My son loves a train. When he was about one I decided to give him one of Ella's old dollies for the sake of nurturing his pink toy-isle side and he promptly drove it down his toy train track. Among his first twenty much anticipated words were "woo! woo!" and every time we cross the river near our house he's yelling "Train tracks!" as we we pass the yellow octagon sign with the big X. I'm not sure how kids seem to be born loving a thing. For Ella it was fashion and for Jack it is wheels and especially trains. So this summer when the IL Railway Museum was doing their annual Thomas the Train Engine Party, I figure it was my duty to take this baby to see it. The same way when I was little my Dad felt it was his duty to take out to Cottonwood airport and get us a ride in what I remember as a VW bug with wings.
We woke early and as we pulled into the museum this is what we saw.
Oh yeah, this was the right place for us. As we walked in we saw a bazillion little boys in striped Osh-Gosh overalls and old fashioned conductor hats chased by doting parents pushing expensive strollers of gargantuan proportions. It didn't matter, we were all so excited, I couldn't even get annoyed with all the privileged suburbanites. I'd never really taken a proper train before, sure I'd ridden the El in Chicago and the trolley in New Orleans and some zoomy things at lots of airports, but wowzers this was the real deal.
Each train had that same machine shop metal and grease smell from my childhood, and the you could see where the patina of a million hands had rubbed off the enamel of the hand rails. It was easy to get lost in time imagining commuters in the same seats with far more etiquette than I'll ever see on public trans.
We spent the whole day riding grand old trains around in circles and smiling. We did do some of the the other activities; mini-putt, scavenger hunt, tattoo tent and half a magic show. We must've stopped to eat at some point but really, it was so fun I don't even remember the snacks.
We were almost the last kids to hobble back out to the parking lot at the end of the day and we'll certainly go back again next year.
It has me thinking though, about summer vacations. It would be nice to get to a place without having to drive, to enjoy the country side going by and the rocking of the tracks. I've looked at the "family car" on Amtrack and it's a regular little cabin, much like I imagine they are on a cruise, though I don't really know. The biggest ship I've ever been on was a ferry where the passengers only get their own car to sit in. I think me and the kiddos could like hanging out in a little family car, politely playing cards and eating string cheese at night, wandering out to the riding car in the day and playing I-spy. Funny how imagining us on a train naturally includes imagining us all being polite.
I can't tell you if the most pivotal years in my life were the ones jammed packed with graduations and marriages and babies, or politics, roller derby, and moving homes. Perhaps the most important year of my life was the year I spent sleeping in trying my hardest to avoid cleaning and making a renewed effort to chase butterflies. Perhaps that was the year I staved off a nervous breakdown and lingered at the green light long enough to miss the deadly car wreck ahead. It probably contained a day I lolled about in bed so long I imagined the most amazing masterpiece painting, the one that would hurtle me past fame and into history books, and allow me to never worry about money again. But then I rolled over with a morning sun beam and forgot what it was instead choosing to scratch my butt and see what it would be like to snooze with one foot out from under the covers. I'll have to consult angels to know if blowing on dandelions or finishing this post is better.
The whole city a large, grey, well-used machine that never stops grinding and turning. Cogs and wheels fueled with blue collar sweat and a nuclear plant whose base the city's dark navy river flows quietly past. Yesterday's shop-grease hangs in the air, washing the vibrancy from the face of each home with it's thick blanket of white cloud, horizon to horizon. When I think of Rockford, it is always overcast in my mind, the same way my little brother is forever fifteen and seafood is always decadent.
My marriage fell apart on a Friday. My dad begged me on the phone from three states away, not to drive anywhere for the weekend but I promised the children we'd go to the Bayou City Art Festival. I didn't want to sit home a mushy mess letting the children have the run of the house. I insisted we proceed as planned. I packed a diaper bag; five diapers, wipes, three waters, a few gold fish snack bags, a couple of match box cars, sunglasses and sun screen and we left. It was 90° at ten in the morning when we parked the car at an outlying mall in the suburbs and got on the shuttle to the down-town festival. I wrestled an umbrella stroller, a diaper bag and two children onto the bus filled with families and did my best stiff upper lip for the kids.
