My Kingdom for a Canoe

David and I went skinny dipping last night.

It seemed like the right thing to do, given the heat and the haze of the first full week of school. 

I have wept and complained and moaned and wailed.  I have had more than one vivid fantasy about pulling everyone out of public school and packing up the tent and moving to the rainforests of British Columbia.  Maybe we'd even buy a canoe.   You know, to get around.  In an effort to blame someone for the shock and pain of real life, I have given David the stink eye, the evil eye, and the pleading, don't-leave-me-now eye.

All to no avail.  There is no help for it.  We are back to school.  And somehow it seems like the greatest tragedy of my life. 

I keep asking David, "Why are we doing this?" 

And he just looks at me indulgently.  "Come on, Ap.  We want our children to be educated, right?" 

I'm honestly not sure. 

Ethan came home from the first day of school with a stiff upper lip.  By dinner, though, he had dissolved into hiccupy sobs.  The kind that break your heart.  Halfway through his chicken and artichokes he was in my lap, his head buried in my neck.  His two best friends have moved away and both the lunchroom and the playground had been very lonely affairs. The next day I wondered what kind of person sends her nine-year-old boy back to the same fate, armed only with bolstering hugs and whispered words of encouragement.  It seems preposterous.  On every level. 

The other children are transitioning with more grace and ease.  Especially Olivia.  She started high school and somehow managed to find a group of cute senior boys to eat lunch with.   Life has never been better.  At the same dinner table that Ethan sobbed his heart out, Olivia couldn't stop grinning. 

It's overwhelming. 

How am I supposed to nurture and care for all these children given all that emotion?  At any moment, there are wild swings between the happiness or misery of my four children.  And five days in, I'm exhausted.  And heartbroken.  And worried.  And worn thin.  And sick to death of office supply stores.  And so, so tired.  Did I mention I was tired?  I actually had the thought this week that I ought to have my thyroid checked and then I remembered we were just back in school.  And as hard as I'm working, it's still not enough.  I told David that we need none of me from 9:00 to 2:00 and we need four of me from 3:00 to 9:00.  There are some serious staffing issues around here in the late afternoon.

David says, "Come on, Ap.  It's only the first week."  He says this to be encouraging.  Like, give it some time and it will get better.  We'll get used to it somehow.

But I only hear, "It's only the first week," and desperately wonder how I can possibly manage another thirty-eight.  See?  That place in the rainforest sounds awesome. 

This afternoon I am going with Caleb so he can take his driving test for his license.   

Maybe I will tell him to just keep driving, and driving, and driving, until we find the open ocean and a sturdy canoe. 

The Five Little Peppers, Et Al

David will tell you that I was ruined at a very early age by books.

The romance and magic and charm and mystery of books are hard to replicate in real life. There are not a lot of adventure stories about carpooling and what to make for dinner again.

But being in Tofino is like being in all the books of your childhood...the mild sunshine, the igneous rocks to scrabble over, the tree-lined bike trails that lead directly to wide, sandy beaches, the eagles soaring overhead. At any moment you just know there will be a mystery to solve that will absorb you for the rest of the summer while you lick dripping ice cream cones and your skin turns brown under the magical sun.

I am immediately undone. David told me he never gets over the curve in the road that reveals the beautiful little harbor. I know the feeling.

It makes me feel like I'm twelve years old and all my dreams are coming true.

Even the house we stayed in came out of a storybook with its wide wooden plank floors and thick wood beams tracing the slope of the ceiling up to the rooftop. Our bedroom had a slanted ceiling and slanted windows that looked out on the foreign world of rainforest. (In every book of my childhood the heroine lived in the top room with a slanted roof. Sigh.) At night, when the housing was breathing quietly, I would watch the black silhouettes of the trees standing guard at the window until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer.

Every morning we rode our bikes to the beach to watch the fog burn off and wait for the tides to leave their treasures for our admiration and pleasure. Afternoons were for surfing lessons and boogie boarding while the eagles flew over our heads. We built campfires on the beach and roasted hotdogs and s'mores and warmed our ice cold hands from the ocean. We hiked to hot springs, saw pods of grey whales, biked the deep green rainforest paths and beach trails until our legs burned, pinked our cheeks on some of the best beaches the earth has to offer, licked and kissed the salty Pacific from our chapped lips, and watched the Canada Day fireworks from the pier at the very western end of the Trans-Canadian highway.

