Year: 2011

I Can’t Get Started

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Today, I admit I have little to say that will be light and fun. I’m on the verge of a rant.

The raccoons are tenacious. They were able to rip apart a screen in the garage door. All my dear chicks, now quite large, were all lying dead on the floor of the coop/prison this morning. I’d done a good job constructing their room, and installing the screen in the door, but not good enough. All thirteen of their bodies lay there, not a one eaten. Might be a lot easier had they been taken. What a waste. A bloody waste. I can’t move them, Elihu asks complete honesty of me, and he wants to be a part of everything. I can’t toss them and pretend they where enjoyed, used; I can’t pretend they didn’t die in vain. When we arrive home today, in the early evening, this will be news to him. We will face it then.

I have hours before me of preparing music charts for Elihu. He has a concert this weekend and simply cannot make heads or tails of the music as it is printed unless it’s literally a few inches from his face. May as well sing into a box. So, I’ve hit upon the method. It’s time-consuming and requires I type the text, and literally cut and paste it into the enlarged score. Then I must once again copy this to make the final page. And I’m out of black ink. So, this is before me.

Also today I meet with an elder attorney to strategize about mom and dad’s future. We’re hoping to save their few assets from the man. I don’t believe they have much to live on. At the age of 48, and only because of necessity, I will finally learn the financial truths of my parents.

My house is a wreck. Books, drawings, dirty dishes, unmatched shoes and recycling litter the floor along with spots of dry chicken poop. The laundry is once again a huge task. (Bed wetting continues, and with it gobs more housework than I should have if things were otherwise.) Sheets need to be changed. I have but one set for each bed, so must get them done and on the beds before tonite.

Today we meet with Elihu’s mobility coach. Must remember to check in with auto insurance guy, as his checks recently bounced. Worried my insurance can be canceled. The lawn is now thigh-high and with a backdue amount of $800 on my electric bill along with all the others, how can I afford to call my mower guy?

Driving to school, having kept the death of his chicks from him for the time being, I began to pout a little. I lamented how disheartening everything was. I wondered angrily, and aloud, how the hell it was I was supposed to make a living when all I can make is $40 an hour, and even then it’s just a couple of times a week? I mean how the hell can I catch up teaching piano lessons?? Elihu tried to calm me. Usually, I keep it all to myself. But this morning, maybe cuz of the chicks, I was going off the edge. Elihu, very much about the law of attraction, coached me. ‘It feels great to have our coop just the way we like it, and to have all our bills paid so easily’. Ok Jerry Hicks. Thanks. I tried to lighten up a bit, but deep inside I was beginning to slide again. Bad enough I was so duped, so poorly treated by my ‘best’ friend of two decades – and continue to be so treated – but then there was all this life. And I faced it alone.

So, am I alone? The stats of my blog would have me thinking I’m not. So out of the hundreds of readers, the dozens who read daily, where the hell are the shout-outs, the cries of ‘we’re with ya, we know just how you feel’?? Man, guys, today can this not be such a private affair? Can I please have a couple comment posts here? I am fucking tired of living broke and alone; my consolations these days are my son and the hope that somewhere out there, others are sharing our journey and lending us their emotional energy and fortitude. It’s great to know that my little posts are enjoyed, and it’s great to hear from old friends unearthed by the machine of Facebook – but what of all the rest? Testing, testing, is this mic on???

Ok. That’s all for now. My apron is on and I’m going to do my best today. Here I go…

Fire Towers and Fiddleheads

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Yesterday was such a bright and busy day that Elihu requested we have a ‘do nothing’ day today. And so we did. Not to say that nothing was done. I made meals, washed dishes, caught up on laundry, got the chickens out, put them back in, cleaned up the mess the raccoons had made of our platform bird feeder, collected eggs, cleaned up a hand-me-down gas grill (which is unfortunately trash despite my best efforts) and made a moth habitat in our gecko’s old terrarium. And all this without getting out of my pajamas (did manage to don an apron). Day is done, and I’m ready for bed. So there! It’s good to live off the road…

Yesterday Elihu, a classmate of his and I visited a local wilderness preserve in honor of the local hero: the Karner Blue Butterfly. It’s not doing so well these days (I believe it’s endangered) and lives primarily on a local blue lupine flower which is currently in bloom. A neighboring town created a day-long celebration around the week in which the little creatures could be seen flitting about the preserve. There were fun things to do for the kids – and there were lots of kids about. They were provided with nets to scoop up critters from the lake which they then could deposit into plastic bins for all to see and identify. The big boys ventured down the wooded slopes to the creek which was home to minnows, the preferred catch. As I sat in the sunshine feeling very good about the expanse of water before me (I love water, I crave it, I miss lake Michigan dearly) the boys chased after crayfish and snails. There was no hurrying this day along. I sat for over an hour. Young mothers with tiny babies and elderly couples wearing sun visors and too many clothes for the hot day shared the bench with me as I sat. I felt so blessed to be agenda-free on such an exquisite day.

After another hour holding snakes and admiring a small collection of injured and rehabbed birds of prey we then headed off through the woods and up the side of a good-sized hill to see the newly restored fire tower. We’d planned on going to the top. I didn’t think much of it, it didn’t look very challenging. I’d hoped to rush in and to the top without time in which to reconsider. We were stopped, however, and made to join a list of folks waiting for the privilege of climbing the ten open flights of stairs to the top. Elihu’s classmate said he wasn’t going with us. I lobbied in favor of doing it; I explained that if he didn’t, he might never remember this day – it would just be another summer afternoon of many – yet should he choose to climb the tower with us he would not only be very proud of himself, but this day would forever stand out in his memory. He didn’t consider my argument for even a second, but instead asked if he could return to the lake. I released him from the challenge, and soon he was gone.

