Rob asked me the first night back why I had wanted to make the trip here. This was after observing me with my folks when we finally arrived. Neither of my parents really listened to much of what I had to say and my mom especially would interrupt me to talk about herself. And that is just them. As I had explained to Rob before, no one in my family really gets me on a deep level or truly understands who I am. He has said himself that I am a “complex” person, though I am not sure why he thinks so. I suppose I am a contradiction at times but I am not sure that qualifies me for “complex” which sounds so much more interesting than it is.
I am not sure I wanted to come back as much as I just needed to for a bit. To check on my folks who are getting older and are not healthy, my father especially. Katy needed to see her grandparents and cousin, Luke. She has and is adjusting quite well in Alberta but she is still just a very little girl. The high school reunion thing was just a coincidence. As it turns out I will probably not see many people from back in those days. Everyone lives so far away and has significant people and family that have taken them far from Dubuque and the kids that we once were. It’s okay. I have never been one to have those BFF type relationships with people who stick with you for lifetimes and would come at the drop of the hat if called upon to do so. I find those types of friendships interesting but don’t know anyone personally who has one. And maybe no one really has someone like that. Maybe it is more the case that we have people who are supportive of us in ways we accept as good enough, often enough. If that makes any sense.
I think the biggest reason I agreed to take this trip was for the opportunity to show Rob where I came from and to spend some time off by ourselves which we haven’t had really since moving in together and marrying. My mom is a willing sitter and Katy has come to expect to be allowed to stay at my folks when we visit. This allows Rob and I the kind of one on one and intimacy that isn’t a given when you marry the second time.
My best friend, Vicki, took the day off and is driving over with her mom and daughter, Lindsay for a quick visit this afternoon. If I have a friend who comes closest to “drop everything” it is her.
Today it’s rainy. Iowa should be synonymous with “swamp” and “sub-tropic” and “Noah” as in ark. I do not miss the biblical rain season here which grows longer and longer as global warming picks up its pace. Rob and I will head out to Starbucks soon and then up to my folks. They enjoy our presence, and they enjoy fact that we are useful. We made dinner last night and cleaned up after. Rob changed the door nob on the bathroom door, so it actually locks again. I guess you can go home again, as long as you are just visiting.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Black Cats
Just as we were nearing the airport yesterday, a black cat dashed across the road in front of us. Off to the right we could see a coyote paused in mid-chase in the ditch. A more superstitious person would have immediately jumped to the conclusion that the day was now a wash and gone back home to catch up on sleep before the sun came up, but though I did wonder idly about the possibility of our plane plummeting to the ground shortly after take off, I didn’t give the cat, or its hue, another thought until we landed in Minneapolis to discover our next flight was cancelled.
“Cancered?” my daughter puzzled. “Why was the plane cancered?”
Why indeed and since it was a company that contracts with Northwest, we will probably never have an answer, but there we were. It was not quite noon and our one o’clock flight to Cedar Rapids, Iowa was now rescheduled for 4:45. We suddenly had a whole lotta time on our hands.
The first order of business, after visiting the washrooms, was lunch. And, I don’t know if you’ve traveled by air lately but though there are a great many food choices from very fast to sit down and hand over your Gold Card, not a whole lot of it amounts to much more than fat and sugar and the inevitable tummy ache. For me, eating out is a quest anymore. Trying to find food that won’t upset my stomach or aggravate my allergies or even weigh me, literally, down is hard enough to do in the real world but in the confines of a TSA secure airport it is nearly impossible. Once you enter the terrorist-cleansed zone, you aren’t allowed out without penalty. That being that you have to run the screening gauntlet again and explain why you left too I would guess. I would also guess that being hungry for edible food won’t cut it as a reason.
After a search we discovered a food court on Concourse C with an Einsteins and a place that made fruit smoothies as well as Asian cuisine and an A&W. When we were all fed, we landed at the play area and settled with newspapers and Starbucks and made ourselves as comfy and at home as possible while Katy played. It was a little surprising to me how once we were fortified with reading material and beverages that Rob and I kicked back as though it were a weekend morning at our dining room table with tea and toast. I kicked off my shoes and put my feet in his lap, and we read and exchanged information of interest as we came across it. The hours passed. Not all that slowly. It was relaxing in its own strange way.
Flight time finally arrived. It was a small jet that left the gate on time but taxied in circles for so long that Rob finally asked me if we were going to drive to Cedar Rapids after all. Once up the time went by and when we arrived it looked as though we might still be to my folks at a reasonable hour. But the black cat wasn’t quite done. The flight had been full and, um, weighty. Some of the heavier pieces of luggage were removed from the cargo bins just prior to take off. We had taken the two hard shell suitcases with us. One had most of our clothes and the other the car-seat. The car-seat arrived with us. The clothes, as we were to discover after another bit of a wait, would be arriving in another few hours. Fortunately we did pack a change of colors and other essentials in the carry-on case. Still, it was past Katy’s bedtime when we headed out in a downpour to my hometown.
