Unlighting it up

When I start hoping the Captain will come home to catch me doing wacky home improvement, I know I've overextended my home maintenance abilities. Today's adventure had me up on the roof in an attempt to clear the trees of the last of the Christmas lights.

I can usually overcome being the shortest person in the house. We have ladders and step-stools and chairs, the neighbors brick wall -- all kinds of things I can use to gain some height. A few  years ago I bought Jeff the best ladder on the planet and I stashed it in the garage recently knowing I would need it to get the rest of the lights down.

The Captain (and possibly others) tends to look with disdain on my height achievement methods. I have yet to explain to him that when I'm struck with the need to tackle a project, I HAVE to do it. It's like having leftover dessert in the house. You can't go through the kitchen without finding yourself with a fork in your hand and half the pie gone when all you meant to do was go to the bathroom.

Which is why I start most of my home improvement projects when he's away. And every Sunday morning, he's away playing basketball.

When I went out to get the newspaper, it seemed like a warm front had moved in as opposed to the ice apocalypse the weather folks had predicted. So as soon as I'd gotten caught up on world events, I put on my sneakers, got my ear muffs and gloves and headed for the ladder. Everything was fine until I actually got up there.

I don't know if it was icy or mossy but there were parts of our roof that are definitely slippery. But I'm still fairly nimble.  That and I live in fear of the day the Captain comes home to find me splayed out in the bushes like a rag doll.

Our house is a ranch. So even if I did fall down and the bushes didn't soften the blow, I figured I wouldn't die. And probably someone would find me before too long.

The trees in front of my house are scrawny, ugly fir trees I'd like to see gone. Jeff and Ali disagree. And it was the two of them who'd draped Christmas lights all over them. One of the geniuses had decided it wasn't enough to drape them artfully on the low branches; he/she/they decided the top branches needed to have the cords triple wrapped around forks and nodes that were way out of my reach.

I remedied this by using the cords to pull the branches toward me until I could grab the suckers. I slipped a bit, slid a bit and may or may not have done lasting damage to a few of the less hardy branches. I tried using a fallen branch to snag an out-of-reach cord, as well. I got a mouthful of fir tree with that attempt. And I didn't come close to dislodging the cord.

I considered getting the clippers to cut the branches I couldn't reach, but that would have involved getting down and back up, and while I wasn't giving up, I knew that once my feet hit the ground, common sense might return and keep me from climbing back up.

And yes, my brain kept replaying  the warnings from NBC's Chris Clackum and Angie Hicks in a TV consumer news segment about decorating dangers that I'd helped produce right before the holidays. But I was being very, very careful. And I'm nimble like a mountain goat.

At one point, I slithered like the Grinch to get under some branches and around others to get to the trunk. I used it to get upright and was on my tip-toes, stretched across the back of the tree just millimeters away from the cord I need to pull around. That's when the roof slime almost got me.

I'm happy to report that my strategy of using the tree to brace or stop my fall worked like a charm. I maybe hadn't counted on the amount of sap and tree debris that would come with Mother Nature's safety net, but hey: I've long been accused of being a tree hugger. Now I can actually say I am.

As un-Disney Princess that I am, I will admit that was at this moment  that I had an image of the Captain pulling in the drive, slamming open his car door and belting out a "Goddammit, Cheryl!" before scrambling up to pull me back to solid ground.

No such luck. So I got my own damn self untangled from the tree and off the roof.

By the time I'd cried "Uncle," I had fir tree twigs and greenery in my hair, my underpants and possibly in my left eyeball. My right shoulder feels like it might have separated from wherever it's supposed to lodge and my thighs are still trembling from the trips up and down that damn ladder.

My mission to unlight the night had begun a few weeks ago when I got about 12 feet of the total 540 feet of lights down. I gave up this morning with four of the 3-feet-long strings still dangling from the trees.

Oh, the Captain, my Captain wasn't  thrilled when he got home but he helped me anyway. Now I have to wind the lights back on their wheels and hide them away for a few months. Or forever.