Elihu and I were undaunted by our half hour wait, and were excited and ready when our turn came. Yet by the third flight of the wire mesh stairs it became evident to us that this would be a little more challenging than we’d thought. I was surprised that my low-vision kid, who can’t see images just twenty feet away from him was becoming nervous as we moved farther away from the ground. We both talked to ourselves encouragingly. Such things as ‘we can do this, it’s safe, people have done this all day’, and ‘imagine the guys who had to make this silly thing’. If it weren’t for the mom ahead of us (whose own kids and husband bailed by the second landing) I’m not sure we would have made it. Elihu and I cited an expression used by an old-timer friend of the family now many years gone. The old farmer would express the sensation of being up too high as inspiring ‘asshole pucker’. We’d cleaned the saying up a bit by making it into ‘pucker factor’. That factor was definitely palpable here. ! But by keeping our focus on the connection our feet and hands made with the metal as we pushed on, and by saving our consideration of the great altitude for the top, we finally made it.

Atop the tower was a small room, about 8×8, with of course, a hole in the floor through which we entered. The hole offered dizzying evidence of how far down the ground actually was. A 70-something fellow stood to welcome us, not that his demeanor made us feel so welcome at all. His face showed something more like scorn, fixed in an unamused scowl. To lighten the mood, and because he was there for us, really, I asked his name. ‘Larry’ he said. A pause. He wasn’t giving us any more. That distraction over, I finally looked about to enjoy the reward. It was stunning. We were now quite far above the tall treetops of the forest and could see the Adirondacks stretched out to the north and the Green Mountains of Vermont to our east. Larry even helped me to locate a landmark, the cell tower on our road, so that I might further appreciate where we stood in the lay of the land. I savored the cool, high-up breeze. It felt rare and free, unstopped by the hot goings-on of dirt, houses and asphalt. The air alone was worth the climb. Aware of the line of folks waiting below (although to stick my head out and actually look down upon the people waiting was not something I could quite bring myself to do) we wrapped things up and began our descent. I went first, and behind me Elihu was stopped at the prospect of making the first frightening steps back down. I was touched as Larry spoke to him as a father, gently telling him where to place his hands on the railing and offering tender encouragement. It revealed to me in that tiny moment so much about the man. Larry’d had a long day up there in that tiny box, and as unamused with giggling tourists as he might have been, in the end he was a very kind man. I thanked him in my heart as Elihu plucked up his courage and followed me down.

Once down, I shelled out $5 for a cloth patch of the fire tower so that Elihu might put it on his school backpack as a show of pride and accomplishment. He also received a little card from the fellow signing folks in that showed him to have ‘climbed the Cornell Hill Fire Tower’. So there.

We retrieved Elihu’s friend and hopped into the car to visit the butterfly preserve which was about a mile down the road. It was an open expanse of rolling hills with sandy trails and stands of blue lupine flowers. A few tall oak trees stood here and there giving the scene a dream-like feel. The little insects, while not ubiquitous, were to be seen flitting about through the stands of lupine and across the sandy path. Elihu’s friend and I tried our best to point them out to him, but without the benefit of color vision they are hard to spot. They are also less than an inch across, and would not cooperate by staying still long enough for us to pin down their location. I decided after a hot and dusty half hour that we would head back. Elihu began to cry, to sob. ‘I’m not leaving until I see a butterfly! This is why I came here in the first place!’ His pal kindly put an arm around him and tried to console him. ‘It’s Ok buddy, we’ll find you a butterfly, ok?’ That was an especially sweet thing to do, for this kid is a rough and tumble, dirt bike riding sort of kid – rather the polar opposite of Elihu. I have a snapshot of that moment in my mind’s eye. Inspired by the show of support I got on board too and declared that we would send out our request to the universe – and to the little critters – that we wanted to see one, we expected to see one, we had no harmful motives. And a magical thing happened.

I told us all to quiet ourselves, stop where we were, send out these thoughts and wait for just moment. As we squatted down on the sandy path, a little blue creature flitted over to us. I extended my hand, and she (makes it lovelier to call her that, don’t you think?) landed on it. She stayed. Elihu saw her. She was an exquisite pale blue with pink iridescence. The outside of her wings which were much more difficult to see as she flew were now plainly visible as she closed them for us. Astonishing how beautiful. I was surprised that she was so finely detailed, so subtly colored, so perfectly adorned. For whom? For what purpose? Surely for the purpose of beauty alone. ‘Can I hold her?’ Elihu’s friend asked. I touched my hand to his, and the little creature walked onto his hand. Finally, Elihu put his hand out, and the butterfly continued her walk onto his finger. My son could not resist; he cupped his other hand over her and brought her close to his eyes to see. I wonder how much he can see as his glasses are dark and red… I know he can’t see color, but he can see detail. He must see the tiny designs, mustn’t he? It seems that there is so much deeper a fascination of nature for this child, perhaps not in spite of, but perhaps because of his limited ability to see it as we do. This was a thrilling end to our day. Elihu lifted the creature to the air, and she departed. We three stood there, each one of us realizing how magical this had been. A perfect time to end our afternoon and head home. Thank you, little butterfly.

That night I made a tasty dinner of perfectly-prepared sirloin steak with fiddleheads for our vegetable. It is times like this that make me so grateful to have this young person alongside me in my life. I told him that these were picked right here in our area, and that they were considered delicacies in other parts of the country. While they were $20 a pound in Arizona, they were a fraction of that here, and they were fresh! My story wasn’t necessary to sell the vegetable; he is excited by anything of nature and the prospect of munching on these perfect curls of baby ferns was enough. They were asparagus-like and yet not, of the woods and green tasting with a slight crunch, luckily I’d prepared them pretty well. This was a simple meal, a perfect meal. (My kid has no desire for carbs in his meals – past and rice never get more than one bite. I sure don’t need ’em, so I rarely prepare any.) Dinner finished, sunburn stinging on our shoulders and the chickens safely in their coops, we got ready for bed.

A day of sunshine, butterflies, fire towers and fiddleheads. Another good one.