Today the luggage was delivered to my parent’s house and we managed pretty well without it. As I said at the beginning of this piece, if I had been more superstitious, I might have run for cover, but I really don’t think that black cats or the number 13 or any other mumbo jumbo has much to do with the mishaps that occur sometimes. Not that everything happens for a reason, but sometimes things happen for the benefit of others and we just get caught up by that. It’s not a big deal. I spent the afternoon with my feet in my honey’s lap watching my daughter have a grand time playing and making conversation with the children that came and went in that play area over the course of an afternoon, and honestly worse times have been had by us all.
“Cancered?” my daughter puzzled. “Why was the plane cancered?”
Why indeed and since it was a company that contracts with Northwest, we will probably never have an answer, but there we were. It was not quite noon and our one o’clock flight to Cedar Rapids, Iowa was now rescheduled for 4:45. We suddenly had a whole lotta time on our hands.
The first order of business, after visiting the washrooms, was lunch. And, I don’t know if you’ve traveled by air lately but though there are a great many food choices from very fast to sit down and hand over your Gold Card, not a whole lot of it amounts to much more than fat and sugar and the inevitable tummy ache. For me, eating out is a quest anymore. Trying to find food that won’t upset my stomach or aggravate my allergies or even weigh me, literally, down is hard enough to do in the real world but in the confines of a TSA secure airport it is nearly impossible. Once you enter the terrorist-cleansed zone, you aren’t allowed out without penalty. That being that you have to run the screening gauntlet again and explain why you left too I would guess. I would also guess that being hungry for edible food won’t cut it as a reason.
After a search we discovered a food court on Concourse C with an Einsteins and a place that made fruit smoothies as well as Asian cuisine and an A&W. When we were all fed, we landed at the play area and settled with newspapers and Starbucks and made ourselves as comfy and at home as possible while Katy played. It was a little surprising to me how once we were fortified with reading material and beverages that Rob and I kicked back as though it were a weekend morning at our dining room table with tea and toast. I kicked off my shoes and put my feet in his lap, and we read and exchanged information of interest as we came across it. The hours passed. Not all that slowly. It was relaxing in its own strange way.
Flight time finally arrived. It was a small jet that left the gate on time but taxied in circles for so long that Rob finally asked me if we were going to drive to Cedar Rapids after all. Once up the time went by and when we arrived it looked as though we might still be to my folks at a reasonable hour. But the black cat wasn’t quite done. The flight had been full and, um, weighty. Some of the heavier pieces of luggage were removed from the cargo bins just prior to take off. We had taken the two hard shell suitcases with us. One had most of our clothes and the other the car-seat. The car-seat arrived with us. The clothes, as we were to discover after another bit of a wait, would be arriving in another few hours. Fortunately we did pack a change of colors and other essentials in the carry-on case. Still, it was past Katy’s bedtime when we headed out in a downpour to my hometown.
Today the luggage was delivered to my parent’s house and we managed pretty well without it. As I said at the beginning of this piece, if I had been more superstitious, I might have run for cover, but I really don’t think that black cats or the number 13 or any other mumbo jumbo has much to do with the mishaps that occur sometimes. Not that everything happens for a reason, but sometimes things happen for the benefit of others and we just get caught up by that. It’s not a big deal. I spent the afternoon with my feet in my honey’s lap watching my daughter have a grand time playing and making conversation with the children that came and went in that play area over the course of an afternoon, and honestly worse times have been had by us all.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Flying
It could just be my naturally suspicious nature or it could be that the process is designed to intimidate and dehumanize, but I dislike crossing borders and security checkpoints. U.S. Customs was a non-event this time back. The last time it was just Katy and I, so I got the usual questions about where I had been and did Katy’s father know I had her out of the country. Since I always tuck her dad’s death certificate into her passport, it is right there for them to see, but they ask anyway. I guess they need to hear me say that he is dead. With Rob along however, the Custom’s official didn’t even open the certificate. Even traveling with different last names on our passports, because getting mine amended to reflect my new martial status is proving to be a hassle, the official just assumed that Rob was her father.
