackers from tumbling down to the level of the pool far below. Apparently, this lovely, impressive place was dedicated in 1936. Probably a WPA undertaking, although I couldn't confirm it. The official title those days was "Allegheny County Swimming Pool," according to a separate but also ancient plague. I looked down from the massive veranda at the thousands of gallons of wet, at the very stable brick bleachers at the far end, at the expanse of grass on all sides of water, and I imagined what it must have been like when it opened. People streaming in wearing more modest swimsuits, throngs of ladies donning their gear in that mammoth dressing room. I wondered what sorts of snacks they served in the 30s. I pondered what the admission would have been, how long it must have taken many pool-goers to drive in temperamental automobiles on back road after back road. I tried to imagine the fellows, impressing the gals with silly dives and stunts, just like nowadays, yet more innocent—or at least that's how I pictured it. I longed momentarily for olden days, when just going to a pool was enough, when a shimmering rectangle of water was a day's vacation in and of itself.

And then I realized that it's still enough. I breathed a deep breath, stole one of the last fries from my son, and we wiped greasy fingers before tossing the evidence and lazily sauntering down to our blanket once more.

The swimming pool—or should I say, this swimming pool—will suffice quite nicely. It's still every bit as appealing as it was on opening day, because a true grande dame maintains her charm, even when her dew has gone.

Bright spots

To make up for the vitriolic ire of some of my recent posts, here are two really uplifting websites—both of them the brainchildren of kindhearted people. I'm so inspired when I see fellow humans choose to do something generous and thoughtful instead of taking the far easier path of selfishness and loathing.

(Once again, stupid Blogger is not allowing me to insert live links...!!?? Sorry about the inconvenience.)

I just read about this gal in the newspaper:

www.secretagentl.com

And this is one I've known about for awhile, thanks to a great blog I read sometimes (if you're a crafter, take note):

www.thetoysociety.blogspot.com

Hope they make your day better!

Just because you can, doesn't mean you should

See that jar?

Full of blood, that's what.

Well, figuratively speaking, of course. It may or may not also contain some sweat or tears. (Have you ever noticed that if you combine sweat and tears, you get swears? A coincidence? I think not.)

I believe I may have spoken before on this site of my and my husband's very diverse work styles (here and here to be specific), and how said diversities affect our marriage. Well, we canned some tomato sauce recently, and it amplified those differences.

I had already canned some things in the past few weeks, and perhaps I was a bit canned out. He was eager to use all the tomatoes he'd grown, but perhaps not so eager to actually embark on chopping, measuring, cooking, and processing after an already long day. Perhaps he gets tired of taking orders, and perhaps, just perhaps, I'm not too good at taking them either. (I've been told that I'm not a good support player. I can't deny it. But I'm not to blame: you see, I'm no good at switching roles. If I must manage some places, I end up trying to manage in all places. If I see inefficiency and incorrectness, I must speak. So call me a manager. I've been called far worse.)

Anyway, we plowed through a huge vat of tomatoes. I stayed away for awhile, having been ordered from the kitchen at one point early in the procedure, but then I got sucked back in like a Ball canning lid, and ended up cleaning most of the mess (which usually happens, and might just be the reason I try to stay out of these events).

All I know is that a big bunch of tomatoes were reduced to a much smaller pile of guts and seeds, and an unimpressive amount of canned sauce...and that I have ever-growing respect for the true pioneers who had to do this sort of work along with a slew of other, tougher assignments just to garner enough food and fuel to survive a winter. All that so they could work their hind ends off again come spring, likely while caring for and/or expecting children. They were a hardier strain of beings, I think; one old diary my father has tells of some frontier gal who "was delivered of a son in the morning and then prepared dinner later that day." Can you imagine? I guess all the weaklings died in childbirth; based on my labor experience, that would likely have been my lot—Todd would've been out shopping for someone younger and healthier within a season or two, because he'd have needed a crew of workers.

But I digress. I'm done canning for awhile. I'll eat the veggies fresh, fried, grilled, boiled, sautéed, whatever, but I'm not dragging that mammoth pot out again until at least September. I hope all the work will be worth it when we break this stuff out in winter. If nothing else, it was a good reminder for my poor, naive husband, who clings to a confused belief that he and I can somehow work together on projects from home. As a team. Us. Hmmmmmm.