We walked among the arts and crafts and paintings and sculpts and pottery, the sun beat down on us, the stroller kept getting stuck in the cracks of the walkway, the baby kept trying to crawl out of it, the kids were simultaneously bored and wanting to touch everything. They were unhappy and I didn't have enough arms. We were all thristy and hot and everyone was in our way and we didn't know which line was for tickets or how many we needed for ice creams and water and chips. Happy couples with no children in tow filled the walkway sipping wine and avoiding our stickiness, but not so much as to make an extra inch of room for us on a bench or a side-walk and certainly not in the shade. I reapplied sunscreen and forced myself to eat two bites of the sixteen ticket gourmet macaroni and cheese I bought for the kids, that they hated.
Then the children were doing crafts under a bustling tent with a hundred other children. I started to think of all the days ahead of me with not enough arms to hold the diaper bag and stroller and shaving cream on a paper plate, and waters and a toddler. It was hot and I was hyperventilating and the children were glitter gluing things with some lady and I was was on the phone with a friend who was reminding me how to breath and then I realized I was in the middle of a crowd in the middle of the fourth largest city in the nation with my entire family standing inches from me and my best friend on the phone and I felt alone. I wished I had listened to my dad and not driven anywhere.
I packed all the crabbiness and glitter up into the diaper bag and a random plastic bag I liberated from on of the craft booths and started towing the children back across the span of the festival back to the shuttle bus. We had to pee. There were only the squat, green, plastic boxes of portable outhouse to be found. I slogged on to the least used box and parked the stroller along with everything I had, next to the outhouse. I put the baby on my hip and went in to the small space with the kid while bellowing "Don't touch ANYTHING!" and "I know it stinks, but it's this or pee your pants!" and "Don't open the door now, my pants are down!" and "I know you're hot, I am too!" We made it out relieved and surely covered in a bazillion germs of hauty art patrons' piss. While I was trying to wash it all off with the trickle of portable sink water pumped by my foot, the baby stood up in the stroller and everything tipped over. The bags emptied onto the pavement, the baby went face first into the back of the stroller the water bottle rolled down into a gully and people gasped and looked towards the horrible crash.
I grabbed everything in my arms, stroller, crying baby, child's hand, diaper bag, plastic bag, sparkly crafts, sunglasses, all of it. I held it all together weaving through the crowd faster yet, towards the shuttle buses. I was looking for a first aid tent. The world was spinning, I was going to go down and be laying on the ground while my one year old ran crying into the sunset and my eight year old cried her legs hurt and the art lovers would drink their wine and discuss the merits of Mark Ryden's pop retro influence on the festival. I couldn't find any first aid tent. I walked on. We finally rounded the last mound of sculptures and tents and I saw the line for the bus snaking back and forth between long ropes. The sign in my head said "Your wait is now 50 mins." I just stood there, not knowing where I was going to get the energy wondering if we could even survive the wait.
From nowhere a man walked up to me and asked "are you going to the mall?" I nodded. He held his hand out to me and said "Here take this over to the line on the left." I took the small ticket and read it "fast pass." I looked back up to thank nobody, he had already walked away. We walked up to the line on the left where the bus driver swiftly folded up my stroller, stowed it and offered me an arm to steady myself as we quickly boarded the bus. We plopped down; a glittery, sad, sweaty mess in the second seats just under the air conditioning vent. I pulled the last bottle of water out of my bag and Alabama Shakes came on the radio.
