Nature abhors a vacuum

We didn't have too many "views" as the Smoky Mountains were living up to their name.

But without that fog, the light coming through the trees wouldn't be quite so charming...

And moss wouldn't grow so rampantly...

(I love moss.)

Nothing can make decay look as lovely

or interesting

as nature does.

Importance of little things

As always, J. and I had a wonderful time in the Smoky Mountains, where we went for 3 1/2 days. We hiked a section of the Appalachian Trail, from Newfound Gap to Cosby Knob. It was roughly 36 miles.

I kept up with J. on all of those miles--even on that 15 mile day I mentioned in my previous post. No more stopping every 10 minutes on a climb to let my racing heart calm down. I just kept going and going. I was the energizer bunny. I finally understood what J. meant when he said, "It never gets easier--just less hard." My legs were working--oh, I felt it!--but that ache just faded into the background, and I was able to let my mind wander as I took in the beauty of the Smokies around me.

This is an important accomplishment, you know. If I was a hobbit in Middle Earth, this means I would be able to keep up with Aragorn.

Home again

Status for the day (because my readers really care, I know):

Laura wandered through some clouds, met the nearly tame guinea fowl of Tricorner Shelter, unleashed billions of spores, nearly flew off the side of Mount Cammerer, and for the first time in her life kept up with J., even during a 15 mile day, while hiking in the always lovely Smokies!

Climbing is hard

elevation chart for AT around Mount Rogers

When I first started hiking, I had a perverse relationship with elevation charts, those things that show you how high and low the trail goes within so many miles. I hated looking at them because it always seemed that whenever J. pulled the elevation chart out, we were at the bottom of a huge climb that the chart helpfully illustrated as a steep slash. Never at the top. At the same time, I wanted to look at them because I had to see how many more miles we had, and how many more climbs were in store.

I guess J. has toughened me enough so that I no longer want to cry when I see that we have just one more climb to make before we reach the shelter at the end of a long day. Now I can coolly assess the elevation chart and mentally prepare my legs for how much more I will ask of them.

Of course, it helps if you are hiking through open space (like the balds of Mount Rogers). There's more to distract you. I always get grumpy if we're climbing up the side of a tree-covered mountain. Trees tend to blur into one monotonous scene as you hike, so it seems as if you are watching a continuous loop of one image. It gets old if you're tired and hungry.

Food is never far from the hiker's mind

Low fat and low calorie is not an option when you go hiking.

I always feel slightly guilty when we go shopping for food for one of our hiking trips, since we're stockpiling on nutty, chocolate-y trail mix, Snickers and PayDay candy bars, and zeroing in on dehydrated milk that's 20% fat. Moderation is not the key during this time.

Rather than carefully regulating our caloric intake, we revel in it. You have to. I can remember times when I did not have enough food while hiking. Your brain develops a curiously keen sense of focus--the opposite of the light-headedness I feel when I've pushed my lunchtime too far. The gaping maw of your stomach is never far from your thoughts. Any food you eat during this time disappears into a black hole and you derive no satisfaction from it, no sense of your body storing anything for fuel. It's like your hunger is a separate entity that won't give your body anything until it's been satisfied.

Have you met Mr. Edwards' wife?

It's always amusing to meet J.'s students. They always exclaim, with that profuse enthusiasm endemic to young teenagers, "You're so pretty!" and stare wide-eyed at me while J. makes chitchat. Once we move on, they start furiously whispering to each other.

While this is flattering, I think it's more to do with the surprise of encountering the outside life of a teacher, plus just some plain 'ole curiosity about who on earth would possibly want to be married to the big bad chemistry teacher. I think their exclamations of my "prettiness" is a gloss over what they're really thinking: "Wow, she's young and has no warts!" That, and the fact that I don't wear penny loafers or Mom jeans (my preferences running more towards Sauconys and dark wash jeans), combines to completely disrupt their preconceived notions of what "Mr. Edwards' wife" is like.