And everywhere we went we wore our jackets and kept the time only by the tides.

And I'm telling you, it was just like being inside a book.

Those gorgeous Canadian Rockies are getting closer and closer. We are on the ferry again, headed towards Vancouver, with our bike tires full of sand and our bags full of shells and rocks. David's pockets are full of leftover loonies and toonies, and my mind is full of memory. It is the final few pages and I am nearly heartbroken with the end in sight.

I always read the final chapter of my favorite books twice as slow.

To make them last.

Yes, I am ruined for sure.

(gorgeous and glorious pictures will come later when I find an actual computer)

Fire and Fog

[In full disclosure, this post was written over a couple of days, with intermittent and international wi-fi coverage...and by now it barely makes sense to publish it at all. And yet, here I am doing it anyway.]

Thursday morning

I was going to share a photo on Instagram this morning, but found I had more to say than the little caption box is designed to hold.  Instagram is not really my preferred format anyway, as evidenced by my pitiful collection of photos. Given the choice, I will choose the 1000 words over the substitute. Every time.

We just passed the 45th parallel, exactly halfway between the equator and the North Pole, and I am carsick.  Out of practice, I suppose. 

The green hills and bouncy clouds of Oregon look exactly as we left them nearly four years ago.  Keeping vigil until our return.  The grasses are slowly turning into pines the closer we get to the Pacific.   No wonder Lewis and Clark kept going. Every mile is more beautiful than the last.  Of course these hills will be shaved bare again before we see the tides.  I love the dressing and undressing of rolling hills.  These road trip stripteases never get old.

Friday

Early last evening we made it to the northern end of Washington, Oregon's dark, foreboding cousin. The greens are deeper, more menacing, and capable of swallowing you whole if you step too far off the road.  It was a shock to step out of the car into the damp and the chill and David and I were forced to climb up and untie the car-top carrier to find jeans and socks and close-toed shoes.  (Though on the morning news they were talking about the heat wave and I couldn't stop laughing.)

We woke this morning to somebody blowing the fog horn over and over, long and low, and the gulls calling.  It already feels like we're in a foreign country even though we haven't yet crossed the watery border a mile or so into the Pacific.  We are headed north.  As far north as we can get.  When your backyard is as hot as the surface of the sun, the only thing to do is head north.  And as Caleb reminded me in southern Idaho, the earth turns slower the closer we get to the pole.  Just what I had in mind.  More time together, more savoring, elongate each gorgeous, precious moment, roll around in it.   I am determined to make the sun stand still.

I feel like I ought to say something about my long absence from blogging, rather than dumping you directly into our vacation.  My life seems pretty magical when the posts go from holiday to holiday, eh?  (Look, I'm already speaking Canadian!)  But now there is too much--too much to say, too much to remember--and the last few months have been like a wildfire, burning out large swaths of my memory and leaving only a few stubby highlights among the smoldering, smoking ruins.

There was school and work and church and lessons and school musicals and finals and an endless lineup of orchestra concerts. Though to say it in one sentence like that does nothing to convey the heat and terror of the firefight.  I also happened to throw an Indian-themed wedding for my youngest sister.  I didn't sleep during the entire month of May.  Mostly from searing and unrelenting fear.  My own mind can be a fearsome thing at three in the morning.  You will be surprised to learn that this made me mildly difficult to live with.  Despite my worries (and David's collateral suffering) it turned out lovely.  People who happened by slowed down and got out of their cars to crane their necks at all that love and beauty. 

And then finally, blessedly, the fire was out.  Summer was here and puzzles and games and movie marathons became the most pressing issues of every day.  And slowly, I have learned to sleep again. Ten minutes more every day.  Soon I will be downright slothful. 

Best of all, here we are in line to board the ferry to British Columbia.  We are headed out to sea, straight into the fog.  North, like I said.   Inside my head they are playing a rousing rendition of "O, Canada" and outside my head the earth is slowing down as it arcs along its orbit through space.