First Loss

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Elihu and I went out tonight, and although my mother dutifully helped us by closing the mature chickens in their coop and securing the chicks as best she could, when we got home we found three of our most precocious young chicks dead inside the new enclosure. (I say ‘precocious’ because they were the only ones in the flock smart enough to go in after dark, something all mature chickens do naturally, plus they’d been making mock nests inside the coop for a week by now, another display of advancing sexual maturity.) My coop enclosure was sound, however the critter that got in was able to open the wire gate (!) in the outside run and enter the coop through the small chicken door. And we hadn’t even considered that to be a viable entrance for predators. We’d thought our run was secure. HA! Well, as Elihu noted, that while we two were out eating chicken for supper (tandoori, that is) apparently some crafty creature was enjoying a delicious chicken dinner as well.

I was surprised at how sad I felt at first.  Although I’d told Elihu not to look, and that I’d take care of it, he was adamant about seeing what had happened. We picked up the dead chicks very matter-of-factly, noting how warm one was, and from that guessing that she’d only just been done in (two of three were eaten, she was left behind – perhaps we interrupted the intruder?). We walked down the driveway a bit with the remainders of the dead birds and then unceremoniously tossed them into the woods. Not much one can do but to accept it, but it’s still kinda sad. But then again, we just ate a friggin chicken who had a crappy life and died a frightening and painful death. Is that really any better a fate than that of our chicks? (I think not.)

In the end, we’ve learned that we must ramp up our security and our vigilance. While it makes going out at night a little more challenging, I’m determined to figure something out. I’m getting kinda tired of living at the mercy of my chickens. The next major homestead purchase may well be an automatic coop door opener/closer. !

Surprise…

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My next undertaking will be to drill a well for my small arts center. I have been stalled about this for months, as I haven’t had the cash to pay for it myself, and the idea of having an open house at The Studio and hitting folks up for money before I had any programs underway just didn’t feel right. As if from the heavens, a surprise and unexpected gift had been given to us; a sum of money earmarked specifically for the job. Although it was hard for me personally to accept it, it was necessary that I do so. Today I would just schedule the damned driller and start us moving into our bright future. I had been psyching myself up all weekend for this moment. Today I would pick up the phone and start the process. I’d thought it was going to be a landmark, forward-moving day, but it wasn’t.

As I sat at my desk with the well contractor’s papers before me, phone in hand to call, I began to feel my face getting warm. I must be nervous. Then again, maybe it was my personal money situation. I had been looking at my bank balance on the computer screen in front of me, and had been surprised at what I’d seen. I was just beginning to digest the numbers before me. Three times now a creditor out of my past had presented my account with a debit which I hadn’t the funds to cover. I had received no call about this, nothing in the mail. Was this legal? Had I once given them permission but forgotten? Our interactions had been halted for a few years now, yet here was this debit made from my account. It might have been one thing if I’d expected it, but it was a total surprise, and when you’re dealing with headroom of less than $10, a surprise can can be hard to recover from. I’d planned on going to the bank to make a deposit as soon as I’d called the driller. If only I had gone to the bank first, at least one of these fines might have been avoided. It made me sick to see three $35 fines posted from Friday afternoon to early this morning. It would take all I had in my wallet just to cover the fines, and then I’d be basically back at $10 again until my next piano student paid me. I felt my face getting hotter. I felt my pulse begin to race. I felt like crying, like giving up. It seemed I had some real work to do on money issues. I was experiencing a lot of lack the past few years. Although I tried hard to think positive, attract what I really wanted, and dissuade the negative thoughts – behind it all a persistent, small voice continued on: ‘face it Elizabeth, you’ll really never do more then just get by’. As I looked at the numbers again I began to feel weak. I felt defeated, and my body was starting to feel truly sick. How could this have happened? Once again, in the red. No wonder I felt so crappy. A few more seconds passed, and then – I got it. This wasn’t related to my checking account at all. I was having another anaphylactic attack, and it was coming down the track full-steam. Another surprise.

I considered at the very least calling the contractor as I thought I would have a few minutes before my reaction really kicked into gear. I also thought about calling the bank and appealing to them to remove the fines. Usually I find the oomph to finish things, leave them somewhat tidy before I bail. But not today. Within minutes my heart began to race, and with it my breathing. My hands and feet began to itch, as if I’d fallen into a patch of poison ivy. I knew that I had three benadryl pills left somewhere upstairs, I had to get to them fast.

I stumbled up the basement stairs like a drunk. Man, this one was scary. I remembered two past attacks that were absolutely horrific. They’d both started somewhat slower. Five minutes had elapsed, and this one was now consuming me. The whites of my eyes were dark and bloodshot. My hands were now turning red and getting puffy. I was humming inside like electricity was being shot through me. I felt as if I were tethered to my body and hovering above it; I was out of it, yet I was in it too. The physical discomfort was growing, gathering, roiling, reaching its fingers into every system of my body. Words are not enough to convey what goes on in this kind of an episode. When I got to the refrigerator I found the benadryl, swallowed two and then called my mom. I knew there was nothing she could do, but I called her just in case – I’m a long way from the road and it would be awhile before anyone found me should I pass out, so I thought she should know. By this time I was running cold water over my hands for relief as they burned, and I could hardly speak. Pain now entered my gut. A wrenching, fire-hot wave rolled over my whole abdomen. I could do nothing at all but wait for the miracle medicine to take over.