My kid doesn't like to compete. She hates the idea of pressure to win and the possibility of someone feeling bad because they lost. She kicks butt at chess club, she's been asked to be a math-leet, and there are karate tournaments galore, she has signed up for none of them. I understand not being able to enjoy something because someone you care about is having a crummy time. And the kid is pals with everyone, but I hope she finds a way to be joyous about winning. I want this for her for all sorts of reasons; selfish ones (inwardly I'd like to say "Yay! I knew my kid was the best kid in the history of ever!") also winning is fun, plus trophies, and prize monies! But really I cringe to think she'd hold herself back for fear of hurting someone's feelings. I want her to be comfortable being the best kid in the history of ever (a title, of course, she will have to share with her brother.)
Standing in the front hallway of my parents house I threatened Chris Gravano "I am totally going to kiss you." We were waiting for his mom to come pick him up. We'd be going together for a whole week, which started with a carefully brokered agreement through our mutual agent Tim Raymer, who ultimately employed the time tested checking of a yes or no box as a legally binding contract. This was followed by sitting together in the lunch room discussing our mutual love of AC/DC and hate of Mrs. Beard's Social Studies class, four ridiculously quiet phone calls, lots of blushing and one awkward afternoon sitting on the couch in my parents living room. It was the perfect. Finally his mom pulled up in front of my house. I leaned in and kissed Chris so hard he fell off his crutches and into the hall tree. I happily helped him back up and out to his mom's car. Our mutual "like-LIKE" wouldn't last the length of his broken leg.
"Gratitude" came out in 1992 and was on heavy rotation in my truck. I took my boyfriend and my little brother to Lollapalooza 94 to see the Beastie Boys and when P-Funk rolled out on stage I couldn't dance hard enough to honor the joy in the music, but I tried. I spent the whole decade trying to dance enough to honor myself and the music, and the people who didn't make it to the 90s. The whole decade before I spent attending funerals. There were suicides and car accidents, illnesses and a murder. When I finally reached my senior year, I'd been to six funerals. These were people who were close to me. People who's middle names I knew, people who's front doors I no longer knocked on but just walked through while yelling out "It's me!" That was the 80s; frantic feelings, funerals and loss.
The 90s I spent living loud and knowing death is a moment away for any of us. I went to Mardi Gras, I bought an old victorian church and lived in it, I got married and spent the bulk of the wedding budget on open bar inviting everyone we knew. I worked back stage at the theatre. I gave my husband a mowhawk. I filled the house with friends and cooked dinners for twenty. I quit jobs. I went to concerts. I tried to do something good every day. The 90s actually bled right into the next decade not really ending until 2004. That was when Ella was born.
Having a child showed me a new quiet and patient gratitude. The kind that isn't dramatic, that doesn't feel like Robin Williams standing on a desk yelling "Carpe diem." The kind of thankfulness felt when a fussy baby finally falls asleep. Or the kind of appreciation you have when you trip on your platform clogs while holding the baby, go down hard and but manage to hold her up in the air, unscathed, while you take the brunt of the side-walk to the knee-cap. The kind of gratitude you have all at once for your parents and all that they do for you and how you feel like you will never be able to thank them enough for taking the bruise on the kneecap. There just aren't strong enough words. I think maybe the only way to thank parents is to live well; the same way I want my children to go out into the world and live happy, rich, full lives.
Though it never hurts to say thank you anyway, so;
Thank you Mom for cleaning up the kitchen that time me and my brother "made breakfast" by dumping the entire contents of the refrigerator on the floor of the kitchen. Thank you Dad for teaching me how to handle driving on ice by letting me do doughnuts in a parking lot on a snowy night. Thank you Ron for being cool about me coming in for the evening at the same time you are getting up for work in the morning. Thank you Grandma and Grandpa for always being a place to "escape to." Thank you my children for showing me quiet gratitude.