The TSA screenings are not as Nazi paced in Canada. After all, we are talking about Canadians who are never in a hurry do to anything job related. A marked change from the TSA at the Des Moines Airport who lacked only the snarling German Shepherds and people hollering “Schnell! Schnell!” As if it should take no time at all to de-shoe yourself and a small child while simultaneously dumping everything from your person into impossibly small plastic containers while presenting proper photo ID and boarding passes. Still, it has the feeling of one of those test dreams a person has from time to time even years past being in school. Wandering frantically up and down hallways. Searching for the right room and never finding it or arriving too late. I don’t think it would fit Amnesty International’s definition of torture but it is being brought to us all by the people who think that simulated drowning does not count because it’s not specifically prohibited by the Geneva Convention.
Once through and into the gate area the cluster fuck truly begins. Why do people rush to get into boarding lines? Boarding is a slow process that is actually made quicker by being last. I guess it is to snag all the overhead compartments rather than putting one carry on up and one under your seat. Again, a behavior based on the false assumption that disembarking will be made quicker this way. I can’t count the number of times I have waited patiently with my carry on secured and me ready to leave while nearly every one around me struggled to free their luggage from the upper compartments.
As soon as you board the plane, you are greeted by the impatient glares of the first class passengers. All twelve of them who sit grumpily with their drinks and ample leg room waiting for the rest of us peasants to please hurry up and sit our fat bums down somewhere behind them. Of course everyone glares at you when you are the last to board because it is surely your fault the plane isn’t already taxiing down the runway. We were in the dead last row. Good because it puts a person right next to the washrooms. Bad because there is no reclining. Good again because it’s a done deal that you will be the last people off, so there is no pressure to hurry.
My daughter is a jaded air traveler already. The wonder of flight isn’t lost on her but it has become routine, which I find interesting and I am hoping bodes well for the future because I have a feeling we might travel by air more and more frequently. The downside of travel for me though is the tendency towards motion sickness that has plagued me since I was a child. For some reason I can write and read but not simply read and that makes flights above two hours a tad bit tedious. On this trip both Rob and I, uber-geeks that we are, sit with laptops out. He catching up on work email and me writing this blog piece. Rob to my right and Katy on the left, engrossed in the SpongeBob episode playing on the iPod.
It’s 9:21 Edmonton time and we are due into Minneapolis at 11:30 Central Time U.S., and since the flight attendants are busily collecting snack trash I expect that within the next twenty minutes or so it will be time to begin landing. Why does landing take so much longer than taking off? Although I am still a bit apprehensive about the return trip through Canadian Customs, and I imagine it will be a lengthy sit in Immigration again, I am not going to let that spoil the trip to see my folks and extended family and friends.
The TSA screenings are not as Nazi paced in Canada. After all, we are talking about Canadians who are never in a hurry do to anything job related. A marked change from the TSA at the Des Moines Airport who lacked only the snarling German Shepherds and people hollering “Schnell! Schnell!” As if it should take no time at all to de-shoe yourself and a small child while simultaneously dumping everything from your person into impossibly small plastic containers while presenting proper photo ID and boarding passes. Still, it has the feeling of one of those test dreams a person has from time to time even years past being in school. Wandering frantically up and down hallways. Searching for the right room and never finding it or arriving too late. I don’t think it would fit Amnesty International’s definition of torture but it is being brought to us all by the people who think that simulated drowning does not count because it’s not specifically prohibited by the Geneva Convention.
Once through and into the gate area the cluster fuck truly begins. Why do people rush to get into boarding lines? Boarding is a slow process that is actually made quicker by being last. I guess it is to snag all the overhead compartments rather than putting one carry on up and one under your seat. Again, a behavior based on the false assumption that disembarking will be made quicker this way. I can’t count the number of times I have waited patiently with my carry on secured and me ready to leave while nearly every one around me struggled to free their luggage from the upper compartments.
As soon as you board the plane, you are greeted by the impatient glares of the first class passengers. All twelve of them who sit grumpily with their drinks and ample leg room waiting for the rest of us peasants to please hurry up and sit our fat bums down somewhere behind them. Of course everyone glares at you when you are the last to board because it is surely your fault the plane isn’t already taxiing down the runway. We were in the dead last row. Good because it puts a person right next to the washrooms. Bad because there is no reclining. Good again because it’s a done deal that you will be the last people off, so there is no pressure to hurry.
My daughter is a jaded air traveler already. The wonder of flight isn’t lost on her but it has become routine, which I find interesting and I am hoping bodes well for the future because I have a feeling we might travel by air more and more frequently. The downside of travel for me though is the tendency towards motion sickness that has plagued me since I was a child. For some reason I can write and read but not simply read and that makes flights above two hours a tad bit tedious. On this trip both Rob and I, uber-geeks that we are, sit with laptops out. He catching up on work email and me writing this blog piece. Rob to my right and Katy on the left, engrossed in the SpongeBob episode playing on the iPod.