The attack continued to escalate. I’d asked my mom to call back in ten minutes to check on me. I was fast losing my ability to stand, to lift a phone, to do anything, so I called her after just five minutes to check in. A co-worker said she’d already left for my place. Although she and I get along just fine, my mother and I keep each other at a figurative arm’s length when it comes to demonstrating love and intimacy; true closeness just doesn’t feel easy. Part of me really didn’t want her to come as I had no energy to deal with that awkwardness, yet I was surprised to notice that some other part of me exhaled, and felt relief. There would be nothing she could possibly do for me, but she was on her way. How lucky was I? My mom was coming. A lot of my friends’ moms weren’t even still living. Mine was coming over. (I once wrote a story in college about a troubled boy who himself didn’t have a very communicative relationship with his own mother. He goes out on a ‘fuck you leave me alone’ sort of mission and comes back to find a pile of neatly folded laundry on his bed; his mother’s wordless show of love. Looking back I can see how that story was really about me and my mother.) I understood how she felt. I was her child, and she was coming to take care of me. I thought of my own feelings for my son, how I would naturally want to tend to him. It is fundamentally what a mother does.

When she got here I was doubled over on the couch. I could simply find no position for any comfort. My lower gut felt a pain I’d never known before – or at least not since the big attack I’d had last year. I remembered now. Yeah, I remembered now what this was about. This thing wasn’t kidding around. “This is worse than labor” I grunted, rocking on the couch. “Really? That bad?” she answered. Her sober tone told me she got it. Labor, while the single most painful experience of my life, was at least somewhat organized and focused. I knew what I had to deal with, and roughly what to expect next. This time, I had no idea, and the discomfort was everywhere. Waves of more intense pain came. I moved ceaselessly, circling like a dog preparing for a nap. I wondered aloud if I should take the third and final benadryl in the house. I concluded that my own child, who weighed about one third what I do, had himself once taken two at a time; three would not be too many. It was all I could do to stumble into the kitchen, find the tiny metal package and a pair of scissors. Opening those small packages can be a pain in the ass. Trembling, I cut it free and took it. My mom sat with me on the couch as I writhed in pain. My poor mom. I know how she feels. But at least she is here. I’m sure she feels better to be here. I myself wonder if I’m really in this much pain, or is it somehow amplified by her audience? Was I trying to justify her being here? Crazy thoughts to have at such a time. I also thought how much like labor this really was; I was constantly changing positions in search of comfort, panting, groaning to summon strength, moving like an animal with no regard for modesty.

Through the waves of pain I would give my mom parts of the story – how my account was overdrawn, how I still hadn’t called the well guy. My whole day would be for naught. By now it was approaching noon. The school bus would be here in a few hours, and I needed that time to rest. As we sat waiting for a respite, we recounted the other attacks – what were common factors? My first attack was when Elihu was three and we were living at the Riverhouse in Dekalb. Fareed had been out of town as usual. I remember the attack lasting many hours – I lay on the couch just watching my son play with his trains, unable to move. It was sometime in the warm months, rather like now. I hadn’t been stung by a bee, something which had in fact triggered my second attack, but rather I’d been outside near dusk and had received several mosquito bites. But two days ago – there had been no sign of a bug bite, nor was there one today. The only common element we could find was the time of year. As my mother sat, just watching me, I noted that little by little the pain was diminishing. We sat like this for about a half an hour, just waiting for a change. Finally I was over the hump, and she was free to go. She offered to do some errands for me. At last she had a concrete way to help, a mom task. As she walked back to the door, I thanked her and told her I loved her. I was surprised to hear the words come out of my mouth. It occurred to me that since I’ve moved here I’ve never said that. I’d only ever told her this on the phone as the conclusion of a rare phone call. Now that I lived next door, I didn’t tell her this anymore. “I love you too.” she said as she turned to leave. Usually she honks as she rounds the turn in the driveway. I waited. No honk. Maybe honking seemed too trivial a thing to do with me sick like this. Funny the things we think.

I fell asleep on the couch. Pure, soft, deep, restorative sleep. When I opened my eyes my first thought was that I felt nothing. Then I thought, ‘how wonderful… I feel… nothing‘. It struck me that I spend most of my life trying to feel something. The next moment, the next snack, the next buzz, the next distraction. And here I was, feeling nothing. No pain in my body. No to-do lists in my head. No one needing anything from me. Nothing. The air was even still and perfect. It was a nothing moment, and in that nothingness it felt like everything was going to be alright.

Another surprise for me today –  learning that nothing can be a good thing. And thank goodness, cuz for the time being, I got plenty o’ nuttin’.

Remembering

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“So what is Memorial Day really about?” Elihu asked me yesterday. Hmm. I gave him the simple answer for the time being, and told him it was a day on which we remembered the people from our country who served, fought and sometimes died in the wars. A churning of conflicting thoughts on the subject began inside me. I needed to get to this one. I needed to express my feelings to him, as mixed as they are, on war and the culture around it. For now it would wait, but this conversation would happen soon.

The Fourth of July, Memorial Day and such patriotic occasions always bring forth a swirling mix of ‘yes, buts’ in my mind. Yes, we should remember, bless and thank the people who served, but weren’t these wars for the most part just crazy, vain and wasted efforts created by a few insane leaders? When my son was born, we’d just stepped into the mire of a fresh new war. I remember being on bed rest in the final days of my pregnancy, lying on the couch and watching in disbelief as bombs were dropped in the far-away Middle East on cities and towns that no doubt contained women just like me, in the last stretch of their own pregnancies. I was stunned and heartsick. My baby would be born as a new war began. Shock and awe indeed.

Shortly after Elihu was born I had a what folks these days like to refer to as ‘a light bulb moment’. It was more of a paradigm shift, really. Now holding in my arms a tiny babe, a creature that manifested pure vulnerability and love, I could no longer remotely even begin to justify – or understand – war.  I watched George W. on the screen and searched for the father in his eyes. How must he have felt the moment he first beheld his two tiny daughters? Did his heart truly stir with that certain, specific and intense love that only one’s own child can inspire? And if he did understand that love, as I’m sure he must have, did his own feelings about the children everywhere in the world not profoundly change as well? I mean, just how can he possibly sanction the bombing of a community that will no doubt result in the absolute terror and physical pain of young children, and the loss of their beloved parents?? As a parent it was sealed for me now. I could no longer accept the need for war. I could no longer justify the injury or death of innocent people – of any people. I could no longer keep their tender humanity vague, fuzzy and cloaked by geographical distance. Everyone, every last person, is someone’s baby.