J. told me about an exchange between two of his students that he overheard earlier that week. One of the boys whispered something to another boy, whose face swiftly adopted a perplexed expression as he wasn't sure he heard his friend correctly, "Have I smelled Mr. Edwards' wife?"

Seeing as I thought "loan" sounded like "markers" while I was working at the reference desk the other week, it's quite plausible that "seen" could be confused with "smelled," especially considering the tendencies of young people to mumble and slur their words.

Scenes from a house

A typical evening at the house.

As soon as I step in the door, the cats materialize from wherever they sequester themselves during the day and wrap themselves around my legs, crying for attention and leaving great quantities of fur on my person.

Pope is like a dog--he comes when called. Sasha is more cat-like in that you never know what she's going to do next.

Front porch guardians

We have some residents on and near our front porch. For some time now, a spider has been spinning a web between the edge of the front porch and the nearby barberry bush and growing fat and happy off the doomed insects caught in her snare. While she normally hides when we come near, I was able to get an up-close view while she caught a loopworm, deftly wrapping it in a ribbon of silk flowing out of her nether regions.

A tree-bark colored praying mantis, a little longer than my middle finger, has been hanging out on our front door. We think she is heavy with eggs. She cocks her head to gaze at me with her bulbous eyes whenever I stoop to examine her.


The other night we spied a toad hopping along the walkway leading to the front porch. We have already christened him "Mr. Toad," even though we don't know whether he has domestic leanings or was just passing through. I hope he sticks around.

The earth shrugged

Delicate Arch

Landscape Arch

Private Arch

an arch somewhere

Another arch that shall remain nameless

Sandstone fins and other outrageous features of the earth

While in Arches National Park, we hiked the Devils Garden trail, which took us past Landscape Arch and other stunningly beautiful arches, sandstone fins, and rock formations of all shapes and sizes.

At the start of the trail, when we spied the sandstone fins from afar (above), we each of us exclaimed, "Oh, I want to go over there!" and found that our wishes were granted. To give you a sense of scale, look at the sandstone fins in the picture above. Now look at the three of us on a sandstone fin below.

It was worth it, even if I had to scoot down some steep and slick sandstone at one point. The picture below does not show the the steep drop to our left into a pool of still water.

Joining the ancient tree hunt

Another stop on our United Kingdom trip: the Fortingall yew tree, which is somewhere between 2,000 and 5,000 years old.

More information about it, and the "Ancient Tree Hunt" can be found here.

"I startled a weasel who startled me, and we exchanged a long glance..."**

I had an Annie Dillard weasel moment with a sagebrush lizard in Arches National Park, outside Moab, Utah.

These lizards were everywhere, but you wouldn't know it unless you were looking (and how many of us really look at things?). These finger-length lizards blended neatly into the sandstone even as they darted to and fro within the blink of an eye. I came across one perched on a shelf of sloping red rock along the trail, and rather than fleeing, it turned and looked at me. Cocking its head, it regarded me with all the temerity it could muster, and we stared at each other.

And that was that. I stared at a lizard, and it stared right back at me. Such reciprocal acknowledgment was unnerving in a way: what was it thinking? Is that what living in the desert does to you--slough off your weak parts so all that's left is a sinewy boldness? While I enjoyed my time in the desert, the openness of the terrain and the ever-present fierce sun was overwhelming. I simultaneously felt as though I was pinned beneath a microscope and lost in a universe of sand and stars. Perhaps being bold is a way to combat this feeling of smallness that the desert imposes on you.

When I stood up, the lizard scampered a few feet away then looked back at me. It bobbed its head and did several push-ups in a display of dominance, in spite of the fact that I towered over it, a boulder to its pebble. I stepped back, respecting the boldness of its actions.

**from "Living Like Weasels," by Annie Dillard.

You can't have my ants

My facebook status for today:

Laura "scrambled up a rock fin, was postured at by numerous tiny lizards defending their territory, observed numerous gorgeous arches, poured red sand out of her shoes, and attended an absolutely lovely wedding while in Moab, Utah"

Walking in the footsteps of obscure TV stars

I am a fan of the BBC series Monarch of the Glen, which is about Glenbogle, a ramshackle estate in the Scottish highlands, and the bumbling efforts of the MacDonald family as they try to maintain it. Imagine my surprise when I found out that Kingussie, one of the towns that we plan on using as a base for our expeditions in Scotland, was the site of the village scenes filmed for this series.