We sit behind the glass watching our hearts out on the smooth wooden floor moving in a choreographed blur. Holding our breaths with every feat, attempting to will perfection with our gaze, knowing we have no control over the lump-dove lump-dove of the shifting movements. We smile and nod through tight teeth at each missed beat, nearly the same way we smile and nod through tight eyes with every perfected measure. Soon the wooden floor is empty and there is a whirlwind of children all around us, everyone talking at once, getting their shoes and coats, and asking about dinner. Our instructor smiles and waves us on, until next week.
My favorite place to write is on a graffiti-ed bathroom wall. In every purse I carry a black permanent marker, mostly for writing my number on my arm before a derby bout but secretly it's to draw Kilroy Was Here, or for a Good Time Call..., or to correct other defacers' spelling and punctuation errors, or just to tag an unsuspecting wall. I've never shoplifted, I don't cheat at games, I'm that person who tells the bank teller she gave me too much change back, I've been accused of being a goody-two-skates on more than one occasion, I'm a middle aged mother of two with a bum-knee who likes historical fiction and the Home and Garden channel, and I am a vandal. I've carved on public picnic tables, I've written on bathroom walls in at least six states in the last three years and once I even took a can of spray paint to a bridge. I don't have a message, I don't have any reason, I just like to do it. Shhh!
I'm named after the floaty hippy song "Jennifer Juniper" by Donovan. My Mom thought it sounded unique and fresh. It turned out to be neither that year. The Melissas and Jennifers and Michelles of the world understand what it's like to have a single letter behind your name for twelve years of academia. When I entered college I tried out "Jenna" instead of "Jenny" for a semester and it was a horrible catastrophe. I wasn't used to it and so people would chase me down the hall yelling "Jenna!" at the back of my head while I meandered on to my next class. I had to give it up. I'm Jenny, that's the name they gave me.
The last decade I've been "Mom" a name also neither unique or fresh. This time it doesn't bother me at all to be called the same as women all around the world, in every family, all the way forward and back through time. It's a name I'll love forever even when it's howled from the sticky back seat of my car, during heavy traffic. Call it out into a crowd and I along with all the other women who's children are near mine in age, will turn around and look. I am Mom, that's the name I earned.
My first baby had an imaginary friend she used to call on the phone and blame things on. Bombadee broke it, colored on it, cut that doll's hair and ate all the marshmallows. Bombadee did whatever she wanted. It's her garden we played in and her feral laughter we chased all those young summer days with my first baby. It's her name I took when asked to pick a something for the back of my roller derby uniform. It's sometimes shortened to "Bomb" by my skatey sisters and thus never yelled in a crowded public place. Now if you google Bombadee it is my own garden and feral laughter you'll hear. I am Bombadee, that's the name I took.
When you're getting a divorce after being married a very long time, all your memories, even the really good ones feel like walking through a cactus patch. Though some have flowers and look beautiful, you don't examine them up close and breath in the sweet smell like you would with lilacs. Some of them may even be nourishing, but most days it's safer to keep a distance lest you end up sitting on the floor trying to extract nettles from your skin and move on with the day. It causes me to very carefully walk my path in life, never veering too deep into the thicket, never watching certain movies, or reading certain books, tossing out a whole decade of music and avoiding whole regions of my brain, only peering in slightly when the children ask. It's a delicate and absurd dance living in a cactus patch. It's why I returned to the lush grass lands of Illinois where the oaks have deep roots and the rich black dirt will nourish just about any seed you can plant. I think eventually I'll have enough new growth to roll among the violets and keep my cacti in bell jars next to the pressed funeral flowers and childhood rock collection.
I never have printer ink. When I need it, I call around and nobody else has it either and since whatever I need it for needs to be printed today it's useless to place an order. I go to the copy shop all the time and have one sheet of paper printed out; a permission slip, a handbook, a coupon, a homework assignment. I am the grasshopper of home office computing, never prepared for the long winter of needing ink, scrounging around at my friend the ant's house, with a flash drive in my pocket, trying to mooch printer access "Would you mind if I just printed a page or two real quick?" I've been known to hand draw a permission slip at eight fifteen in the morning on the day it is due back, my embarrassed nine year old asking "Are you sure this is ok?"