One slow, lazy, glorious turn at a time.

There's Nothing Wrong With Your Eyes

I have been decluttering. The drawers, the closets, the cupboards.

And finally, the blog.

Last and least. But finally, done.

When I went to clean it up, it was in a woeful state. Apparently, I had long-since stopped actually seeing it.

Over Christmas break, I drove Caleb down to the DMV to get his driving learner's permit. Before he took the written exam the woman at the counter said he needed to take the eye test. She had him press his forehead against the machine and then said, "Read the second line."

Caleb was quiet.

"Read the second line."

More silence. He looked up at me. Confused.

"Just read the line," I said, helpfully.

He put his head back in the machine and pulled it out again. "It's blurry," he mouthed at me.

I said, "Just read it." I am nothing if not helpful.

He started tentatively reading.

The woman looked at me. "Are you his mother?"

I nodded.

"Um, he can't see."

"Yes he can."

"No, ma'am. He's reading numbers and there aren't any numbers on the line."

He looked at me and shook his head. He couldn't see anything. Too bad. I had such high hopes for that "Mother Of The Year Award" in 2013.

And I asked myself, all the way home, all the way to the optomistrist, how I missed something like that. Blindness, I mean. What else was I missing?   It's staggering to consider.  When we got to the car, Caleb admitted that the board was blurry at school, but that he was "managing."

I protested, "But you don't have to 'manage.' Just tell us and we'll help you."

In the days and weeks since he got his glasses, Caleb has commented that his vision has "deteriorated." David asked him what he meant. He said that now when he takes his glasses off he can hardly see, everything is blurry. Um, exactly. That's how it has always been and he just didn't know that the world could be different than that.

Was blind, but now I see.

Glitterati

Tonight when we came back from the hot tub, the snow was sparkling.

I had forgotten how it does that.

Like the world is made out of glitter.

Speaking of sparkling, Savannah got a video camera for Christmas and has been delightedly documenting our every move.  Here is her first video. 

And just for the record, it snowed all day again today.  Two feet of fresh glitter.

Far Over the Misty Mountains Cold

The boys are on the floor playing legos.

Olivia has her earbuds in, celebrating her Christmas with Taylor Swift and the boys from One Direction.

Savannah is making electronic cupcakes and David is programming his new running heart rate monitor.

We are snug and happy in the lap of a huge mountain.

A mountain we were nearly lost on forever just yesterday.

We took the kids skiing and after getting everyone's ski boots and skis on (surely the hardest part) we were making remarkably good progress.  The girls were independently skiing and taking the lifts by themselves.  Caleb was competent, if timid, and Ethan was wildly careening and crashing, but happiest when tearing as fast as he could down the icy slopes.

It was snowing lightly all morning, but after lunch, conditions deteriorated quickly.  The flakes got bigger and faster and the wind started blowing.  I could no longer see the girls skiing down the mountain from the lift.  We decided to head for home.

We were on an unfamiliar mountain, but eventually figured out there were two ways home:  the gondola or the "short cut."  The gondola was a gentle enclosed ride to the bottom.  But since the short cut involved skiing to the bottom, and the kids were doing so well, and we had already paid the lift fees, we decided to get our money's worth and ski down.  How hard could it be?  We'd just follow the green trails all the way to the bottom. 

Trouble was, pretty soon we were lost.  There was so much snow and wind we couldn't read the trail signs or the map and even the green trails became treacherous with all that new powder.

There was crying.  (The kids.)

There was screaming.  (Me.)

There was gnashing of teeth.  (David.)

There was fervent prayer from all of us: Get us off this mountain.  

At one point Savannah lost control and ended up in a huge snow drift with so much powder that she lost one ski and both poles.  Only her head was sticking out.  I laughed so hard I couldn't breathe while she screamed.  She saw me laughing and started laughing herself, until she had to dig four feet down to find her ski.  We never did find one of her poles.

Olivia went somersaulting down a particularly steep section of mountain (who knows where we were at that point--green or blue or black diamond, all we could see was white) and lost both skis and had to try putting them back on in the powder at a 65 degree angle.