Art and life and what statistical probabilities have to do with it all

These are the kinds of random things J. and I debate at 6:30 in the morning at Starbucks on Saturdays.

Here's how this one started...I mentioned off-hand to J. that the book I was reading, "Age of Wonder: how the Romantic Generation Discovered the Beauty and Terror of Science," was surprisingly engrossing. He asked what exactly it was about, and when I mentioned that the Romantic Generation referred to the age in which Wordsworth and Coleridge, Byron and Shelley lived, he wondered whether Coleridge should get the credit for that strange poem of his, "Kubla Khan," which was written while he was under the influence of opium.

So J. and I started debating whether artists should get credit for the work they've done if they were under the influence (drugs, alcohol, whatever). J. said no, because the artist had no say in the making of art, it was just the drugs. In other words, they did not have the inborn talent to produce their art; it was just the byproduct of flights of fancy they undertook while under the influence. I said yes, because even if the artist was under the influence, s/he still had the talent necessary to produce art (this is not true of all people that claim to be artists). I used a Chesterton quote to back me up: "Jane Austen was not inflamed or inspired or even moved to be a genius; she simply was a genius."

I didn't come close to convincing J. until I pointed out the statistical improbability of an artist continually churning out masterpieces while high, if there was no inherent "genius" or spark of true talent to make such consistently high quality works.

J. and I have a long-standing good-natured antagonism over art.

Psyche in the north

The mention of "arctic wilderness" on the Cairngorms inspired the title of my previous post. "East of the sun, west of the moon," is my favorite fairy tale. It tells the story of a young lady who sets off to rescue a prince who has been bewitched by trolls, who live "east of the sun, west of the moon," in the far reaches of some frozen wasteland. Similar to the tale of Cupid and Psyche, that old old story of long ago, it involves shapeshifting and insurmountable tasks and a determined protagonist who is aided by various supernatural beings. Some people may see similarities with "Beauty and the Beast," as well.

I have written about beasts and beauties and the strange tale of Cupid and Psyche before, especially as C.S. Lewis retold it in his book "Till We Have Faces," which is one of the most powerful books I have ever read and I'm still trying to think of ways to verbalize why.

Going back into the archives (is this something only a librarian enjoys?), here's what I've written before:

Till We Have Faces
Strange Dreams Haunting Us Today
Beautiful Ugly
Thinking on the Beast

East of the sun, west of the moon

J. and I have fallen under the spell of the Scottish Highlands. While browsing some Lonely Planet guides for Scotland, he looked at me and asked, "Are we going to want to move to Scotland?"

The latest addition to our itinerary are the Cairngorms, located southeast of Inverness. The Cairngorms are home to Scotland's only herd of reindeer, which are allowed to range freely. Much of the Cairngorms are considered an arctic wilderness (they're not that far from the Arctic Circle) and contains tundra. J. and I are very excited about seeing tundra.

Wade in the water

It rains a lot when we go hiking. So much so that J. teases me, saying I bring storms wherever I go. My unluckiness aside, we continue to go. A little bit of rain is worth the whole experience (besides, you dry out pretty quickly). And when a little bit of rain turns in a day-long downpour, I imagine I am on a quest, like the hobbits Frodo and Sam*. Making your discomfort part of a story (or, better yet, a bildungsroman) is a great way to pass the time.

I fully expect to be rained on in England. J. and I are planning enough outdoor excursions that it would be silly of us not to be aware of the elephant in the room: England is a rainy country. I just hope that the stormclouds will forget about me now and then, and the sun will shine, and we'll have some good views of the storied isle.

*Sometimes I try to imagine myself as Aragorn, resolutely plowing on, not even breaking a sweat ("Gentlemen, we do not stop 'till nightfall"), but somehow that doesn't work as well. Even though they are hobbits, Frodo and Sam seem more, well, human.