One more note:  I don't know how long I was on the roof scrambling about, but I think I deserve more love than my FitBit gave me.

Just for the adrenaline rush, I think I deserved more than the 2588 steps gave me as I was risking my life so the neighbors don't have to see holiday lights until spring.

Maybe I should just be thankful I didn't come away with a surgical scar to compare with Grandpa's...

New year, new hardware for Grandpa

For the first time in 20 years or so, Jeff and I spent New Year's Eve apart. We weren't angry at each other and I was wholeheartedly happy that he was sitting bedside with someone else. But it was a little weird not being with him.
 He'd stayed behind in Maine because Grandpa had a fall on Christmas morning, which landed him in a surgical unit that night. He emerged with hardware in his hip and a stint in a rehab hospital. The doc says Gary should be ready for our beach vacation come late March, so there's hope on the horizon.

Ali and I have spent our days swinging between laying around like dogs, taking down and organizing the Christmas decorations. We made a Goodwill trip and managed to get her to swim practice and me to the gym but if we weren't doing chores, we were laying about. It was pretty awesome.

Some stuff we learned while on vacation:

1. Reindeer games can be fun but you need fully inflated antlers and the "deer" has to bow his/her head to give the ring tossers a viable shot.
2. Triple A services follow the driver, not the car. So if your adult son is stranded solo in your car, even a 29-year member is not entitled to service if said member is not in the car.
3. If a 29-year member is outraged enough, he will get service extended as a courtesy.
4. Mainers are really nice. While Jeff was stranded, every person who passed by him offered help, and one not only offered to follow him home to ensure he got there, he actually did when they discovered that he lived a couple streets over.
5. Alison, a huge fan of Auntie Jen, learned they do not share musical taste. A ride in Jen's car is a flash back to the 80s.  Billy Idol's "Flesh as Fantasy" was the tipping point. "Auntie Jen has weird music. It's not as bad as your country music, but man."
6. It pays to use small airports. If you leave your driver's license in the dish at Security, the TSA folks will call you on the P.A. system to drag you back to retrieve it.

At our annual Christmas Eve at the Chinese buffet, Alison ate so many crab legs even she was embarrassed. The next evening as we left the hospital and were talking about where to have dinner, Jeff suggested we go back there. "I can't go back there, they'll recognize me," she said.

I don't have many pictures from NYE, which was much more fun than I'd expected as a solo participant. Ali had a friend over. Cory is the only one we know who can challenge - and even beat her - at Mario Cart so they gave the Wii a workout.

Eric and Tracy drove up even though Jeff wasn't going to make it back before the ball drop. I though the four-hour drive was an indication of real friendship until I realized she left behind an enormous tin of chocolate. 

 

We'd planned to get back to the days when we rotated hosting a gourmet food fest and high-end champagne extravaganza.  Jeff's absence was noted - we called him a couple times and he informed us he was having Chunky soup and craft beer. We managed better fare. We dropped by Susan and Jeff's party as well, which kept us out well past my bedtime.

Jeff came back New Year's Day, so we've had a couple days before having to go back to work. We scored with a Jenna sleepover tonight so that's livened up things around here.

 Happy new year, everyone! Here's hoping for good health, happiness and great friendship in the coming year.

All I need to know I learned (not) in Kindergarten

We've been watching Supernatural on Netflix for what seems like forever as we're trying to catch up to the current season. Homework and everyday life gets in the way of all three of us gathering around the television like families used to do.

We are deep into season eight and recently saw "Remember the Titans," an episode that drops in on modern day Prometheus, Zeus and Artemis. After waxing poetic about a number of facts about Greek mythology, Jeff revealed his deep well of knowledge is rooted in his deep well of familiarity of Marvel comics.

"I learned a lot from comics, Norse legends, ....history, religion..."

Alison gave him the stink eye. "I had to go to catholic school to get that. Your way was more fun."

I didn't tell them that I learned proper grammar from my grandmother's soap operas and how personal relationships worked from my mother's Harlequin Romances.

We all have to learn the important stuff somewhere I guess.

