Eulogy: Sandy Ferguson 1947-2019

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My 11^th grade daughter frequently reminds us that she loves every single one of her teachers this year.  It’s  wonderful to know your child is inspired, loved, and motivated by her teachers.  In turn, she has genuine interest in who they are as people and thinkers.  I, like her, felt that extraordinary connection with my teachers at Coronado High School, and the idea that I could be part of the kind of relationships these giants in my life inspired is why I am an educator today. 

Sandy Ferguson, or “Ferg,” or "Fergie," and yes, we once dedicated the song "Fergalicious" to him at a Homecoming dance late in his career, was my teacher in 9^th and 10^th grade history and then for half of my classes in 12^th grade (for history, ASB, and then, well, I signed up to be his TA too).  I spent half of my school days my senior year with this man who was kind of like my dad at school.   I admired his humor, his expressive eyebrows, his handwriting, his VW bus, the tee shirts whose life he stretched past viable structural integrity, and that he ran on the beach. In turn, I felt smart, funny, capable, challenged, talented, understood, and real around and because of him.

Sandy Ferguson met each person he encountered, adult and child, with humanity first—not with authority, not with superiority, despite his intellectual prowess and vast funds of knowledge. Instead, it was as if he set out to demonstrate that taking mutual respect for granted actually made it happen.  He treated us like adults but understood that it was in our adolescent nature to test boundaries. He figured we’d learn from navigating them in the context of safe and trusting relationships with adults. He gave us independence and freedom as both students and leaders of our peers, saying yes more often than no, but challenging us to figure out if we got it right. A master of mischief himself, he tolerated our incessant pranking (we turned his posters upside down, moved classroom furniture to his office or the hallway--capers made possible by his often late arrival to class).  

He was also the teacher who called my parents in spring of senior year when I’d been accepted to college and was blowing off notes and assignments (after giving me fair warning). His manner of intervention was inspiring you to reflect on your own behavior, as if your choices and their consequences were a discussion you needed most to have with yourself. He taught us about geographical features like drumlins and all the rivers of South America, and then pushed us to think critically about history and politics and brought back former students to talk passionately about what they were learning in college.

Because I came back to Coronado to teach, I had the privilege to be not only Sandy’s student, but his colleague, and then his administrator, both supporting and feeling daily gratitude for his devotion to CHS and district athletics and facilities.  You can imagine how poignant it was when, after Sandy retired and Alzheimer's was affecting his acuity, he would stop by CHS from time to time and implore me to put him to work in any capacity.  I need to be here, he’d plead, I need to work with you all. And we made plans for him to come back and help, but it would be weeks or months before he returned.  And perhaps he might have regretted that it seemed too late for him.   And though his illness robbed our brilliant friend of many productive years, what I’d really like to say to Ferg is, you achieved it all in the time you had with us, and you, my mentor, also achieved Ralph Waldo Emerson’s definition of success:  "To laugh often and much; To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to find the best in others; To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded."

Thank you, Sandy Ferguson. 

Friends and Stuff

Ornaments of 2001

I began cleaning up Christmas with the plan to sort, weed out, and reorganize our decorations. I hoped to resent the Post-Holiday Fer of 2019 less than I did the 2018 Me when I opened our haphazardly and hastily packed boxes of decorations and ornaments this season.  I imagined myself testing for sparks of joy a la Marie Kondo to determine which tchotchkes to keep and which to discard.  I pictured fewer bins of decor in the garage.  I visualized a minimalist Christmas this December.

I enlisted Middle Sis, Tootsie, and her cousin to de-ornament the tree and my grand plans were quickly abandoned when one by one, the ornaments some of my oldest friends sent to me back in 2001 were plopped in my lap. 

In 2001 my then-fiance/now-husband and I bought our first house.  Amidst counting pennies from our change jar and trying to believe we'd "grow into" our mortgage (as our broker cheerfully reassured us we would), we packed boxes and piled them in the carport for ferrying across the bridge to our new (old) house and neighborhood.  The rental house we were leaving opened onto an alley, as do numerous rentals in the town in which we grew up.  Alleys in Coronado have their own characters, stories, and rules to live by.  Everyone knows that furniture and discards placed along the alley are up for grabs.  And nothing abandoned in an alley lasts long.

But my boxes of Christmas ornaments were stacked temporarily at the top of our carport driveway, nestled against our storage space attached to the house (in lieu of a garage).  Inside those boxes were the ornaments my parents had given me each year of my 30, often with a theme matching a family trip or significant event.  It's safe to say that those ornaments were probably the first, second, or third items I would grab in the event of fire, along with photo albums and some sentimental jewelry.

Needless to spell out, during the short time I and my fiance were away from the house, those boxes were taken.  All my ornaments.  I was crushed.

But because those were the only boxes left there, I figured whoever took them was likely disappointed or at least not interested in the contents and might return or discard them after recognizing their sentimental value.  It was 2001, so I placed an ad in the local paper with a passionate plea for their return, to no avail.  I lamented their loss to everyone I knew.

My parents, it turned out, had some duplicates of our annual ornaments which they gave me.  Family friends and students presented me with new ornaments. 

And then my high school friend group organized to send me ornaments from their current homes across the US.  The dolphin from my friend's annual holiday Hawaii trip is missing its tail, but the significance of not only the ornament, but those annual family trips which don't happen as frequently, sustains.

I learned in 2001 that beloved ornaments, like so many other material things, are just "stuff."  And while seemingly irreplaceable, if those ornaments my buddies sent me 18 years ago were to disappear tomorrow, I'd know that my friends, who remain true and present today, would come through. Instead of new ornaments, their enduring friendship is all I really need.

So sorry, Marie Kondo, this isn't the year for tossing ornaments.  And cheers to lifelong friends, true sparks of joy.

Commencement Speech 2017

Class of 2017

I had the privilege of teaching a poetry lesson in some of your English classes in the fall.  We read a poem by William Carlos Williams, called "The Red Wheelbarrow":  
It reads, simply:

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

We talked about how perhaps this was the first Instagram poem--a simple image, zoom on the rain drops, with a filter that highlights the white chickens. I’m thinking this particular poem would attract a lot of likes, as well as what the hecks.

But we discussed that maybe this poem wasn't truly about the dependability of a wheelbarrow, or how important rain water is to a farm, or about chickens laying eggs for breakfast.  Maybe this poem was just about a moment.  A moment as beautiful and momentous in its own way as a graduation, a birth, a marriage.  Made memorable, perhaps, because the poet stopped to notice, downloading the image to memory and then translating it into verse.