Why can't I look like this while I'm hiking....

One of the reasons I like browsing catalogs and magazines is the amusement I get from seeing the occasional ludicrous setup for fashionable clothing, such as this outfit in the latest catalog from Anthropologie.

Compare this with my boringly sensible moment on top of Mount Rogers...

While the model beats me in the appearance factor, it's pretty clear which one of us would fare better in a day-long downpour (such as the one J. and I trekked through the day after the above photo was taken).

Glorious it is when wandering time is come*

We're planning a trip to England/United Kingdom next summer. When J. and I realized, with ice-cold startling clarity, that our timeline for wee ones was about up, we decided to take the plunge and make the voyage I've dreamed of for so long.

On the tentative agenda so far, focusing mainly on the northeastern part of England:

• London: Tower of London, Big Ben, St. Paul's Cathedral, wherever the whim takes us
• Durham: Durham Cathedral
• Hadrian's Wall
• Pennine Way
• Hexham
  
• Holy Island (Lindisfarne)
• somewhere in the Highlands of Scotland
• lots of walking, tea, and pubs
  

*Eskimo proverb

England on my mind

Some things I want to see in England:

Hadrian's Wall, which the Roman Emperor built in the 2th century as barrier against the barbarians of the North (I seem to be married to one, by the way)

Ravens residing at the Tower of London (legend goes that should the ravens ever leave the Tower of London, then it, the British crown, and the British kingdom will fall)

Lindisfarne Priory on Lindisfarne, or Holy Island, off the far northeast coast of England

Durham, home of the Norman cathedral built around 1100 AD

Tolkien's home in Oxford

and more, much more!

All the futures before us

“The problem of meaning is created by limits, by being just this, by being merely this. The young feel this less strongly. Although they would agree, if they thought about it, that they will realize only some of the (feasible) possibilities before them, none of these various possibilities is yet excluded in their minds. The young live in each of the futures open to them. The poignancy of growing older does not lie in one’s particular path being less satisfying or good than it promised earlier to be — the path may turn out to be all one thought. It lies in traveling only one (or two, or three) of those paths. Economists speak of the opportunity cost of something as the value of the best alternative foregone for it. For adults, strangely, the opportunity cost of our lives appears to us to be the value of all the foregone alternatives summed together, not merely the best other one. When all the possibilities were yet still before us, it felt as if we would do them all.”

— Robert Nozick, Philosophical Explanations (1981)

Found through the blog "more than 95 theses"

Two generations

Grandmother and granddaughter

Keeping the earth populated

Congratulations to my dear friend and cousin and her husband, who had a baby boy this past Thursday.

When I was home this past weekend for a wedding and this potential arrival, my cousin and I went to Lowe's and walked up and down the aisles in an effort to get the labor going. While all the employees eyed her belly nervously, we admired the tiles and woodwork. I think perhaps the baby grew tired of this (he's a boy, after all), and decided to get out of there. Hence, he joined the fold.

Why we speak

Another quote from "Albion":

"The mark or symbol of the hawthorn tree is to be found in the runic alphabet of the ancient British tribes, as if the landscape propelled them into speech."--p. 3

To speak is to name. To name is to know--to make known. Alternatively, to be spoken to is to be known. I never feel like I know a child until she begins to talk to me. From the moment my friend's little girl called me by name and began to chatter away, it was like a door opening into a hallway filled with more doors into more rooms. She was like a seed planted in the earth, and when I returned to check on it, I found a tree antlered with many branches and crowned with many leaves.

If you were mute, and saw a tree--one of those remarkably old trees, like the redwoods in California or the squat dreaming oaks in England--would you be compelled to speak?