When I lived in Dekalb, Illinois I would attend the town’s Fourth of July celebration in their beautiful municipal park, on the sweeping lawn under the canopy of ancient elms and oaks. The beloved and white-haired band leader of the town would lead the orchestra under the large, clam shelled roof of the bandstand. Fireworks would accompany the final number, the classic 1812 Overture. Before that flashy conclusion the orchestra would perform a medley of armed forces themes. The conductor asked that those who’d served should stand and be recognized when the theme of their branch of the armed services was played. As soon as the new familiar melody sounded, men all over the audience would stand. I was amazed at my own feelings in witnessing this. It was touching, it was tearful, it was good. I wondered at all the personal stories behind these figures. At the conclusion of the theme, the audience would clap for these heroes, and then they would sit, to be followed by the next group of soldiers. What really stuck with me was one man in particular. I’d passed three Fourths of July there in that park, each time in my own little spot by a certain tree from which I could easily see the stage, yet could avoid the thick of the crowd. Beside me, about twenty feet away, I would see the same man, sitting in his lawn chair, bedecked with pins and emblems on his casual summer outfit. He sat alone. He registered nothing on his face. Yet each year, when the Navy theme played, he slowly rose from his seat and placed his hand on his heart. I saw in his face, read in his entire body, a story of intensity. What his story was I will never know, but the meaning was hard and real. I watched nothing but him, as carefully and tactfully as I could so as not to make him aware of my attention. But nothing could have distracted him from the world he was reliving in that moment. The first year I saw him I was intrigued. My second year there I was happy to see him, the third year I was fascinated. Talking to people is usually quite easy for me, but as I pondered how to approach him, what to say, how to even begin, I just gave up. It just didn’t feel right. My witness was enough. Enough to honor him, enough to open me up to a world I’m usually quick to disdain.

I think of that man now each Memorial Day, each Fourth of July. Through the ether I send him my love and my gratitude for the actions he took, but mostly I thank him for the conviction of his beliefs – the sense of real purpose that inspired him to serve in spite of the fear and danger he faced. I myself believe that not one war since the Revolutionary War has been about the protection of our country’s freedom. In my mind, this man served a false cause, a reality contrived by very few, but bought, sold and believed by the multitudes. The need to protect was real for him, and so it was real on some level. But for me, war can never be real. It is a game played with living chess pieces, flesh and blood pawns that serve not their own interest, but those of the men choosing the strategies, making the rules. The only rules on our tiny planet should be to live, love, encourage the same in other creatures, and look for understanding when there is none. If everyone had the same shared goals of helping their neighbors to live as well as possible and if no one could find it remotely tolerable to see fellow earth-citizens living in lack, war would not be an option. If these truly were core, unshakable beliefs in each person, if we treated the welfare of others exactly as our own, then we wouldn’t need a Memorial Day. Many may say I’m naive, that it’s not that simple. But I believe it is. When one is tuned in to one’s connection, one’s similarity to all others, one knows that war is simply not a choice. Sadly, the folks we look to for rule-making and value-setting have a lot of airtime and money. These influential people have lost their sense of connection to fellow humans and found instead a malignant yet seductive substitute for it in the realm of power and self-protection, which in their minds fully justifies such violence. It looks like it’ll be awhile yet before we can experience a world-wide paradigm shift together. But it’s coming. This internet world will reach further and further, connecting more people than we can imagine today. When we are all finally able to see each other, to connect, to witness each other’s sameness, each other’s humanity, then we will all realize the illusion for what it’s been all these insane years.

But my sincere thanks and gratitude go out, nonetheless, to all those who willingly accepted the duty of service in the armed forces. And my love goes out to all the families torn apart by the loss of those who chose to serve.

God Bless America. God Bless Afghanistan. God bless every last one of us. Even George W.

Success! A Multi-Staged Post….?

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Chapter One:

We have a raccoon free garage! The next step comes shortly. After we have a little breakfast (the usual: french toast made with our hen’s fresh eggs, a staple of our menu) Elihu and I will plop the young chicks who currently reside in two large plastic bins in the basement into a large laundry basket, and we will carry them outside to their new home in the garage. Then, thoroughly doused in bug repellant (a clove-smelling, natural concoction made by a neighbor) we will watch and wait. I will pull up a chair, coffee cup in hand, and observe the side-by-side chickens, mature and immature, to see how they react to one another. I will be on the ready to break up any skirmishes and I will take notes on the location of any breaches in the fence that divides the two groups in the outside runs. As I’m still in morning mode, this will take a little mental psyching up. Ok. Here we go, the kids are moving out today.

Chapters 2, 3, 4 and more…

So much for installments throughout the day. Suffice to say, all that I envisioned us doing, as I wrote above, did happen very much as I’d thought it would. There were a few deviations as usual, but that’s where life keeps us amused, right? It’s late, it’s been a full and successful day. Let’s leave it at that as I haven’t the oomph left to write. I’ve just attempted to insert the link to our new videos on you tube with no luck. Lord knows how I did it before. I’ve tried every angle with no progress as my patient son waits for me, drawing to pass the time. Argh. If you’re so inclined, you may check out the three videos we took and posted today of our new coop on our channel ‘elihusmom’. And if anyone can get back to me with some advice as to how to insert the links I would be a very happy woman. As Elihu would say in closing of a short performance: thank you all very much and goodnight!

Day of Progress

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Whew. This has been a day. After a shaky start for both of us (see Sick-Abed, Sigh) we arose shortly after noon and began our day. It was a windy, mild spring day with rainshowers in the middle of sunshine and fresh air all around. It was a day of unplanned visits with neighbors, bubble blowing, keyboard moving, coop building, planting, cooking of dinner, whipping of cream, bed making and more. I am plumb exhausted. But what a lovely day we had.