The ski patrol came by several times to ask us if we needed help, but apparently they only send rescue snowmobiles to help the bleeding and broken and since we were only desperate and in over our heads we were on our own.

Unfortunately, when you are in this situation, on a foreign mountain, in blizzard-like conditions, with four panicked and inexperienced skiers with you, there is only one way home:

Down.

A long way down.

At the lowest point (emotionally but not vertically) we were huddled together on the mountain. I was sitting in the snow.  Too tired from digging for skis, and trying to get them back on the kids' feet, and pulling kids out of snow drifts, and dumping out boots and gloves, and trying to bully children down the mountain, to stand any longer.

The youngest two were crying.

Caleb was trying to put a positive spin on things, "Well, we'll never forget this Christmas Eve."

The ski patrol came by one last time. "Are you in trouble?"

David just stared at him.  Because, um, yes. 

Olivia asked, "How much farther to the bottom?"

"Only a mile or two.  You're almost there."

Olivia started weeping.

David gave everyone a pep talk.  There were protests.  I put things more starkly.  "Unless you want to die on this mountain, there is only one way off it.  Get up and put your skis on.  Now!"   I could be a motivational speaker. 

Needless to say, eventually we found the bottom.

All of us in one piece, er...six pieces.

We only lost one ski pole and believe that to be a supreme triumph, considering.

Funny enough, the kids were so delighted to be down that they are only looking back on the whole thing with fond reminiscing, as if fear of imminent death and blinding snow with all that screaming and crying only added to the fun.  By dinner, everything was hilarious. 

Merry Christmas, from us, alive and well, far over the misty mountains cold.

Later That Same Year...

Phew.

So, how did the election turn out?

Seriously, though.  How does two months go by and I not even notice?  I am too busy by half.  Wait.  That doesn't even make sense.

Well.

Just be happy that you don't have to look at Mr. Romney anymore.

It occurred to me last night as I was drifting off that I had just sent out my Christmas cards with my blog address at the bottom and that our friends all over the world were possibly going to click on to see more of my cleverness only to find the election was still going on.

Sort of like salt in the wound.

So I thought I'd better post.

Olivia and Ethan are on their way home.  I just heard the garage door.  It's a half day and our holiday is about to officially commence.  Caleb and Savannah of course go to real school and won't be home until after three and then party will really get going.  I can hardly believe we made it throught the semester.  The blessing of this tender mercy has been on the minds and lips of every prayer in our house the last few days.  We made it.  Thank you.

Now we have big plans for late nights and later mornings, puzzles and games, and kissing in the middle of the day.

Nothing could be better.

Merry Christmas.

Tailgating for Romney

Do you have plans for tonight?

David does.

It's the second presidential debate.

I know.  I'm excited too.

I just can't wait to hear the same questions and the same answers all over again.

But wait.

This time it's town hall style.

What?  Holy cow, that changes everything.

Now I'm totally excited.

Because different people will be asking the same questions that the same two guys will be answering in the same way.

Oh yeah, we're kickin' it town hall style tonight.

But what I want to know is if any of this is really necessary.  I mean, I could do all the answers for them at this point.  In my sleep.

What is left to suss out?

Do people really not know who they are going to vote for? 

I don't believe it.  It's not that hard.  Do you want more or less of what we've had for four years?  See?  Easy.

I want to know who all these "undecided" voters are and ask them why they can't get their junk together.

Get your junk together, people, so the rest of us can get on with our lives.

I thought about having a tailgating party for the debate.  You know, invite the neighbors, break out the grill, use red and blue paper plates, and napkins that say "Power to the People."  Maybe my neighbors will bring beer because I am pretty sure I cannot do another one of these without alcohol.

What?  Too far?

Not far enough, CIM says.

If I was at that townhall tonight, and Candy Crowley handed that microphone to me, here are the burning questions I'd ask the candidates:

Why are there no good designers on Project Runway this season?

Are skinny jeans actually an ironic joke that make us all look fat?

When is Starbucks starting up their salted caramel flavor again and what do we have to do to get that to be a year-round thing?