It's tempting, students, to proclaim that the last four years were a blur, and for you, parents, to feel like it was only yesterday you were holding their hands to cross the street.  But our lives are series of wheelbarrow moments punctuated by momentous events, like tonight.  In class that day I asked you to recall a moment in your recent lives upon which so much seemed to depend.  One of you described driving over the bridge to school that morning with your sister.  It was sunny, and you were having a great conversation, getting along.  I think we all found that moment relatable.   You'll surely remember tonight, but the sweetest memories are likely similar episodes of connections, deep talks with loved ones, random trips with friends.   Most wheelbarrow moments are times we are in the company of people we adore or the wonder of nature.   

My toddler actually stops to smell the roses when she and I take the dog for a walk.   To her, so much depends on the things she notices and celebrates and points out--spikes on a cactus, a colorful rock, the snail painstakingly crossing the path.  She stops to look at me and say, I love spending time with you, Mom.  No selfie properly captures that wheelbarrow moment, and there's a chance I could miss it if I’m too busy to go for a walk or looking at my phone.  Paying attention to her is what makes it different.  

So I’m suggesting we more often swap selfies for "sensies"--times you observe keenly, listen carefully, feel deeply, taste mindfully, and breathe in the smells.  Exalt in the moments and the characters sharing them with you—recognize the sonder, if you will.  In just a few of my wheelbarrow moments with you, so much depended upon pancakes from a George Foreman grill, 185 doctors walking into a bar, Jamaican curry recipes, seafoam perfectly captured in a painting, and sitting the bench in the faculty basketball game. 

Before you fly away from this place you’ve shared, reflect on some of those wonderful moments together. 


Thank you, Class of 2017, for all the moments culminating in this graduation.  

33rd Street: June 2001-April 2013

We left our little bungalow behind last weekend, moving the last remaining items out as our excited buyer began spackling, painting, and making plans for her new abode. 

This was the first house we ever bought, the one whose mortgage we were promised we'd "grow into," as we dumped our change jars and counted every penny.  It's the house with dear neighbors, our amazing Apello pine tree, the yard where fairies fluorished, and rooms which welcomed us, newly married, and our babies. 

We're between houses until wood floors are installed in The New House and kitchen cupboards are painted.  Meanwhile, we've established temporary residence at my parents' house. 

The new house is still The New House.  Soon it will feel like Our Home--but not yet.  Now empty and echo-y, it waits for us to fill spaces and establish new routines, acquaint ourselves with neighbors, and create comfort. 

The girls said their own goodbyes to our beloved home and gardens; their tributes will be featured in a longer, forthcoming post. 

Farewell, sweet habitat. 

Buckle Up: Minivan & Mini Cooper

There are so many joys to a nice long winter break; topping the list is time with family and friends. 

On Friday night I spent A LOT of time with some high-school buddies, whom I met for a drink after our high school girls' soccer game.  Spoiler alert:  I got home after 2 AM.  And what's even more perfect:  Husband and I and the kids were staying at my parents' house while our kitchen cabinets were being painted.  So I not only stayed out WAY LATE, but I had that weird guilty feeling of coming home to mom and dad's in the wee hours of the morning, sneaking in quietly-ish and trying not to wake anyone. 

Another spoiler alert:  it was more a night of hilarity than a night of debauchery.  But it felt really great to crack up with old friends and even shut down a few bars in our sleepy, touristy home town. 

We occupied ourselves for much of the time with a game of Who's in Your Minivan?  A colleague introduced me to this mental exercise back in 2008, which involves populating your vehicle with well-known folks you wouldn't mind sharing a long road trip with, based on your own criteria:  crush-worthiness, entertainment value, navigational abilities, snack provisions, etc. 

Note:  you and your friends can spend a long time debating and discussing criteria alone, and whether or not your passengers have to be currently living, and if you're driving a Honda van with eight seats or mini-er version with seven...

I had Lenny Kravitz in my 2008 Minivan, which led us to an analysis of his maintenance of the "It Factor," and the recounting of the time one of my friends inadvertently crashed a party he was hosting. 

Salma Hayek and Stephen Colbert emerged as popular choices.  I was talked into dropping off Matthew Fox, Brad Pitt, and Hilary Swank at the next rest stop, but I'm keeping Jon Stewart in shotgun and Brandi Carlile at an audible distance in my van.  I'd have to add Eddie Redmayne from Les Mis and Dax Shepard from Parenthood, as I am charmed by the passion of the former and goofiness of the latter, and the earnestness of both in their respective roles.  Robert Redford will round out my crew for obvious reasons, including his dedication to environmental issues and the possibility I'd get a discount for the Sundance Catalog. 

Let's face it; I could probably fill two minivans (Hey!  Who's in Your Caravan!), particularly if I expanded criteria beyond more superficial rationale and included the many figures I admire.  Okay, not that kind of figure--I meant people.  Sheesh.

Our discussion grew more serious when a friend challenged us to name "the one that got away," or the "what if" or "sliding door" people with whom we'd had brief encounters or missed opportunities.  We dubbed these revelations as "Who's in Your Mini Cooper?" acknowledging that most of us were unlikely to rattle off a long list of fish that got away.  There were high school sweethearts, college buddies and post-college people to consider as we pondered the might-have-beens. 

Spoiler alert:  there will be no great revelation of the occupants of my Mini Cooper.  Ha!

But who's in your minivan?

College Essay

Helping students with college essays always reminds me of mine.  I joke that my father and I almost "got divorced" over my essay--he kept challenging me to be more authentic, and I kept stomping off in frustration.  But I remember that when I handed him this one, he told me I finally got it right.  Twenty-four years ago!  How I still adore the people featured here, not so little anymore: 

If you knock on the front door of 310 D Avenue you'll hear a thunder of little feet stampeding to answer it.  Finally you'll see breathless, expectant faces greeting you, and before you have a chance to speak, they'll show you a new pair of high tops, a hole in a smile where a tooth used to be, or hand you a scruffy-looking hamster to hold.  These little people are my brothers and sisters, an important part of my family and my life.  In this family of seven, I am the "big sister," sometimes babysitter (sometimes bossy), usually friend and leader.

My family is large by Southern California standards, and my parents have been careful not to let us fit the mold of many of the families around us (divorced parents, self-involvement rather than family unity).  For this reason we regularly hold "Family Meetings," where the topics of discussion range anywhere from where the next family vacation will be to how to deal with a chronically empty cookie jar. 

The role I play in my family is important.  I share a bedroom with my ten-year-old sister, an experience that has taught me patience, compromise, and the lyrics to hit songs by Tiffany.  My sister is often the first person to notice when I am depressed, and cheers me up with a hug and kiss and "I love you."

There is nothing like being on the sidelines of the soccer field watching your seven-year-old brother score the winning goal, only months later during high school soccer season to hear a little voice piping, "Go Fer!" when you are out there yourself.  More than once I've felt a surge of embarrassment as guys at my front door are greeted with, "My sister wants to marry you," or "Are you going to kiss her tonight?"