A Thanksgiving Day Heist or Three

I'm a fan of pumpkin roll. So much that I never buy it and I try really hard to avoid it when we come face to roll.

I was so good at Thanksgiving!  I avoided the scrumptious treat altogether but rewarded myself when it came time to pack up, bringing home three slices to get me through the weekend. I had leaves waiting so I was pretty sure I'd work it off.  Jeff is a pecan pie man and Alison hates pumpkin. So I took my three slices and a big container of Lori's cranberry relish, which is almost as good and three times healthier.

Thanksgiving was super fun ... once we finally got there. We went to Aunt Shirley and Uncle Larry's latest home. They're in search of a place since they sold their Columbus house but haven't found the perfect spot yet. I had it pictured on the other side of Worthington than it actually is, so we were later in arrival than intended but no one seemed to mind. That much.

Jimmy -- Aunt Shirley and mother's cousin -- always brings the pumpkin roll. He's gotten it for years from a church group of women who've been rolling out the pumpkin (and other treats I'm sure) longer than many of us have been alive.

We ate. We laughed. We ate. We played cards. We laughed some more. And finally we cleaned up and headed for home.

Friday afternoon as I Ali and I decorated the house for Christmas, the pumpkin roll slices disappeared. I started out with just one, but decorating is hard work and before long, all three were gone. In another hunting trip through the fridge, though, I stumbled across a plastic wrapped something that hadn't been there previously. I hadn't put it there. Sure enough. It was an entire pumpkin roll.

We stared each other down for a while. I thought I might be dreaming. Then Jeff came home and noticed the missing slices. We discussed that travesty for a while and I asked him about the extra roll. I thought maybe he had talked with Jimmy and had worked out a deal.

Nope. Ali wandered by and breezily admitted that she'd snatched it. She knows how much I like it. It looked sort of left over, she said.

My sister, Diana, happened to be in town for the annual Monument Circle holiday ceremony. I texted her to see if I could bring it to her so she could return it to its rightful owners.

"Hell no," she texted back. "Rachael and Aleasha got out with chocolate cakes. That's what it's about. Proud of Ali! Remember Grandma's strawberry pie? Dave stole one each year until she made him his own!"

The things I never knew. Apparently we have a tradition of stealing dessert from family gatherings.

"Anything done in the name of love is legal," avers my sister Diana.

So now I have a whole pumpkin roll calling my name from the fridge. Seems like it would be a slap in the face not to have some, now wouldn't it? I guess I've earned my holiday mug.

In other Thanksgiving news, our annual Friendsgiving with Patrick and Patricia Jackson was just as magical as it's always been. We've been having dinner the Friday after Thanksgiving since Ali was 2 or 3 and it's only been this year that I've realized they don't really come here to see Jeff and me.

I don't think you could tear Ali and Patricia away from each other with a crane. It's a super special thing to watch. I'd better warn her not to carry around any pumpkin rolls, though.

Soul sister?

Alison was reminiscing this morning. We were talking about the likelihood that we will play euchre today after our Thanksgiving feast.  She suggested that we convince everyone to bet on the games. 

Jeff reminded her that we don't really do that at my family gatherings. She was disappointed but hasn't given up on the idea because she thinks she has mad card skills.

"I once won a kid's soul," she said.

I just looked at her.

"It was Alex," she confessed, speaking of my favorite of her friends who are boys. "We were playing BS and he said he'd bet half his soul, but I won. So then I asked him if he wanted to bet the other half, and I won again."

I swear to you, her eyes sparkled and her grin glowed with evil as she intoned: "I own him."

I love Alex Ogden for many reasons. He and Ali met at Day Nursery and they were three or four when we met the parents. After an initial hesitation on Karin's part, we soon became fast, platonic friends and Ali and Alex did, too.

Once he tried to save me from a terrible, awful prank that almost got us killed. Alison has zero regrets for putting that plastic snake on my shoulder as I drove them somewhere. 

Alex, though, he knew then (if not before) that she has demon blood. He was -- and remains -- a valiant champion of Mrs. Reed, even if he lost that particular battle.