After a short drive through the countryside to call on some friends we settled in to our homesteading. Elihu corralled his chickens in a densely packed flock and spoke to them softly as I began to construct the new room for our chicks. As they cannot be mixed in with the adults yet we need to build a separate, outdoor living space for them. I divided the run with a wall of fence and netting last week, and today set out to build the small room within the garage where they will live for the next few months. Hoping that perhaps the extra labor might not be truly necessary, and that  the hens would accept the youngsters (their own children), we brought the chicks out last week and put one hen in with them. Within minutes she had attacked several rather violently, requiring our intervention. It was confirmed; I had another project yet before me.

Thanks to craigslist and some very kind people in my area I have collected some nice, free pieces of lumber. Assembling these pieces to make a makeshift coop became a bit more challenging than I would have thought. No two pieces are quite the same, some are warped, some have screws or nails still in them. They’ve all been used before. Plus, due to a mid-winter meltdown of our coop heat lamp all the outlets in the garage no longer work (no, it’s not a fuse) and so I must run a super long extension cord from the house to the garage in order to do any work. Not un-doable, it just required a bit more resolve from me to get the silly project underway. It took three long extension cords and a few minutes of setup, but not only did I get underway, but I finished the task. Thanks to some beautiful sheets of 4×8 plywood I was able to create walls in fairly short order. And thanks to the pheasant re-population program in Ithaca, New York I am stocked with a good amount of nylon netting (a kind man there gave me a bag of extra netting when I told him my plans on our visit last summer) which made a fine roof for the small room. I have no idea what Elihu said to his chickens for the hour and a half it took me to construct the room, but he was content to wait it out with their gentle company.

Tonight we test it out. I caught raccoons red-handed in the garage last night, raiding the feed bins as I went to close the coop up for the night. A close call. If it weren’t for the food available to them I’m not sure if my chickens would have all been there waiting. A bin of grain is an easier meal than a feisty hen. (And I have seen bloody evidence of the good fight my hens can put up when challenged!) So tonight, I’ve closed the garage as best I can, and I’ve left the lid to the feed bin loose, so that if a raccoon should be snooping about, the lid will be moved when I go out in the morning. We’ll see. I’m feeling pretty good about my security, yet not good enough to be entirely smug. One can never be smug out here. There’s always a new story to be made at the expense of one’s naivete. So I am confident, yet cautious.

Now it’s bath time and I must drag my son away from his beloved birds.  Elihu has been doing nothing but talking to his chicks all the time that I’ve been here writing. I can hear him in the basement, the one sided conversation mixed with tweets and chirping sounds. Tiny, fuzzy things just four weeks ago, they are now gangly teenagers. They’re not exactly cute, nor do they look entirely like true chickens. They’re in an awkward, in-between sort of stage. They are, however, not chicks anymore. They are young chickens, and they are fast becoming very stinky. It’s amazing how much food they consume. Tomorrow, if we pass our raccoon test, those teenagers are getting their own apartment. I can’t wait.

To bath, to bed. To be continued…

Sick-Abed, Sigh

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This may not be the best time to make a new post, but I’m caught in a netherworld right now in which I can find no comfort from any single position, nor food or drink, and I don’t have any ability to do much but sit and shift in my seat to find relief. I will write in order to pass some time and take my mind off of the discomfort. I have, I can only guess based on past experience, been bitten by some insect in the early morning which has begun the process of the now-familiar anaphylactic attack. This is the fourth time I’ve experienced this; now I know the signs and so wasted little time today finding the benadryl pills stashed in the refrigerator door for just such an occasion. The last time this happened I writhed in agony on my parents’ floor for several hours before at last an ambulance was called. I know that these events, while miserable affairs, die down after about six hours and so I had been rather bummed that my trip to the ER had resulted in little relief but landed me a huge bill for the expensive taxi service.

I’m not the only one feeling out of sorts; Elihu experienced an episode of asthma last night the likes of which he hasn’t had in months. Perhaps our visit to grandma and grandpa’s five-cat household last night triggered it. We’ve also been lax in his asthma prevention routine lately, and I’m feeling like a negligent mother today. It is a horrible feeling to watch a young child struggle for breath in his sleep. You want to wake them, to administer something that might help, yet you want them to experience the relief of sleep, and so all you can do is look over them as they labor to breathe, the little chest puffing in and out so rapidly it’s exhausting just to watch. And so this is how the night passed.

Finally, this morning he was able to sit up and use his nebulizer. Now his breathing is somewhat more relaxed, although still raspy and shallow. As he took a break from inhaling the medicine from that noisy machine, he looked at me and said “Your face is red”. I’d been noticing in the past half hour that my face was getting very hot, and now the palms of my hands were itching and tingling. I was surprised my face was that noticeable. As my heart began to race and my gut began to feel as if I had some intestinal bug, I realized that I was not merely feeling a little off; something had bitten me and my body was kicking into gear. That’s when I understood that if I was to remain a viable parent right now, I needed to find the magic pills quickly.

So now we’re both doped up. As Elihu finished his round of nebulizer, he weakly jabbed his finger towards the ceiling. “You’re feeling high?” I asked. He smiled and nodded groggily. It’s not a good high mind you – from what Elihu tells me it feels strange; his whole body tingles and he feels a little disconnected. He doesn’t like it, yet he doesn’t hate it as it signals relief – and perhaps sleep – to come. A few minutes have passed and now he’s out, and I too am feeling I’m on the way. Geez. And it is the first saturday of our long weekend. The weather had started out fine today. We’d so much planned; we were to move our fifteen large chicks from the basement to the coop today. It was to have been a big day. Now it will be a sleepy, bed-ridden day instead.

It’s starting to get cloudy and looks like rain. Maybe this isn’t such a bad day to be in bed. Off to nap. I hope when we wake we will find ourselves restored and ready for our homestead chores.