Since my fifteen-year-old brother and I go to the same high school our relationship has grown stronger.  I watch him struggle with the same conflicts I had and find myself wanting to protect him.  When I ran for Student Body President last year, he campaigned relentlessly for me, wearing "Fer for President" tee shirts and badgering his friends until they were at the booth casting their votes. 

Some Friday and Saturday nights I am at home babysitting while my friends are out.  But the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, and Santa Claus who have disappeared from other homes are still alive in mine.  Taking my brothers and sisters to the matinee performance of Bambi and clutching sweaty palms during the "scary part" leads me to believe my friends are the ones missing out. 

My family has made me whom I am today:  a leader, confidante, and good friend.  When I am at college, I will miss my family most, especially the seemingly insignificant things like dinnertime, crayon drawings on the refrigerator, and the scuffle of pajamaed feet on the sidewalk as my little sister runs out to kiss me goodbye when I leave for school.  I will be spending the next months preparing to leave, as they prepare to let me go. 

Oops, Green Monster Does It Again

I often remind the girls in my care--my high schoolers, my daughters--that feelings like anger, insecurity, and envy spawn bad kinds of behavior.  Particularly between women.

I point out that while they often come from very dark places, those emotions are normal.  It becomes, however, our responsibility to identify when we're feeling them, determine their origins, and work through our anger, insecurity, or envy.  Or Think Very Hard before acting upon them.

Most hurtful emails; most damaging Facebook and Twitter posts; most passive-aggressive and petty acts stem from that Green Monster Envy or her cousins Jealousy, Covetousness, and Insecurity.  Most spontaneous bitchy behavior, in fact, can be traced back to those demons. 

And while none of us is immune, the hope is that we've learned to manage the monsters sometime between middle school and middle age. 

And yet, we've got the Real Housewives reality TV series to demonstrate that adult women can behave like sixth graders. 

Oh, and there's Paula Broadwell.

See, it wasn't exposure of her extramarital affair that brought her down.  It was that she had to go and send anonymous "harassing" emails to a woman she perceived as competition, asserting, in effect, "You'd better back off my (ex-)man."  And because they were "anonymous," an investigation ensued. 

Let the wincing commence. 

We do dumb and hurtful stuff when we're infatuated and obsessed (like have an affair), but we often do forehead-smackingly lunatic stuff when we're jealous and insecure (like write "anonymous" emails from multiple fake accounts).  Paula needed a friend to talk her down from the keyboard, at the very least. 

Nevertheless, I think many of us could own up to some ugly behavior birthed by envy. 

Okay, I will start.

It was sixth grade.  I had a hopeless crush on a guy who paid me no mind except when he was making fun of me and my friends in a way only middle school boys can (and I and my friends endured the mistreatment in a way only middle school girls can).  I knew deep down that this was destined to be unrequited love, but I was reassured by the fact that though he wasn't "going out" with me, he wasn't "going out" with anyone else I knew either. 

But then came Sixth Grade Camp.  Sixth Grade Camp is a rite of passage in our parts.  It involves spending a school week in the mountains with sixth grade peers from your school and Another School.  The "Another School" in question back in 1982 brought a girl who within a day purported to be hot for my love interest.  And I knew this because girls from both schools slept in a huge room of bunkbeds together, and my friends told me they heard her friends say that she liked him. 

I clearly remember the moment when a pack of my buddies approached me with this news, pointing out the girl in question, over yonder, and awaiting my response. 

A mild but territorial outrage tinged with green envy crept over me.  But I also felt safe among my "supportive" peeps, and emboldened by the independence of being at sleepaway camp.

"She's kind of a dog,"  I offered. 

And then the next part happened.  Either one of my friends told her or one of her friends the gist of what I said, or one of her friends overheard me.  All I know is that soon enough, I was surrounded by a group of her peeps, who were accusing me of calling their girl a "rag." 

"I did NOT call her a 'rag'," I asserted confidently, while sheathed in a cold sweat, relieved that one factual lapse saved me from lying, at least. 

"She wants to fight you," they added.

"Well...I didn't call her a rag..." I repeated, weakly, and walked away, in search of my friends. 

And that was that, as far as I recall.  I have vague memories of sanding a piece of Manzanita wood and being freaked out by counselors' ghost stories.  But mostly I remember that I spent most of Sixth Grade Camp living down that I acted like a mean girl and got called out. 

So, that was a low point.  In retrospect, I am so very glad I couldn't text or tweet or post my thoughts about that girl.  Because I might have. 

And though the scandal in Washington (and Virginia and Florida and North Carolina) is a hot, hot mess (the latest:  emails with shirtless photos from an FBI agent??  That poor choice is inspired by another kind of age-old monster...), there's something we should all recognize, amidst the snickering and judging: 

You can be valedictorian AND homecoming queen AND fitness champ AND Harvard grad AND bestselling author AND...Still.  Feel.  Insecure.

Whatever it takes for us to love ourselves a little more, or enough, it sure isn't having an affair with a four-star general.

It's an elusive elixir, and I hope Holly Petraeus has quarts of it in stock. 

Promoting Pantsuits, One Palazzo Pantleg at a Time

Last summer when we were in the Virgin Islands, my sister-in-law took me to the St. Thomas Kmart. Besides housing a stunning array of swimsuits, the store was featuring a Sofia Vergara line of apparel, including black and olive-green polyester pantsuits.  I tried the green one on, and it wasn't even outrageous.  The width of the pants?  Almost.  But the length was just right for petite me, and it felt like destiny.  I had to have the jumper, on sale for $19.99.  As I carried it out of the store, I began imagining all the places I might wear it.

Tonight was our big annual schools' foundation auction, and people wear everything from tuxes to Hawaiian shirts, sequins to sweater sets, to the event.  My pantsuit would work.  I even tried to curl my hair back in Farrah Fawcett feathers, but I needed a few more layers to pull it off.  I donned metallic wedge sandals and pale shimmery lipstick, and felt almost fabulous in my all-at-once clingy and flowy outfit.

But when I paused to go to the bathroom before my ride arrived, I recalled the drawback to the one-piece pantsuit.  It's a hassle to pee.  And then I also remembered the last time I wore such an ensemble:  August 1989.  On the cross-country airplane ride to college.

I don't know why I chose the black rayon tank-top jumper-deal with buttons from top to waist to wear for my college debut, but there are more than a few choices I made in that era which puzzle me now. All I know is, it was a stupid, stupid choice for travel, and it's taken more than twenty years for me to recover enough to consider one-piece apparel not designed for swimming.