How does Connie Britton look that good all the time?

Is it wrong that some guy has the energy and determination to get himself 24 miles above the earth and I have trouble getting the energy and determination to get myself up 24 stairs to put the clothes away?

Should I join my ward bookclub or is my eventual disappointment inevitable?

Is using eventual and inevitable in the same sentence redundant?

Can I use the shrimp I didn't use last week, but put in the refrigerator to defrost, or is that just asking for trouble?

What do you think we should wear for our upcoming family picture?  Keep in mind that the last official family picture we took was four years ago when one of you took office, so this is most likely going to be on the wall for some time.  The voters cannot afford a mistake.

Should I curl my hair or wear it straight for the aforementioned family picture?  Should I color it the same color as Connie Britton's?

Forget that last one.  That's just silly. 

Or is it?

Regardless, as Fox News let us know this morning, there are only twenty days until the election, and then David will be all mine again.  And for the record, I am really hoping Romney wins tonight.  Because when Romney gets lucky, we all get lucky.

What?  Too far?

Yes, says RIM.

True Blue Through and Through

Well, we lost.

We cheered. We rose and shouted. We wore black to match the boys' jerseys.

But we lost anyway.

The truth is though, it didn't really matter to any of us except Ethan and David.

Mostly we were just thrilled to be in that beautiful stadium in the mountains, surrounded by crisp air and fond memories. There is no place I'd rather spend a Saturday afternoon in October.

The fall weather was perfect. Just cold enough to pink our cheeks and warrant sweatshirts and lap quilts, though it must be noted that many of the Utahns around us were in short sleeves. We, however, wore our gloves and regretted not bringing a beanie for Ethan's ears.

The Cougars scored three touchdowns and a field goal and we went hoarse yelling our praise.

My favorite parts: 60,000 heads bowed in prayer at the start of the game, hearing my children lustily sing the BYU fight song, looking at David's handsome profile framed by the mountains, and the cheering--the roars and groans--that echo off the ancient Rockies. Those giant hills are on our side.

After the game we went bowling, browsed through Blickenstaffs, and ate dinner around a round table with flavored lemonades, where Ethan and David commiserated over a few freak plays in the fourth quarter that turned the game in the Beavers' favor.

Savannah asked why they call it "homecoming." Someday she will understand. For me, it truly is coming home. Back to the beginning. Back to the start. These mountains are the cradle of my adult life, and will always be home.

Our Winding Road

This afternoon, just at gloaming, we took David's favorite drive. The mountains were covered in a bright blush of orange and red and the clouds were low and thick, as if the flaming, changing leaves had actually caught fire in the sunset. The higher we climbed up Timpanogos, the thicker the clouds became, until the aspens at the top looked like ghosts in the mist, their black knots a thousand evil eyes keeping watch from the edge of the road.

It was eerie. It was breathtaking. It was bewitching and enchanting.

Caleb and Ethan stretched their arms out the windows to touch the cloud and imagined they were hobbits, climbing the mountain closer and closer to Smog's lair, right into the belly of the beast.

Savannah clutched her seatbelt and asked David over and over to be careful.

Olivia sighed about how it looked just like being inside a book.

David, who has driven this road dozens of times, reminisced at every bend in the road, recalling the picnic here, the nap there, the test he studied for while he sat in the sun on that lovely outcropping of granite.

As for me, I tried to memorize it all, to write it in my heart, and engrave it on my bones. That when these leaves have fallen and disintegrated into the dirt, when these giant boulders have been weathered by the wind and water into dust, when this majestic mountain itself has risen and crumbled and been swallowed by the earth, this moment will still remain.

The first time I drove this road with David I could not have predicted this other moment, more than eighteen years later--with my children's dreams and fears and fantasies swirling around in the car with us, mixing with our throbbing memories--and yet they seemed to be one and the same. That first drive inevitably lead to this one, like two points on the same road, a road laid out for us long ago.

I craned to see the bends and climbs and views ahead, but it was all fog and clouds and dragon smoke. I settled back and looked at David, content to sit next to him, as the road continued its slow and beautiful revelation of our mysterious future.