Drummer, Different

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What is it, I wonder to myself, trying to pinpoint it exactly, in definite and concrete examples, that makes my son so different from his peers? The most obvious thing one might cite, the dark red glasses, are off the list from the start. That’s not it at all, it’s something else. I think back on my interactions with his peers. Once and a while one will stand out, one of many will have a similar ‘thing’ to my son; the only way I can articulate it at the moment is, they ‘get it’. Get what? And am I not sounding a bit of a snob here? Yeah, I admit that, I am sometimes a snob. But that’s not it right now either. Elihu is different; I think anyone would agree. Just what is at the essence of this difference? Might I make a list of some sort for myself? Would that help? I need to understand this better…

I sometimes feel a tinge of sorrow that Elihu is so thoughtful and aware of things in his world. There’s a hint of adult, of peer, in him that sets him apart. And because of this I sometimes miss his truly early years – the first three, I’d say – when he was really and truly a baby. Then I knew unquestionably what he was. Then at least there was no doubt, I knew where I stood. I knew where he stood. Lest I fret too much over this, I’m reminded by things he’ll say or do, ways he’ll act (see tantrums and laundry!) that do in fact tell me that he is still a young boy. Yet somehow, in some way that I’m struggling here to identify for myself, he is no longer a child. How can I say this? He is, yes, he is a kid, and yet, not…

And as for a tiny child’s adoration? Well, although my child is no longer small, I’m lucky to get that daily. In fact, it’s really one of the things that keeps me going. I can’t imagine being a mother to an autistic child who never hugged, kissed, told their mother they loved them. Truly, my heart goes out to these moms who must long for those moments with every cell in their body… I am grateful to the skies for what my son bestows upon me. When I come in to wake him each morning (or, well, nearly each morning!) he always insists I stay to snuggle. This means that we just lay together on the bed for a few moments, usually with arms or sides touching. Sometimes we hug, sometimes not. It’s just a comfortable moment in the covers, in which we simply take in being here, being together. Sometimes we talk, sometimes not. It’s just about connecting.

And regarding connection, here is another related perk of living with this aware child; he recognizes his own need for connection in the course of his day. If we’ve been doing our own things for a good bit of time and have been psychically apart in some way – after a day at school, at home, or temporarily isolated by life’s general busy-ness, Elihu will come up to me and say “We haven’t connected in a while. I need to connect.” At which time I drop what I’m doing. We find a place to just sit together. Since he’s still small enough to fit in my lap, he usually climbs up, and we just sit together, arms around each other. We’ll look into each other’s eyes and just stay there for a moment or two. And I do realize how this seems very much like a romantic exchange. I believe it is related, yet it is very different. And I can tell you that this is is one very peaceful and blessed way to recharge the batteries in a life of never-ending events. An oasis for us both. And it’s been at Elihu’s request alone (until recently, as I’ve begun to recognize when my own feelings of disconnection surface and have requested ‘connections’ of him). He alone came to know what it was to feel disconnected, and furthermore, to know the importance of turning that feeling around. He knew what he needed, how to get it, and how to ask. That, I think, is a skill that many adults don’t even have together, ya know?

In many ways I’ve created in my son the very things that now I sometimes lament having encouraged. I sometimes wonder if I’ve created a child too savvy, too adult-thinking for his own good. Yet I do not regret my teaching him. (I do regret not curbing some of my more unheatlhy actions, like muttering about people under my breath, being quick to anger, expressing opinions like they were accepted fact. I pray my ‘good’ teachings – you know, the old ‘do as I say and not as I do’ – can make up for some of my poor examples.) I’ve spoken to my son as if he were a peer for perhaps all of his life. I also know that I’ve spoken to him in a cutesy baby voice once upon a time – how can one not speak like that to an infant? I can remember playing ‘kissing factory’ – a mommy-invented, changing table game which most certainly involved baby talk. But beyond those tiny years, I’ve talked to my son with an inherent respect. I tried to impart information – and understanding – to him as I would have anyone give it to me. I’ve always wanted him to truly get things – to understand as much as he’s able. I personally believe that people rise to the expectations set for them; I expect that he can understand, so I give him the information to be able to understand. Make sense?

There’s a personal motivation for my wanting to present all pertinent information possible to my son. It comes of my own experience in part, and it also comes from the sense that Elihu and I both have of his being somehow ‘different’. Throughout my life I have often felt very, very lost in this world – often not understanding rules that seemed second nature for those around me. Kids always seemed to ‘know’ things that were an absolute mystery to me. How did they all just ‘know’ about the rules of the games at recess? Or know the icons of pop culture? Or all the types of cereal? Was it just because I didn’t care, no one taught me or that I was missing some sort of gene for this? I missed stuff growing up, and I still just can’t place what it was. It wasn’t even so cut-and-dried as not knowing the names of the teen idols or cereals. Cuz I knew of many, and my kid too knows the names to drop. There was just something else missing. I was aware of it. I just knew that I was missing things, information – something – that other kids were getting. Elihu’s dad had a similar ‘missing’ of things, cues, information and so on, however the difference with Fareed was that he didn’t know he was missing things! He was clueless, and in his case, ignorance was bliss. He was not plagued as a young child by a gnawing sense that he was missing something as Elihu and I have been. This sense of being in the dark, of living in a world parallel but apart from others is something Elihu feels very keenly. Oh how it hurts my heart to hear him express his anguish, his deep need to be like others, to see the world as they do. He’s been brought to tears wishing that he would love Star Wars and soccer like his classmates. Through his tears he condems his beloved bird guides and artists’ tools, his djembe, his drums, his difference. It doesn’t happen often, yet when it does, I let it. I don’t let my discomfort at witnessing his allow me to stifle him. Instead, I try to be a quiet audience, an emotional sponge, taking in all the sorrow, all the isolation, being a witness to it as if somehow I can bear it away from him, transform it, and leave him renewed and full of hope. My intention is for this, yet I doubt I can lessen his sorrow by much. So I do the best thing I can. I just listen. If nothing lessens the pain of these moments, at least I can feel better about them when I consider how healthy it is that he can identify that he’s feeling this way, and how lucky Elihu is to come into such an awareness at such a young age. My own feelings had no audience, had no witness, and so manifested in my high school years in the terror of panic attacks, and the near-miss of not graduating.