It was an emotional day and departure; I was the firstborn, first to leave the nest, flying from California to Connecticut, leaving my parents and four siblings--one as young as five years old--behind.  My dad would make a video montage of the trip to the airport and my boarding, later, complete with my and my family members' crying, and my little brothers and sisters peering out the window at my plane as it departed, set to "Leaving on a Jet Plane. "

I was a puddle on that plane, trying to pull myself together, wiping my eyes and pretending I was just fine, thank you very much, as I hiccup-sobbed.  I waited for my first opportunity to escape to the loo, grateful for a moment of privacy.  Sniffling, I unbuttoned my jumpsuit, which gathered around my ankles on the floor, and sat on the toilet.

Amidst the pathos and passion of the moment, I forgot to lock the bathroom door.  And soon enough, someone opened it wide.  Wide enough for not only that person but a few rows of passengers opposite that head to get a glimpse as I shrieked and attempted to fold up my very bare-looking body.

Apologies ensued, door closing and locking, more crying, and the realization I would have to eventually come out of that bathroom and face those people and be in their company for the next four hours.

And then go to college.

I buttoned up and braved the cabin, hoping they would all notice the pantsuit as an explanation for why I appeared so undressed in the restroom. 

It all worked out, somehow.

But I will tell you this:  I always lock a public restroom door.  Always.

And sometimes wear pantsuits.

The Night of the Dudus

A recent conversation about "domestic" iguanas escaping into the trees of Santa Barbara and geckos living on the walls reminded me of a night in Kenya I will never forget: The Night the Termites Came to Town.

It's only fair to directly quote the journal I kept during my year living and teaching in Kenya:

Friday 8th November (1996)

Monday was "Attack of the African Rain Dudu" night--the little-known sequel to Hitchcock's The Birds.  During an afternoon conversation, Bharti [my tough Indian landlady] offhandedly joked and said we'd all eat at my house tonight, and I said, "Fine!" (but there's a Murphy's Law in play whenever Bharti, consummate Indian wife and mother, is around: that I will look stupid and do things wrong). I tried making focaccia [Kenya-style], and didn't follow directions [duh].  My spaghetti sauce was blah.  I even almost ruined the noodles.

In the midst of preparation for my guests, it began raining hard, and big flying bugs materialized near the kitchen window. Soon, there were multitudes coming through a crack at the side of the window. I wisely thought, I will open it, and let them fly out.

Yikes!  So many flying, flapping buggies were in my face and hitting the wall and then crawling around as I shrieked and hit them with a curtain and avoided squishing them underfoot,. I found even more in the living room and hallway, pouring into my porous house. It was an insect invasion like no other I had experienced.

In a flash of inspiration, I figured out they were attracted to light, and I turned on the outside bulb and extinguished all lights inside. I opened the front door, and many flew out.

The ones remaining appeared to lose their wings, crawl around, hump each other, and inexplicably disappear. Their wings, however, were ubiquitous. I joked with my fourth-grade students the next day that I could have stuffed pillows with dudu wings.

"You should have fried them up and eaten them, Miss," a student offered. "They taste like peanut butter."

Which might have been better than the spaghetti I served my guests that night.   

That they were "dudus" and tasted like sandwich spread were the only details offered by my students about these winged invaders. [I learned later that these were your garden-variety termites, the ones who build admirable mounds above ground. Here is a similar account of Termite Horror from a San Diego Zoo conservation program specialist]. 

It's not unusual for me to find an errant dudu wing tucked in an journal or bag I used during my time in Kenya...

Old, New, Borrowed, Blue

It was the first time I slept on our new air mattress, camping.  I even felt a little guilty, like I was cheating on camping.  But my hips thanked me for passing on the Target One Spot yoga mats to our daughters for sleeping pads.

I lay in my sleeping bag on a hot summer night made cool by the mesh roof of our tent and the being-outside-ness.  Our tent, a family double-wide, was a freebie from a friend, and the five of us (including borrowed nephew) fit with plenty of room for more friends.  I slept smack dab in the middle between husband and nephew, flanked by daughters, with an amphitheater-like view of stars above.

I felt a surge of affection for my sleeping bag, an REI mummy model I mush instead of roll when I stow it away so as not to stretch the seams.  My mother had sewn in half, lengthwise, an old blue sheet of my brother's from his childhood bed linens, explaining that the cotton layer would make sleeping inside a nylon bag more comfortable, less sweaty.  She was right. I'd found the sheet at the bottom of my cinch sack, where I'd kept it packed faithfully for twenty years. I recalled how gritty it and my eyelids and nostrils had become when I slept outside in a Moroccan sandstorm.

My sleeping bag and I backpacked on the Appalachian trail with eighth graders.  It traveled to Kenya, Tanzania, and Morocco.  It had hung from trees to dry out after rain.  I tried, once, to zip it together with a boyfriend's bag.

My sleeping bag brought me back to my solo days, when a summer adventure cost only one plane ticket and my own gumption and supplies.  Only I and the sleeping bag and the sheet inside connected the Me of 15 years ago to this moment, camping under the stars with my family and friends.

On an evening hike with Big Sis, as she experienced the natural high and exhilaration of wide open space and birdsand deer and lizards and jack rabbits and unexpected tarantulas on the trail, she turned to me and exclaimed, "Mom, I want to camp as often as we can.  And I want to go camping for my whole life."

Amen, sister.  And maybe when you're 41, you can sleep on an air mattress.

The Enchanted Canyon

When I was between the ages of four and eight and my father was in medical school, we lived in Connecticut in a condominium complex. While the homes were brand new in the 70s, featuring shag carpeting, bold wallpaper, and orange and olive-green appliances, the surroundings seemed untamed and enduring. We had a salamander-stocked creek trickling through the backyard shaded by willow trees, and our little neighborhood abutted a wooded hillside.

As kids we had free run of the place, riding our big wheels up and down the cul-de-sacs and winding paths between buildings, traipsing in the stream, and venturing into the woods, unsupervised and en masse, to explore, collect artifacts, and play imaginative and elaborate games. I remember half-building forts and abandoning them. I have a scar on my knee from when my brother and I doubled on his tricycle and tumbled headlong down the hill, and where the tire swing up in the woods hit that scab repeatedly. I couldn't stay away long enough to let it heal.

Those years in Connecticut comprise my most magical childhood memories. We were a tight-knit community of young families, and despite the fact that we moved away when I was merely eight years old, we remain in touch with several families and Facebook has brought me and my Hampton Park buddies back into one another's orbits.

Our daughters are now the same age my brother and I were when the woods of Hampton Park were our stomping grounds.  Living as we do now, however, in a semi-urban environment and in different times, our girls aren't as free to explore the streets of our neighborhood, largely due to our own discomfort and fears for their safety.  But we've found an enchanted canyon--a glorious escape nestled in the neighborhood--and it's become part of (what we hope is) our daughters' magical childhood. 