Roots and fingers

I knew that I would like "Albion: the Origins of the English Imagination" when I opened the book to the first chapter and saw that it was titled, simply, "Tree." As is obvious from the subtitle, the book seeks to investigate the varied and rich history of the English imagination. The following quote illustrates why the ever important first chapter of this hefty, door-stopper of a book is devoted to trees:

"The tree encloses a communal memory--'beyond the memory of anyone now living', as the medieval rubric was later to express it--and from it derives that sense of place, of literal rootedness, which is one of the great themes of the English imagination."--p. 5-6

It never fails to amaze me how language boosts our understanding of the world. It's one thing to flatly state that the English have a sense of place; it's another to use the image of a tree to illustrate how strong that sense of place is. As you contemplate the image of the tree, your fingers feel the grip of the roots on the soil as they work their way deeper in, ever deeper.

That deep and inscrutable singular name

One of the things that people do while thru-hiking the AT is adopt a trail name--your alternate name, if you will (not unlike the multiple names that each of T.S. Eliot's cats meditate on while in their various cat trances). These names usually reflect the person's personality or appearance in some way, or refer to an inside joke they share with their friends. J.'s was "Argon," a reference to the inert gas that doesn't react to much of anything at all. For a while on the trail, he hiked with another guy who also had a red beard. They were known as the "Hiking Vikings."

People sometimes will name the pets they bring along with them. One unforgetable name is "Worthless Bert, the Emergency Stew," and I pity the poor dog that got this name, even though I crack up laughing every time I think about it. This past weekend on the trail, J. and I saw a few dogs that warranted this name. One of them was a bichon frise that had to be carried.

Last refuge on earth

We found Rivendell while in Virginia.

Road goes ever on and on

J. and I went back to Mount Rogers this past weekend. We can't stop returning to that gorgeous place. It has rhododendron, balds, a trail always rounding a bend, even ponies--what more can you ask for?

We pulled into Damascus, Virginia late Friday night and had a hard time finding the Hiker's Inn, even though Main Street is not that long. The room was cozy, and the bed was charmed for deep slumber. I thought of it often while laying on the wooden floor of the shelters.

Saturday morning, Damascus Dave shuttled us up to the Fox Creek trailhead where we began our ascent up the side of Mount Rogers. During the 40 minute shuttle, he told us that he had retired from Mt. Rogers Outfitters and spent most of his time in a cabin on Whitetop Mountain, where he has no electricity or running water. Would you spend your retirement like that? He also has an awesome thick, white beard. I told Jon he will grow one like that when he is older.

Saturday was a great day for hiking: sunny and clear. We went to Rhododendron Gap and saw some ponies. Two of them were following the trail, scouting out the next good spot for grass. When one of them heard Jon unzipping his camera bag, he darted up in a flash, begging for treats. When he saw that we didn't have anything, he resorted to licking my arm. I guess my salty sweat tasted good.


We got to Thomas Knob Shelter, which is near the top of Mount Rogers, in good time. We spent time on the rock outcroppings in the back watching a thunderstorm roll in.

Sunday morning we awoke within a cloud: wind shuttled mist back and forth in front of the shelter. It was a portent of the day to come: rain. It started out as misty rain, then transformed into a steady onslaught of water that soaked every inch of us to the bone. J. said it was the third wettest hiking day he has ever had--remember that he's hiked 500 miles of the AT, not to mention all the other hiking trips he's done. We arrived at Lost Mountain Shelter, where we met a 71 year old lady who was planning to hike the entire AT (a little late for that, but no mind). She was a tiny slip of a thing, dwarfed by her backpack, but cheerful nonetheless.

Monday morning, I had the joyous experience of putting on wet socks and shoes. The first few seconds of pulling on a wet, cold sock, then sliding your recoiling foot into a shoe heavy with water and mud, are always memorable. After a few seconds, sock and shoe warm up to the temperature of your foot and you're left instead with the oddly pleasant sensation of a foot bath.

We saw lots of Indian Pipes, or monotropa uniflora, a very rare type of plant that does not produce chlorophyll. It pokes up through the duff like skeletal fingers. It may not be much fun hiking in the rain, but it certainly brings out a host of odd organisms that you wouldn't see on a beautiful day. We saw lots of mushrooms, including the stereotypical kind associated with hippies, and adorning plenty of retro kitchen linens: the squat, pleasantly plump 'shroom with a red cap.