My talking to him like a peer – my giving him as much goddam information in as clear a way as I possibly can – talking to him with an inherent respect – I do ALL of this as a means to fill him up, to equip him with so much knowledge that if he don’t know it today, he can goddam well figure it out for himself one day. Ya know? I want him armed. I want him loved. I want him to know that I’m there for him, I’m not holding any secrets back. I’m in full transparency mode. I received an email from some mommy-related site the other day, whose topic was ‘when to have the sex talk with your kids’. Sheesh. My kid’s known how babies were made for years. He’s on the ready for those intoxicating, irrational and annoying feelings that his teenage years will bring on. I’m not saying that we’ll continue to have an open, easy dialogue about sex when those years hit, I’m just saying that we’ve been there, done that, and it wasn’t a big deal. Really.

All that and he loves flowers. I say this with unabashed pride. Yes, now I’m just bragging. Whenever Elihu comes grocery shopping with me, it’s understood that his repayment will come in the form of a long, lingering visit to the floral department. We’ll lament the high cost of the beautiful bunches, search for the most affordable items, an invariably settle on a single red rose. I’ve taken to pointing out to folks who we chat with there that Elihu sees no color. I’m not bragging in this case, but rather looking for someone with whom to share my continued amazement. The kid sees NO color at all, yet finds beauty in flowers that few people do. On a purely practical level, I do think he’s keyed into the shapes and lines and profiles in ways ‘we’ aren’t, much the same way as he’s attuned to the structural and linear differences between birds and can usually identify them much faster than color-sighted folks. Whatever, it really doesn’t matter, for his love of flowers is deep and real. He cannot be rushed when admiring flowers, whether in a shop or a garden. Man am I glad this kid found me.

Then, there’s the drumming. And I don’t mean the ‘look how cute my kid is on the drum set’ nor do I refer to the hippie-dippie sort of hand drumming that passes in a drum circle. He’s got something. I have something drum-related too, only it’s more the desire to play than the innate ability. I got myself some drums at seventeen, and spent hours on them, but never got much past some rudimentary rock skills. But my lack of ability wasn’t daunting to me; I just really needed to play. To keep that groove, that steady right foot… So, Elihu’s got this natural ability to play hand drums – he’s got this signature groove he plays on his djembe. His dad would call it a Punjabi sort of groove, and while I don’t know enough of the specifics to comment on it, I can say yes, that makes sense. It’s a swung thing, a distinct pattern that I myself cannot emulate. I haven’t tried very hard, for I admit that I’m not one to put lots of effort into something if there isn’t a flicker of natural aptitude for it. And clearly, this rhythm is something inorganic to me at the outset, which gives me a great deal of respect for Elihu’s ability to play it, and so effortlessly, so naturally. Not sure when Elihu ‘got his groove’, but he’s had it for at least a year. I think last summer it kind of just came. His dad got him a nice-sounding small djembe a couple of years ago, and last year it just made sense.

My kid also has a great sense of humor. I myself grew up with Monty Python and have exposed my son from the start to some of the more classic bits (and the naughty bits, sorry, couldn’t resist) since he was able to possibly understand them. I have perhaps desensitized him in some way to profanity in my sharing of some humor, but at the same time I have taught him the importance of using profanity in only the most carefully chosen, and appropriate places. It wouldn’t be a ‘bad’ word if we used it all the time, would it? He knows swearing is not something he’s allowed to do – at least in the proper and outside world. He also knows how funny just one little swear word can be, when inserted at the right place. Timing; that’s something he gets. He’s gotten that for as long as I can remember. Man, he’s got that thing. This kid was being sarcastic with me – and fooling me with the old straight face – since he was four! At five his greatest aspiration was to be like Calvin, of “Calvin and Hobbes”. (In fact, when he was five he went as Spaceman Spiff for Halloween.) He’s even concocted his own composite cartoon in which Calvin coaches the young and naive Caillou. Hee hee. Can you just see how loaded that one is? Maybe being outside the normal world helps him to see how funny things are. I think that’s part of it. We all know that phenomenon of the professional comedian; a loner, recluse, a person of few words who seems a whole different person altogether when on stage.

So I guess I’ve compiled a list of sorts. Self-realization, self-actualization, self-determination, self-expression. Not a bad list. Just maybe too heavy a portfolio for such a young child. Maybe that’s what that sense of humor is for.

Chicken Day

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Well, really, what day isn’t a chicken day here at the Hillhouse? Today was a bit of a special chicken day however. Nothing poetic and long-winded tonight. Just a quick recount of our day: I brought a three-week old chick to Elihu’s classroom today and he was a rock star for a half hour. Questions directed to me were quickly answered by Elihu. I was merely the chauffeur.

Tonight we went way over budget with a dinner at the irresistible Hattie’s Chicken Shack (oops, I think they call themselves a ‘restaurant’ these days and not merely a ‘shack’). We lived a bit beyond our means tonight, but what a meal we had. Elihu proclaimed, as he finished off the last of his plate, “this is the best chicken I’ve had in my whole entire life”. I was in total agreement. We were full, we were happy.

We made a visit to a secret garden behind the back doors of the restaurants and picked lily of the valley, drinking in the perfume that comes but once a year. That heavenly scent to which nothing else on earth comes close. Aah.

Then we got in the car and began our short drive home. As we reached the winding country roads, a heavy spring rain began. Now cozy in our house, the rain beats loud and hard on the roof. We’ll make a quick trip downstairs to smooch our young chicks and refresh their food and water for the night, then it’s off to bed.

A good day, a chicken day.