I'll find a way for her to return  his soul, but he'll always be in my heart.

A Reason for Optimism

It's been a difficult couple of weeks. Sure the national election didn't turn out like I wanted. Like more than half the popular vote wanted. The state election went south. We had great stress at work and a lot of folks I really love are no longer in my 9-to-5 life.

But the sun came up on Wednesday. The millennial map gave me hope for the future. I have confidence that my friends will find wonderful, new opportunities. And I got to witness my friend, Kirstin Jasheway,  and 137 other people born in more than 30 different countries take oaths to become U.S. citizens.

It was a somewhat surreal capper to a contentious election and I couldn't have been more proud to be at the ceremony. We sprang Ali from school early so she could be there too.

Like many of the liberal kids at Herron, Ali was deeply unhappy with the election. There were so many tears at school on Wednesday, one of the teachers opened her office for one-on-one counseling and Alison cried one of her contacts out. It was lost to the world and I didn't even care. I like her passion and I understand her concerns.

My advice to Alison is to be the best person she can be; to represent her generation so well that skeptics will be convinced they're really all OK and to be ready to vote when the next presidential election comes along and she'll be eligible.

It's a good -- and really, really hard -- life lesson. You don't always get what you want. But the system is the system. You respect the office and you go about working to achieve the outcome you want next time. You don't give up. You don't concede your principals. You  keep your core values and you plan.

The first election I remember was when Jimmy Carter ran. Our living room at home was a polling place. My dad was a Democratic precinct committeeman. Indiana went red almost at 6 p.m. and I turned to my father, aghast. "But I thought we were Democrats," I said.

He laughed. I will never forget the day I first learned there were people with different ideas than those I'd been surrounded by.

Other than the election, Alison is doing really, really well. She competed in her first-ever high school swim meet and posted up some really competitive times. Her school won the meet, too, we found out today.

Better yet, she's loving it. And not complaining at all about all the practice. She is eating like a mad woman.

Tonight at dinner, we were having a rather spirited discussion. It might have included a double flip off and an eye roll or two between my esteemed spouse and myself. That might have inspired a roar from the Captain. All the while, Alison was trying to tell a story and kept saying to the both of us, "Can I finish? Can I finish? Can I finish my story?"

Alison's reaction to t he whole thing: "I love my family. These are my favorite kinds of dinners."

Oy vey.

Redefining the Breast Stroke

For the past few weeks, Alison has been focused on her efforts to join the Herron High School swim team. She was two-years-old when she first started swim lessons and she's always loved the water, but she's never been trained for competition.

So I was concerned that she would be disappointed. The coach had said this would be the year the school would focus on true competition, so you had to really make the team. Ali supplemented her conditioning and practices with the school to trips to the gym where she worked on the strokes she'd been perfecting and/or learning.

I, of course, was her transportation and she'd ask me each time if I wanted to swim with her. I wanted to but as many of you know, I pay a lot for my hair and I didn't want to either diminish the sheen or encourage gray -- or green strands. So I worked out in the fitness area while she swam in the pool across the wall.

But I really wanted to swim with her and this week bought a swim cap so I could.

My own swim lessons started early, like Alison, but they were more a survival lesson than instruction from professional swimmers. My actual memories are sketchy, probably as a result of oxygen deprivation. My siblings told me the lessons started when they decided to build a boat one summer and wanted to test its float-ability.  Donna was still home then, so I was probably five or six.

So they built this boat from scrap wood, dragged it up to the top of the pasture and put me in it. They shoved it into the middle of the pond where it quickly sank. Which gave them an unexpected second experiment: What was my float-ability?

Like all good scientists, this test was repeated more than once as they tried to fix the boat. It never floated, but I never stayed down.

Always the tag-along, I was apparently more hungry for inclusion than scared of the next test.

I also remember a summer where we took swim lessons of a sort at Shakamak State Park. Most summers, my mom would drop us there in the morning and return when the lake closed in the late afternoon. My memory is overhearing two lifeguards talking about me. "What's that stroke that one is doing?" one asked. "I dunno," said the other. "But it looks like she can really move."