As the trail started following a creek in its descent, we came across very fresh bear tracks. The bear had followed the trail for quite a ways, so we were able to pretend that we were trackers and guess what it was after. As you can see from the picture, it was quite a sizable bear. It was probably growing fat and happy from all the wild blueberries and blackberries along the trail (as were we).

We reached the Virginia Creeper trail and joined the line of cyclists making their way back to Damascus. With all the recent rain, the Creeper was a chortling, fast running creek with plenty of waterfalls to admire.When we stopped to stretch, I pulled out my short sleeve shirt to change into, only to find that the Lost Mountain Shelter mouse* had raided it for its nest. The back was riddled with several holes. I had hung it up to dry after rainy Sunday, and that made it fair game. It was time to retire that shirt anyways. Hiking is hard on clothes.

And there you have it, a typical hiking adventure for us. Here's more pictures from this trip.

*Shelter mice are a legend unto themselves on the AT. No one worries about bears or serial killers or feral dogs along the trail: it's the mice! Why? Because they will do anything they can to get your food, and if you're a hiker who needs her calories, that's a pretty serious threat. All the trail registers we read included warnings about the mice, and exclamations at what they were capable of. The register at Thomas Knob Shelter (top left) warned us about the "acrobatic and kung fu mice." One of the things hikers use to deter mice is hang their packs on anti-mice devices, usually constructed of a can, string, and a stick. See the picture to the right for an example. It works...sometimes.

Oh! the trials we endure

This is my facebook status for today:

"Laura Edwards was used as a salt lick by a pony, got thoroughly drenched, donated part of her shirt to a mouse nest in Lost Mtn shelter, sauntered thru fields of bee balm, and strolled along 30+ miles of watery trails while on Mount Rogers, Virginia"

More to come later...

Treebeard as an ancestor

The latest "What Middle Earth character are you?" quiz on facebook informs me that I am an Ent. Even I was surprised, expecting as I was to be labeled a "Gondorian," seeing as I am not elegant as an elf, nor short and pleasant as a hobbit, or ugly as an orc.

Since I don't talk or do much, perhaps this is a very appropriate character to take after.

Tree

I quickly forgot about the interior of the Biltmore Estate when I stepped outside and made my way toward the gardens. How can a house compete with plants? This is a tree or vine that helps form the living roof over one of the outdoor patios. Quite tall and gnarled with age, it arrested my attention. I think I stood and stared at it and its companions for ten minutes.

It looks like water or stone frozen in time. Water is ever-moving, yet still. Stone remains inert, yet subtly transforms as the centuries pass. The tree embraces this tension. Taut as an instrument newly tuned, the dynamics of energy and slowness gives the tree a dimensional beauty. You can't perceive all of the dimensions by looking straight at it. Instead, you must stay a while. Look at it, look away from it, use your peripheral vision. What you see changes every time; what you see remains the same. Movement and stillness. Work and rest.

My meditation on this juxtaposition was interrupted by folks pushing a stroller. A couple out of a J. Crew catalog sauntered by. A passel of kids rushed around me, scattering and regrouping like a flock of birds. I looked at the tree again, wondering about when it was first planted (nineteenth century? early twentieth century?). Such age, even just a century, leaves me breathless, and I looked at the children again with new eyes. How many trees planted the year they were born will be allowed to live as long at this venerable peer?

For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors and laugh at them in our turn?**

My friend and I went to a festival put on by the Louisville chapter of the Jane Austen Society of North America. It was held on the grounds of Locust Grove, a National Historic Landmark:

We were expecting a little event, a handful of folks drinking tea, a smattering of cheap trinkets for sale. Instead, we were quite blown away by the smart planning and execution of the event.