The canyon has become our place to go when friends come over to play.  We picnic in the canyon. When there's time after homework and before sunset, we head to the canyon.

We gravitate to the enchanted canyon when we need a breath of fresh air.  We visit the canyon to hear the sound of the wind and creaking tree boughs.  We explore the canyon with our dog:

Fairies live in the canyon. We know it because they leave their sparkly dust in trails, so we venture down there for fairy hunts:

We love the canyon for the thrill of an exhilarating swing from a tree and down the hillside:

Where was your magical childhood escape? 

Come visit, so we can share the canyon with you. 

In Case You Don't Recall

My book club's pick this month was S.J. Watson's Before I Go to Sleep, a novel in which the main character, Christine, suffers a form of amnesia in which she wakes each morning remembering nothing of her prior life.  As she gathers information about herself she begins to keep a journal she can consult every morning and add to every day, before she forgets it all again as she sleeps.  The novel is a page turner; one morning she discovers she has written to herself, "Don't trust Ben [her husband]." 

My fellow book club members and I engaged in an intriguing discussion about the arbitrary nature of memory (why have I held on to the characteristics of drumlins from 9th grade geography class, but can't remember the name of a student who graduated last year?), about the importance of perspective in recalling the facts of an occurrence (five siblings' recollections of a singular family event are a fascinating case study), and the strengths and weaknesses of our own abilities to remember (I can conjure details--even outfits I wore--from when I was eight years old, but not many from when I was 34?).  It's clear that my memory has muddied; I rely more and more on notes, lists, and calendars (and a daily fear of flaking).  I suspect, however, that my life, now that I manage my own as well as my children's schedules, has grown more complex than it was even ten years ago. 

Also, there are more passwords. 

The question arose at our meeting, "What would you write down today if you knew when you woke up tomorrow you would have no prior knowledge of yourself?"  Our minds turned at once to cherished memories that would beg recording.  Reminders of people important to us, near and distant, living and passed.  Explanations for how things came to be, decisions that were made, and key influences on our character. 

But I began wondering, what could I convince myself of, under the circumstances of having no memory, that I would otherwise know better?  What might I delude myself into believing?  What should I warn myself about (while I am thinking of it--allergy to shellfish!)?  About which aspects of my life would I be tempted to gently persuade myself, or steer myself clear? 

How could I change the course of my life by carefully considering the way I talk to myself?

So I decided to try writing to myself, thinking that more important than telling myself about my life would be to tell myself about me. 

Dear Fer,

You're confused, I know.  It's like the confusion you feel when you wake up in an unfamiliar place and for a few moments wonder where the heck you are and how you got there.  Except you're also wondering who the heck you are. Read on, because I am going to help you [ed.:  And there, I've already forgotten to try and impress myself with witty or deeply insightful writing...].  

You'll understand the basics soon enough--that you have a husband and two daughters, and lots of extended family...I'll save those revelations for the characters who will inevitably show up (if they haven't already!  Is it past 6 AM?) and prove themselves to you.  My job is to let you know some of the things others might not tell you.  Maybe even some of the things they don't know.  You're going to have to be patient and refer to that magnet on the fridge which reads, "What if we just acted like everything was easy?"  You aspire to do this everyday, with varied results. 

It's tempting to tell you that you're more than capable of things you've considered or attempted:  publishing your writing, having a third child, moving your family abroad, taking on a new leadership role, feeling good about your contributions to the world, friends, family.  But you'd see through me soon enough, recognize the insecurities.  It might be that the nagging doubts keep you balanced and realistic.  Perhaps they also help you identify what you're truly passionate about. 

I'll start with what's easy for you, Fer:  Making a meal with whatever is in the house.  Getting ready to go in the morning.  Coming up with ideas.  Proofreading.  Going for a run.  Managing a lot on your plate (both digestively and figuratively).  Worrying.  Working with children.  Teaching.  Talking.  Traveling. Crying.  Apologizing.  Being goofy.  Feeling guilty.  Getting on board.  Spending money at Target.  Making piles of papers.  Giving yourself permission.  Being vulnerable.  Putting up with broken stuff.  Contemplating change.

Here's what's tougher for you, Fer:  Putting your clothes away.  Remembering to let go and relax sometimes.  Not interrupting.  Driving long distances.  Managing a lot on your plate (figuratively).  Tolerating chaos.  Eating less cheese.  Climbing things.  Discussing tough family or relationship issues with the loved one in question. Being vulnerable. Fixing household items without making them broken in a new way.  Experiencing change. 

As for parenting, it belongs in each category at different moments.  No other role you've assumed can make you feel as wonderful and as low.  Perhaps it's best to approach it with a fresh outlook each day. You've got that going for you!

Maybe you're just like anyone else in this regard, but your best memories are of deep conversations and revelations in both simple and exotic places. Stargazing with your husband in Belize. Sleeping on the train with your daughters. Long runs with good friends. Family meals. Moments of mutual admiration and appreciation.

Now for some advice.  Go easy on your husband, who is an incredible father and partner and often the brunt of your bad moods. 

Big Sis is old enough now to hold up a reasonableness meter to your responses and reactions, and for now, she does it politely.  Listen to her; she's going to help the whole team with her gentle guidance.

There isn't too much time or attention you can bestow upon your family.  You've understood this all along, but you really get it now. 

Finally, you're always working on the balance, on the feeling good about your time and attention to family and friends, to work, and to yourself, ALL AT THE SAME TIME.  The neverending adjustments are, well, neverending, so I can't help you settle the deal for once and for all.  But Fer, you're good at the checks and balances.  You know when something is off.  Trust yourself. 

Maybe that's the most important wisdom for me to pass on to you...me.  Trust yourself; I trust you. 

See you in the morning.

Cupcake on a Plate

On Black Friday in November we were invited to the home of some friends who host a "Make Something" Day in lieu of "buy something."  The girls and I baked an apple tart to contribute, and spent the better part of the afternoon gabbing and creating in the company of lovely friends.  The girls drew, cut and glued, and painted on canvas.  Big Sis made a painting for Grandma Shirley, and we hung it in her room at the care facility and then on her sideboard when she returned home. 

Yesterday we brought home some boxes of Grandma's things, possessions she had designated for us and for the girls, and other items family members thought we would appreciate having.   Nestled in the boxes were Christmas gifts our niece chose for the girls, gifts Grandma would have endorsed. 

We inherited much of Grandma's Beanie Baby collection, including outfits, and when I returned home from stepping out with a friend for a glass of wine, they were lined up on the couch, tucked under a blanket. 