Between the lake, our pond and creek and various pits left behind by surface coal mining, I was in the water a lot as a kid. Like the lifeguards from 100 years ago, Alison was puzzled by my mobility when we finally swam together at the Jordan Y.

She channeled the Captain with her coaching. "OK. We're going to 500 meters, no break. Go down freestyle and back backstroke, OK?"

"Wait a minute! How long is one length?" I asked, not sure I could finish a lap, let alone however many laps 500 meters would be.

"One trip down is 25, so you need to do 10 times up and back. No break," she said, preparing to start.

She saw my face. "OK. Let's start with five times," she said.

I took a deep breath. Now, like all good parents, we've equipped Ali with all the stuff she's needed for the various activities and sports she's taken up over the years. From dance to Tae Kwon Do to softball and acting. She has two Speedo, one-piece swim suits, goggles and a swim cap.

I was wearing a Target suit that has seen probably six or 10 seasons and my hair-protective cap. I borrowed her spare goggles.

The freestyle portion was fine. Sure, my muscles started protesting after a while, but I was chugging along really well. The backstroke was good, a little soothing at first. I got through the first test just fine.

I was coasting back to the edge when she nudged me. "What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"That is not a stroke," she said. I'd stopped actually lifting my arms out of the water for my backstroke and was sort of propelling myself like an otter. Apparently that's not "real."  "You have to do the actual stroke," she tells me.

She tried to show me the breast stroke. It's a lot harder than it looks and requires a coordination I'm not sure I've ever had. She showed me the butterfly but agreed before I voiced my concern that this was a lesson for another day.

We focused for a time on just using legs. Then just arms. Have you ever swam 50 meters in a pool with your legs dragging behind like dead weights? "Uh. Mom. It's not time for a break yet," she said.


I sighed. Back to the grind. Thirty minutes in, I was kind of done. "How about you just focus on freestyle and backstroke?" she said.

Hurrah. Except this was about the time I noticed a wardrobe issue. I was fine with the freestyle stroke, but when I flipped to the backstroke, my suit with its shirred front and three-seasons-too-long fit had taken to drifting with the waves. I'm not sure how long I was exposing myself to whoever might be watching, but it was frequent and at times fairly flagrant.

I had felt like the lifeguards were fairly vigilant for a pool where there were only four lap swimmers and two parents with their kids. I'd initially thought they were checking Ali out, which isn't at all unlikely as she's getting a bit buff as she swims so much.

Then, I'd wondered if they were pondering how long I'd flail around before they'd get a chance to use their rescue gear and  fish me out of the drink.

But once I realized I'd been flashing the world every time I practiced my backstroke, I had a few different thoughts:

1. These boys must be truly bored to think a 50+-year-old nipple or two is worth their time, 
2. I flashed back to the time two snooty teenage girls in the same gym's fitness area telling me  I couldn't wear just my exercise bra when working out. I had to cover my midriff with either a bigger bra or a tee-shirt, and
3. OMG. I'm a flasher.

That's about the time I called it a day. I'd made it 45 minutes.

Besides the obvious criminality of the endeavor, every muscle in my body was shaking. Ali was still going strong. I climbed out of the pool like some primordial goo, pulled up my top and headed for the women's locker room hot tub, careful to avoid eye contact with anyone.

Oh. Alison made the varsity squad. She's super excited. I'm going to buy a new swimsuit. Maybe switch gyms.

In other news, because she needs to be able to see in the pool, Alison has a trial pair of contacts. We'll make sure they're the ones she needs before she gets a full supply. We took Jeff out for a late birthday dinner. He'd celebrated much of the day with his buddies at their annual Purdue football game outing on his actual birthday last week.

You might have noticed that I've not said a ton about the election of late. I don't think there's anything left to say. Whatever happens after Tuesday, I hope we can regain some sense of mutual respect and acceptance of the outcome -- whatever that outcome is.

I'm thinking that our country isn't much different than that boat my sisters and brothers kept trying to build. It's still an experiment, but we can get to shore and try again.