The Aquarium was free on Sunday and the Art Museum on Monday. Ella had the day off for Martin Luther King Day. I just had to find a hotel in between them both, one with a pool. The Essex is right on Michigan Ave, and we could stay there for $80.00 so I booked it. I find mid-January is the perfect time to take a mini-vacation to cheer everyone up. I also find that standing in line for the aquarium on free day in mid-January with two Texans is very difficult. They end up both trying to crawl into your coat with you and while that is very warm for everyone, it's also very unstable once they get past being cold and start tickling each other and blowing raspberries at each other while in your coat. I had to kick them out periodically to remind them how cold it was.
The hotel pool was FREEZING. Other kids were in there, everyone splashing and swimming and dunking like little porpoises all happy and squealing. It's possible that it's just not the temperature we spoiled swimmers are used to, but our lips really did turn blue, so I don't think I'm just being wimpy. When I finally talked my little blue lipped babies from the pool and back to the room, we ordered a delicious deep dish Chicago style pizza. I was glad to remember binoculars because the view was pretty awesome and while I got us all ready for the art museum on the second day Ella spent a good amount of time reporting on the gargoyles around town.
The aquarium was a hit save for the wait to get in and the art museum a bust save for the miniature hall. Those children looked in every little room in a box in astonishment. Ella inspired to go home and build her own doll house and Jack proudly naming everything in the little room. But the rest of the time they were bored and nobody wanted to walk. Next time, we'll go when it's warm. Warm enough to walk to both attractions, warm enough to swim in the pool, and warm enough to stand on the lake front and stare out at the blue for a good long time while the kids run around the sculptures.
I found the best brush in the whole world while searching under the bed for the kid's shoes. We'd been pining it's absence for about a week. It's wooden handle is warm and the bristles forgive just enough while still untangling. It's the perfect mixture of firm and warm and forgiving.
***
I'm on the second half of the lease in this house and looking forward to getting into a better place. We need just a pinch more space and all three bedrooms on the same floor. I have only lived one place where I didn't look forward to the end of the lease.
Whose Names are Unknown: A Novel by Sanora Babb is appealing to me on a few levels. I like to read about the dust-bowl and the depression. I just watched the PBS show about the dust-bowl and it all was so catastrophic. It's amazing to know we pulled our own butts out of an ecological disaster we created and it gives me hope in humans and what we can do. I'm a union supporter and a Democrat. Also, frankly it makes me feel very fortunate to live in this time of abundance, it reminds me to live simply and count my blessings. And perhaps the most important reason I wanted to read this was this book was it was written by Ms. Babb at the same time the Grapes of Wrath was written. The publisher told her the reading public couldn't support two books, though Steinbeck wrote the Grapes of Wrath after reading original pieces written by Babb.
Ain't that some crap? So since I have loved the Grapes of Wrath for such a long time, I felt I owed it to Ms. Babb to read her book, and it is magnificent. I recommend it. It's a smooth read, I wish I had more time to pour over it and at the same time I am trying very hard to savor it so it's not finished too quickly.
It finally snowed. It took all my might to wrestle Jack into a snow suit, yelling "Keep it on! Keep it on!" as he tore at the snow pants and hat and I quickly danced into snow boots. He discovered snow packs together into little balls for throwing, in the front yard after his sister got off the bus and hence refused to come in the house. Ella was squealing with glee and pelting me the first time I announced I was "too cold so you must be too", and on the ninety-ninth time I announced it, Jack was still working dilligently at packing snow into a small mound under his knees and smiling. He told the neighbor kids how wonderful it all was with a string of excited consonants and they nodded like they knew what he was saying. I picked him up and wrestled him into the house all the while he was tearing at his snow suit trying to keep it all on. While Ella made hot coco, he fell asleep. That was what it was like for Jack to see real snow the first time.
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)