Photo albums Grandma kept of Husband and our family were among the books and treasures to remind us of her:  a ship on driftwood, a mermaid figurine, a porcelain clown.  A beautiful cookbook self-published by her cousin, an artist, caught my attention.  This morning, I reflexively reached for my phone to call Shirley and tell her how much I love it. 

Grandma kept lists of the gifts she'd been given over the years, with directions to return them to the givers someday.  That day was yesterday for us, and we found drawings and jewelry and framed photos once selected or created for her.  Big Sis discovered the painting she made for Grandma, "Cupcake on a Plate." 

"Mom, this is Grandma's!  It's supposed to stay in her house."  She looked puzzled.

"Oh, honey; she's not living there anymore.  They're cleaning everything out..."

"It's not going to be her house anymore?  Ever?"

I shook my head.  "No, it's not...someone else will live there."

Big Sis clutched the painting. "But, Mom, this was supposed to be with her forever--it was for her."  Her eyes welled up.  "It's not ours.  Why didn't they just burn it up with her?" 

I gulped.  "I hear that you want it to be with her always, honey.  You don't want it back, do you?" 

She shook her head.

"We can burn it, sweetie."

"And can we put it with her, when we spread her ashes in the water?"

"Sure, honey.  Sure.  We can do that."

This Christmas Eve

She passed away peacefully today while we played at the beach with our cousins. We were with beloved family members as was she.

***

Grandma came home last Thursday for good and family members decamped to her apartment--a title for her home which inadequately describes the place we celebrated holidays and birthdays and ate summer dinners and congregated, just to chat and check in.

Husband and I hadn't discussed how we'd talk about the plan for his mom with the girls. Big Sis overheard us talking about her going home, though, and her eyes lit up. "She's going home!?"

Going home. A sign that things were better. A sign that we understood her wishes. A metaphor: so many meanings, contradictory and synonymous.

Husband was ready. I was more conflicted. The week prior, the week it was decided, I was angry, not about how this would go, but that she was robbed in the first place. That a stroke turned her life on a dime, irrevocably. Going home should always be good. Instead it felt portentous, momentous, and ominous. What I didn't understand--know then--was that her homecoming would be good, beautiful.

And so Big Sis overheard us talking about her going home, while we were still processing what it meant, what it would look and feel like.

"But it's your Mom!" she pleaded, crying, eyes wide at her dad. It's your Mom."

***

When a family member is ill, in the hospital or convalescing for an extended period, there's an emergency mode you enter and in which you dwell, on a precarious perch bound in part by unceasing worry and also the reassurance of rules, protocols, and safety measures.

But when hospice is in place, practical matters once significant become irrelevant, like her failed swallow tests. Grandma tasted ice cream, apple pie, some margarita with her family.

Other practicalities take on new meaning. She had her hair cut on Tuesday night, because it would feel good. There's a lovely clarity of purpose we too often lack in our everyday lives: comfort, simple pleasures, being with loved ones.

Her eldest son's family, wife and three grown children, were all together for the first time in ten years. They walked Grandma to the beach on Monday.

***

We spent hours each day with family members at her apartment, sitting in her office chair, her beloved blue chair, and on folding chairs and lawn chairs. Temporary relationships were struck with nurses, the chaplain, case manager. Her neighbor and best friend did laundry, dropped off breakfast, lunch, and unexpected snacks. Stories were told. The girls played Go Fish, drew, watched TV, played with Grandma's Beanie Babies. They held her hand and talked with her.

There was time, too, to cook, work, answer emails and phone calls, update Facebook. I imagined ancient cave-dwelling people doing then much like we were: tending to daily life while keeping vigil over a loved one passing through in close, safe, reassuring quarters. It felt so very right.

During a quiet moment, girls drawing, Grandma sleeping, nurse recording notes, Big Sis paused. "I miss Grandma," she shared, and then resumed coloring.

***

Cousins and siblings and aunties and uncles and nieces and nephews reacquainted and connected at Grandma's side. Family members gave what they could and how and when, in a seamless ebb and flow of being with her and together. Sides and strengths of personalities, in many cases dormant for having not yet endured this, emerged and developed. Admiration, love, and respect for one another grew.

***

So few relationships in our lives are unfettered by titles and hierarchies, history and unforgiven deeds, our own selfishness and demands and obligations. Jealousy, mistrust, and hidden agendas. My mother-in-law gave me and us a simple uncomplicated and unconditional love of no demands. Without question, negotiation, or agreement, our family's relationship with Grandma Shirley was organically good, always. I loved her so easily.

***

Our family's holiday traditions include taking Grandma to the Hotel del Coronado to view the giant decorated tree and ice skaters and have a holiday drink and appetizers. We dress up and take pictures. We eat spicy nuts and toast with our hot chocolates and martinis. To enduring love, to family, to little luxuries to count on.

All the things we are appreciating so much this year.

We love you, Grandma. The girls will have your hands in theirs at the Del this season, and forever.

Grandma Shirley

My Mother-in-Law

Shirley who is the anchor in a bustling port
And writes "Hiya" in the subject line
Who is coral and clowns
Who is pelicans and pastels
Whose home is never too small
Is scrambling some eggs
Who tells us we're wonderful
Who tells us not to worry
Whose blue eyes are glistening
Is letting us off the hook
Remembers Little League and sailboats
Is making lists
Is an album of pride and memories
Is grinning tell her a story
Has brought us all here
Who saved it for you especially
Is ornaments and white wine and mysteries
Who validates and cajoles and disagrees and chuckles
Is the forgiving ship in the family fleet
Asking how will you grow from here
How will you grow how?

'Tis the Season

I'm appreciating my Facebook Friendships with former students lately.  My page is full of college kids counting down days till they return to our hometown, snapshots of the bridge to our small city, and taggings of old friends with new:  "I wish you could meet my roommate/high school buddy; you two would love each other!"  Ahhhh, it makes me nostalgic. 

'Tis the season for lamentations about finals, too.  And I have some sympathy for my modern-day earnest scholar-friends.  I mean, it was hard enough to study in college during the age of doors with dry-erase boards and landlines, the time of no cell phones or computers.  Can you imagine the distractions these days?  The texts?  The TV shows and movies downloaded to the device sitting right there on your desk?  I can't!  Even without those temptations I managed to distract myself in the library, making new friends and talking to lampshades if all else failed.  But I also can't imagine how I found my friends on weekends in college, without phones and "check-ins" and such, what with the whimsy of "maybe I'll hit up that frat party...no wait, I changed my mind; I'm gonna go to the improv show instead."  Nevertheless, I somehow managed a healthy serendipitous social life. 