There were several events planned for the day, including several Regency fashion shows (which I'll get to in a minute), that were excessively diverting. The Emporium was host to a treasure trove of genuinely interesting items, including 19th century inspired fabrics that Jenni and I plundered for our next set of dresses:

Several stations were scattered across the grounds, including a shoemaker, a milliner, a mantua-maker (dressmaker), and a showroom of exquisite outfits on the second floor of the Locust Grove home:
We had afternoon tea at 1 o'clock, where we were served a variety of small sandwiches, delectable scones with preserves, and lavender pound cake:

After tea, we went to the session "Dressing Mr. Darcy," where the host proceeded to undress down to his undershirt and pants, explaining each item of clothing that he was removing (hat, coat, vest, cravat):
Obviously meant to titillate the crowd. We couldn't stop snickering, and I couldn't keep a straight face when I danced a turn with him later that evening at the ball.

Yes, indeed, there was a ball and we suppressed our inner wallflowers to attend. My friend made our gowns. She wore an evening gown, and I wore an afternoon dress (hey, at least it was period appropriate):

Some scenes from the ball:


Here some folks are dancing "Mr Beveridge's Maggot (Favorite)", which some of you will appreciate knowing that this is the dance from the famous scene in Pride & Prejudice (1995) where Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth dance together for the first time:

Of course, the folks at this little ball weren't as graceful. There was lots of laughing and stumbling and wrong turns and bumps. It was all thoroughly fun.

More pictures over at my flickr.

**Jane Austen

What do you see?

Pope's heroic stance

Loch Ness monster plant in our front yard

More pictures up at my flickr: http://www.flickr.com/photos/ozimanndias8

Knowing a place

I remember returning from a trip abroad in France, when I was 15. I was quite disappointed with Rockford. We returned at night, and I remember looking out the window of the bus at the storefronts lining State Street and feeling acutely (acutely, as only a teenager can, however unnecessary the emotional burden!) a sense of despair at how drab and uninspired the buildings were in comparison to the centuries old architecture we had seen. Rockford suddenly seemed a very narrow place, seemingly unanchored by history and adrift in a sea of cornfields that paled in comparison to the lavender fields dotting the back of Provence. This was the perception of a teenager who was itching to grow up and see more of the world, having just realized how vast the world truly is. Rockford was pitifully tiny in comparison. How could it compete?

Now that I am grown up, my perception has shifted. I no longer see home as a place that has been exhausted of possibilities. Rather, the narrow-mindedness of youth has fallen away and I am seeing home with new eyes, even as I slip comfortably back into my niche when I return home to visit.

We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.--T.S. Eliot

Home is where one starts from.*

These are some things I always do when I go home to visit:

• eat Swedish pancakes for breakfast at the Stockholm Inn
• have long early morning conversations with my mother
• drive one or more of Grandma's secret ninja routes (she has elaborate backroad ways to avoid turning left at busy intersections)
• visit with my dear friend and cousin Rosie
• see a bad movie with my father
• cuddle the terror of the house for a few moments before the fangs come out
• go shopping in Grandma's basement
• wander through Poska's (a bohemian shop with an antique-y flair) for inspiration
• walk around the backyard and think of Bear, our late dog

If I included everything, the list would be too long and you would be bored and wondering why you still read my blog.

One of the reasons I like the Harry Potter books is because I can entertain the notion of apparating--do a graceful turn and show up 500 miles north in my parent's kitchen, much to the cat's consternation. Visits home are too brief.

*T.S. Eliot

Techno-wilderness

I'm back to work, and back on the computer. Sorry my postings have been remiss. I was up in the techno-wilderness of Illinois visiting with family and friends.

Being away from a computer (mostly) for a week was actually not that bad.

Math and Michael Jackson

J. and I don't have any particularly strong connections with Michael Jackson, since he was a bit before our time (Thriller came out when we were babies). But we did start talking about how one can possibly spend over 400 million dollars (MJ died over $400 million in debt).

$5000 we can grasp pretty well: trip to England, new bike for J.
$100,000: pay down mortgage
$200,000: buy a farm

Anything beyond this range exceeds the grasp of my imagination. How do you spend $1 million? $10 million? When I try to think of this as pocket change, which it seems to have been for MJ, I am stymied.

J. calculated that, in order to spend $400 million in 10 years, you would have to spend $3.62 every second, non stop. Without sleeping. That's like buying some outrageous Starbucks concoction every second for 10 years. Yikes.