Signing off.

Medication of the young, unformed masses

I found out recently that a young child we know is now being medicated for an attention deficit issue.

I really object to that. Medication in anyone under the age of at least 12 should, in my uninformed opinion, be an absolute last resort. We don't know the long-term effects of this stuff. It's still very much being studied. The results down the road are a mystery. Meds can change a child's personality completely; they're far too available to kids today, and they're being pushed by everyone from school officials to therapists to counselors to doctors. Medicine in general seems to be pushed. I've already touched on that issue here; I am pretty positive that advertising any medication, period, is wrong—let alone advertising in family magazines for childrens' meds. Sick. In a bad way.

There are ways around attention deficits. Here's a thought: turn off the tube. Yep, it does not help. Super-short commercials, fast-paced and brightly colored cartoons, eye-popping special effects set to the tune of booming soundtracks... None of those things will help your child learn to focus and concentrate better. The real world does not even remotely resemble Sesame Street, nor a video game.

Even if there is a genuine learning disability present, I am honestly pretty certain that any of those problems would be lessened if the parent(s) involved would give a better example of how to slow down and think about something instead of buying some new distraction. For the kid or the parent? It doesn't matter, honestly. The lesson is internalized equally by both. Sad? Bored? Feeling unappreciated? Buy something new! Waste money on a temporary pleasure! Which, truly, seems to be what medicine has become: a new distraction, a temporary escape from the reality.

There are teaching methods devoted to helping kids learn how to train their brains. The first lesson that would help, though, is simple discipline. Do a chore, even if you don't want to. Go to bed on time, and get up at a decent hour—the same hour each day. Eat meals at roughly the same times each day. And oh, by the way, if the food is prepared at home, and eaten at a table with the family, that might help. Oops, there goes that whole "setting a good example" problem... because we're all so stinkin' busy keeping up with technology and cars and toys that we don't have time to cook and eat together, do we? It's so uncool.

When we medicate children who, for the most part, need to be told "No" and have a few boundaries established, we are doing those children a huge disservice. We are training them up in the American Way: take pills if life isn't easy. Don't try to forge a better path, don't try to alter lazy behaviors, don't change anything—just get a pill and take it until you feel better. There will always be a new pill, right? Why should we seek a long-lasting, permanent fix for our problems? Just pop a capsule and go distract yourself with meaningless diversions.

Even better if the child carries that lesson into adulthood, because when this same method is employed by grown-ups, there are far more profits. In a recent talk with a relative, she informed me that most of her comfortable, well-to-do friends are popping some sort of anti-depressant; she, alone, is the unmedicated one. What is wrong with this picture? Is self-medication the only way our spoiled, overly comfortable culture can stand itself? Is this the answer instead of work, self-control, and humility?

There are very few days anymore when I don't daydream about leaving the whole mess and going to hide in the mountains. I know there would still be problems. Still, I think I'd prefer problems that can be solved by effort, common sense, and faith. I know there are some exceptions to the rule, some genuine cases where medication can really change the life of a child, or an adult, with a serious issue that impedes his or her ability to function. However, I stand firm in my belief that we've brought many of these problems on ourselves. The kid and I went to the public library today, and that visit pretty much underlined my concern about today's lackluster parents and their unwillingness to lay down rules and consequences for their kids. The children ran wild, yelled, threw things, stepped on books instead of reading them*, and there sat the moms and dads, on their overweight cans, offering lukewarm disciplinary suggestions from a distance instead of kicking backsides as needed. That would have been too much trouble, you see: real parenting requires relentless effort, paying attention, and self-discipline. That isn't going to happen.

I ponder the start of kindergarten in a few weeks. I pray it will look different from today's scene at the library. But in my heart, I know; those same kids, those same parents, will likely bring about many of those same pathetic results. Why are we so afraid of our children? Of saying no? Of cracking down? Why?

And when will people realize that pills will never take the proper place of parenting?

* The really sad part is that every time my boy and I sit and actually read a book in the library, at least one other child wanders over and peers over our shoulders, listening in, stealing the book experience. How sad is that? In a library, home of the "libre," no one is actually reading books. What the hell is going on here?