But I remember final exams.  I remember that when I made my airline reservations in the fall with a return ticket at the end of the semester, I'd always have to book my flight on the last possible day of finals, just in case one of the courses I chose scheduled a final for that 2:00 PM slot on December 22nd.  Most of the time, I had a day or two post-exams to pack and languish in the dorm with the few folks stuck studying, but fall semester junior year, I had the last final on the last day, with a flight out early the next morning.  I would be studying abroad in Italy during spring semester, which meant I had to pack All My Stuff and haul it into the basement that night after my final, where it would await my return fall of senior year. 

I wasn't looking forward to this packing and hauling at all.  I wasn't looking forward to saying goodbye to my boyfriend for an eight-month separation.  The only thing I was glad about was being done with my History of China final, which I thought I had rocked.  That class was my favorite thus far; I had actually read the whole book my professor wrote along with associated readings, and was fascinated by the twists and turns in Chinese politics juxtaposed with the constants of its culture.  To celebrate the end of finals, I planned to enjoy a leisurely Last Supper with friends in the dining hall and then burn the midnight oil packing. 

There's a joke that circulated during finals about a kid taking his exam who didn't heed the warning to turn in his blue books immediately when the exam session was over.  He sat, instead, at his desk and continued to write, even as he was threatened by the proctor that his exam would not be graded.  When he finally finished, he carried his blue books to the front of the lecture hall, where the exasperated T.A. stood beside a table stacked with completed exams. 

"Do you know who I am?" he challenged the T.A.

"No...?" replied the T.A. 

"Good," said the student, as he shoved his blue books into the middle of the pile of exams.  "Have a great holiday!"

Turns out I would have my own blue book mishap, no joke.  After dinner, I returned to my dorm room with my backpack to begin sorting, packing, cleaning, and lugging.  I emptied my backpack first.  I had a habit of grabbing extra blank blue books and using a few for notes or outlining while I was taking exams.  I had turned in the essays and answers and thrown the blue books with notes into my backpack.  Or so I thought.  I recall my gut turning over and blood draining from my face as I realized that instead, I had taken my exam books with me, and turned in my notes.  On the last day of finals.  By this time, hours had gone by, hours in which classroom buildings were being locked, T.A.s were loading up cars and heading home for the holidays, and professors were long gone.  Hours during which I, conceivably, could have been writing exam answers in my room with my course books open, only to claim later that I accidentally turned in the wrong blue books.  I felt completely, hopelessly, irrevocably screwed. 

When I was finally able to stop flapping my arms, pacing, and hyperventilating, I did the only thing I could do:  call my T.A.  She was my discussion section leader, and we had made conversation after class a number of times.  I admired her; she was wise and organized and kind.  She would actually know who I was.  Maybe trust me.  If I could find her. 

Her number was listed in the phone book, miraculously, and I left a long, rambling, and desperate message on her answering machine.  And then commenced worrying and packing and bemoaning my plight and stupidity.  By the time she returned my call I was resigned to failing the class, the class I loved with the professor who was legendary and my cool T.A.  But she returned my call, and she listened to me and believed me and we made arrangements for me to leave my exam books in her grad school mailbox.  I had probably never felt more relief and gratitude combined before. 

Ah, that T.A. with her mercy and trust in me.  Now an educator myself, I've never forgotten the value of those two gifts in my work with growing and developing humans.  But the real moral of the story lies in relationships.  Had I not connected with my T.A., and had she not made herself available to students, I might have had some insightful but worthless essays, short answers, and identification pairs to take home for the holidays, as well as a bad grade in that awesome history class. 

So, my Facebook friends with finals, make yourself known to your professors, T.A.s, deans, and R.A.s (in all the right ways, of course).  Stay connected with old friends (and teachers!) and bring your two worlds--former and current--together when you can.  Pay forward the strong connections you've cultivated by reaching out to underclassmen and younger siblings.  Share your wisdom and mercy.  Be honest.  Don't forget to double-check your tests and exams and slow down a little.

And while I am dispensing free advice, I'll throw in one more helpful hint:  If you happen to enroll in a class in which the professor announces on the first day that your grade will be based on either the midterm and final, or just the final exam--your choice!--TAKE THE MIDTERM, PEOPLE.  It turns out you can't read all the books about U.S. History from 1900 to 1950 in a week.  Trust me on this one. 

Good luck!  A full night's sleep is right around the corner.

List: Bookstores I Have Loved

Jon Stewart did a segment on the closing of bookstore chain Borders' retail outlets last night on The Daily Show.  It was funny, of course, but more like a satirized memorial to an endangered species.  Once vilified, even the mega-bookstores aren't immune to consumers' shifting focus to electronic media.  And while I am increasingly "guilty" of downloading books to read on my iPad, I can't imagine a world without bookstores.  Feeling bummed about the closing of our nearby Borders, where the girls and I often went for afternoon field trips of perusing books and selecting birthday gifts, I thought about the bookstores that have been there for me through my various stages of development. 

1.  Perkins Bookworm:  The bookstore in my hometown growing up. We could bike there and grab Baskin Robbins on the way home.  Perkins also sold tapes and records, but the kicker? The bookstore was a Ticketmaster outlet, making it the site of my first concert ticket purchase, for a UB40 show. 

2.  Upstart Crow:  The bookstore "across the bridge" that my best friends and I frequented in high school.  With a cafe and tables in sweet nooks scattered around the shop, it was a great hangout for chatting, conspiring, and journal writing. 

3.  Atticus:  The bookstore/cafe in my college town that I loved so much I thought I wanted to work there.  After a few months of 4 PM-to-midnight shifts on Fridays my freshman year, I reclaimed my social life.  Lesson learned: don't ruin a favorite haunt by working there.

4. Kramerbooks & Afterwords: The iconic Washington, D.C. bookstore in Dupont Circle was a mile-walk from my house and convenient stop on the way home from a night out. Who can't like a bookstore that serves beer? If Kramer's ever closes, it will mean the world is ending.

5. UCSD Bookstore: A huge store with awesome school and office supplies and an amazing selection of books. My favorite bookstore for poetry volumes. College bookstores feature arcane academic works, too...fun to browse.

6. Bay Books: My local bookstore, where I order our book club selections and they sell them at a discount. Where my former students work. For a relatively small store, it boasts an impressive magazine selection. Staff recommendation cards there have led me to some terrific reads.

7. Yellow Book Road: A perfect name for a perfect children's book store. Authors hold workshops for children, and the shop offers summer literacy camps.

8. Used Bookstores: My favorite places to peek when I am traveling; I relied on one to keep me busy reading in Florence when I studied abroad in college. Used bookstores have rare treasures and represent the culture of their environs. I chuckled as I watched the clerk at a shop in Half Moon Bay this summer transcribe the titles of each book I purchased into a black-and-white marbled composition book. Time stands still in used bookstores.

9. Borders: I know it's a major chain store, but I will sorely miss our local Borders Books. The franchise connected with the community, holding kids' poetry readings and hosting local musicians. I loved the music section, with a wide variety of CDs to sample through headphones.

Ultimately, bookstores support libraries and communities of reading, and I predict individuals will have a more narrow exposure to new works available without them, as our electronic media preselects readings based on our interests. Bookstores' book displays and groupings entice us into new worlds in a way online browsing never will. We do judge books by their covers, and jackets, and heft. Bookstores gave us permission to sample and fondle the goods.

I don't think there's any other kind of retail experience more satisfying.

In Which I Capsize in a Lake Full of Hippos, and Run with the Wildebeests

A few weeks ago a good friend of mine posted on Facebook that she was surprised to learn that hippos were dangerous. I won't tell you where she learned this, but it was The Bachelor  not the Nature Channel.  I commented that hadn't I told her about the time I was afraid for my life having capsized a sailboat in a lake full of hippos? Actually, the hippo part was not the most frightening aspect of my misadventure, which involved Brian, a friend visiting from London. But anyway. No, I hadn't told my friend that story, nor the other friends commenting on The Bachelor hippos, and I've been meaning to tell this tale of adventure from my time in Africa, so here is a transcribed entry from my Kenya journal, June 1997:

...we arrived at Lake Naivasha around 4:00 and set up tents near the surprisingly nice Naivasha Yacht Club "lodge" on a grassy knoll overlooking the notch of the lake where the yachties sail their Lasers. Suzanne and I went on a short run near some water buck down by the road. Later, we had a pizza appetizer by the fire, a spaghetti dinner, and an early to bed, as we were all exhausted.

We got up early the next morning to scrub my friends' neglected Laser 2. We shoddily rigged it and Randy and I went for a virgin sail. I sat ashore while he sailed with Suzanne; then he came in and "handed me the helm" to take Brian out, which I did, skeptically, as my most recent sailing experience was years prior--a season on my college sailing team, as crew, never skipper. Jokes were made about Brian losing his money (which--foreshadowing alert--was in his wallet in his pocket, but also LUCKILY attached to his belt).

We had a nice sail, but I was a bit nervous and too harried to effectively tell Brian how to assist. I became REALLY nervous when I realized a boat race was starting and we were poised to be in the middle of it. In a moment of gusty wind near the shore, too much attention to the helm and not to the sail, or vice versa, I capsized the boat. I saw it coming, failed to warn my friend, and sort of stepped out onto the sail and then into the water. Without a life jacket.

I think I started laughing then. Poor Brian. He had a hat, sunglasses, Tevas, and poor swimming skills to contend with, along with the shock of being dumped into the water.

The boat turtled soon thereafter. I was momentarily clueless about what to do, and then a passenger in the first boat which passed us reminded me to stand on the centerboard to right it. I stood on the edge of the boat and pulled on that centerboard with all my strength. Brian helped. The boat finally came over, and then came all the way over again, in a scary tumble of sail and mast and finally boat coming right at us. I believe this sequence of events happened twice, as Brian struggled to keep his sandals on. But the thought of hippos below us, nipping at our heels, encouraged our efforts to get ourselves back on the boat.

The following time I attempted to right the boat, I relaxed myself, and realized I was trembling all over from fear, adrenaline, and exhaustion, and that I had swallowed a whole lot of (hippo pee) lake water. I also realized how capable people drown in these circumstances, and why people wear life jackets. Pulling that centerboard had done a number on my arms and quadriceps. Finally, a passing sailor asked if we wanted the rescue boat and Brian and I, lacking any remaining pride, adamantly affirmed we did.

The rescue boat appeared with Suzanne and Randy in it, as well as Brian's and my cameras. They circled us like shark photographers, and we couldn't help laughing as we begged for assistance. With proper coaching, Brian and I successfully righted the boat. By that time I was not only tired, but feeling embarrassed and sorry that I had overturned my friends' vessel. I knew I did not want to sail it to the dock. Randy took over and I joined the rescue boat and "recovered."

Back on shore, I ate the remaining cold spaghetti and took a hot shower. We made a short trip to town to Elementaita Weavers, where I bought a handwoven blanket and pillow, and returned to the Yacht Club veranda with apples and our books for a lazy afternoon.

Just after I had stretched and expressed the desire to Go Take a Nap, an interesting young man I had met earlier--Mark, a Peace Corps volunteer--came up and asked, "You can sail, right?" I looked sidelong at Suzanne and laughed. I thought he was joking.

"My crew is leaving before the next race. Do you want to sail with me?"

I told him he might really regret his choice (although I was vindicated by seven other sailors who capsized that morning), but Mark seemed determined.

I was put in a harness, a new experience for me, and we practiced flying the spinnaker once; the next thing I knew we were racing. I will admit that I had no idea where we were on the lake or the race course the entire time we sailed. I was simply concentrating on doing the right thing at the right moment. And hiking out, along with tacking and trimming the jib, required more strength, grace, and agility than I appeared to have remaining.

Nevertheless, Mark was great to sail with, and an odd skipper: he didn't give orders, nor get frantic and shout, and was just as interested in talking to me as he was in sailing. I was enjoying myself. Then we capsized. But before I could panic or become hippo fare, we were back in the boat.

Next, "we" somehow screwed up the spinnaker, and as I was attempting to fetch it out of the water, I fell out of the boat so that I was dangling  backside down by the rubber band attached to my harness, laughing and yelling, "I'm gone...I'm out...I'm Not In The Boat!"  To which my calm skipper replied, "Yet strangely still with us," as I was dragged alongside the racing boat. He made a deft turn which boomeranged me back aboard, and Mark admitted to me it was the first time he'd lost his crew without capsizing.

Being outside the boat over the water in a harness (the right way), virtually flying, was exhilarating and probably the best of any sailing experience I'd had. When I thought my thighs could take no more, the races were over.

Just in time for confirmation that the crowd on shore had witnessed my sidecar excursion, and for a promised run with Suzanne.  We headed over to Crescent Island, taking off our running shoes to wade across the gully. We ran down the airstrip with an amazing view of Mount Longonot. It was not long before we saw herds of zebra, water buck, Thompson's gazelles and finally, wildebeest, in the fields ahead. We had to negotiate where to run without unwittingly causing a stampede.

The run was spectacular: fever trees along the lake, a gorgeous sunset, zillions of pelicans set to flight by our thoughtless feet, and plovers dive-bombing us as we headed out, perceived threats to their nests. We ran for over an hour, I on the fumes of adrenaline from earlier adventures, and returned to camp for lentils and drinks with Randy, Brian, and Mark.

I slept soundly that night with bruised legs, beers in my belly, and a deep sense of self satisfaction and relief that it wouldn't be death by drowning, or by hippo, today in Kenya.