It’s 9:21 Edmonton time and we are due into Minneapolis at 11:30 Central Time U.S., and since the flight attendants are busily collecting snack trash I expect that within the next twenty minutes or so it will be time to begin landing. Why does landing take so much longer than taking off? Although I am still a bit apprehensive about the return trip through Canadian Customs, and I imagine it will be a lengthy sit in Immigration again, I am not going to let that spoil the trip to see my folks and extended family and friends.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
A Random Thought about Writing and the Widowed
We are heading back to the states tomorrow for a short visit. Per usual there is too much to still be done and probably only just enough time to do it and nothing more. I can’t figure out how my life went from being empty, open spaces to this crammed full existence that still feels as though I need more minutes at the end of every day. It seems as though it shouldn’t have as simple as falling in love with Rob and moving here to be with him, but in more ways than can be imagined, it was just that.
Which brings me to a thought. Rob and I have been talking a bit about writing. About his promise to write about Shelley’s ordeal with melanoma and the difficulty that presents in terms of digging up the past and the occupying pain, but also in terms of how does one take such a sprawling topic and pare it down to an accessible essence? The path that leads some of us to widowhood is winding and long, and there is so much more to it than just the symptoms of the disease and the doctor’s visits and the treatments. The emotional side is as vast as an ocean and twice as deep. So, what to save and what to toss? In school I would teach my students to identify the audience and make their content match the needs of their readers or listeners. I am not sure if that applies in this case. But, it’s Rob’s story to tell and knowing him I imagine that he will stick to the facts and approach it from a logical “what would someone need to know” stance. It makes sense.
He got me thinking about my own story, which I am beyond weary of telling to the point where I don’t even want to hear other people’s stories. I don’t like sharing widowhood on the loss level anymore. Not that I ever enjoyed it, but there was a time when it made me feel less alone. Not as unique or novel. These days I prefer to share moving one stories. And it’s not about being positive or practical, it just is. Who I am now is a woman who was widowed. It happened. It sucked. It’s over? No, but it isn’t my now and hasn’t been for a very long time. If I were to write about my experiences, I would start with the beginning for this year and work through the beginnings of our relationship, Rob and I. There is so much out there on loss. On coping with loss. On surviving loss. On wallowing in it too. But, there is not much on moving on by people who have actually done it and not been overcome with buyer’s remorse once they got there. Beyond blogs and posts, the movies and books are a little to sugary-coated and belie the churning of emotions that nearly make you sick with fear, hesitation, second-guessing and more concern for the opinions of the world at large than for yourself.
When I think about it, my blog has been about moving on, and that is all that I have been willing to share really. The first blog was about loss and the frustration associated with jump-starting my idling life, but I shared that only belatedly, after most of it was written and past and it was no longer a true reflection of me.
I need to ponder this a while longer. I haven’t a deep need to write about myself beyond this blog right now. I am not sure how the world would benefit from another story about widows finding love again. It has the feel and the makings for a cheesy chick flick. Besides every widowed person I know talks about writing a book as though writing was a gift that came along with widowhood like the parting gifts game show contestant losers are sent away with at the end of a show.
Which brings me to a thought. Rob and I have been talking a bit about writing. About his promise to write about Shelley’s ordeal with melanoma and the difficulty that presents in terms of digging up the past and the occupying pain, but also in terms of how does one take such a sprawling topic and pare it down to an accessible essence? The path that leads some of us to widowhood is winding and long, and there is so much more to it than just the symptoms of the disease and the doctor’s visits and the treatments. The emotional side is as vast as an ocean and twice as deep. So, what to save and what to toss? In school I would teach my students to identify the audience and make their content match the needs of their readers or listeners. I am not sure if that applies in this case. But, it’s Rob’s story to tell and knowing him I imagine that he will stick to the facts and approach it from a logical “what would someone need to know” stance. It makes sense.
He got me thinking about my own story, which I am beyond weary of telling to the point where I don’t even want to hear other people’s stories. I don’t like sharing widowhood on the loss level anymore. Not that I ever enjoyed it, but there was a time when it made me feel less alone. Not as unique or novel. These days I prefer to share moving one stories. And it’s not about being positive or practical, it just is. Who I am now is a woman who was widowed. It happened. It sucked. It’s over? No, but it isn’t my now and hasn’t been for a very long time. If I were to write about my experiences, I would start with the beginning for this year and work through the beginnings of our relationship, Rob and I. There is so much out there on loss. On coping with loss. On surviving loss. On wallowing in it too. But, there is not much on moving on by people who have actually done it and not been overcome with buyer’s remorse once they got there. Beyond blogs and posts, the movies and books are a little to sugary-coated and belie the churning of emotions that nearly make you sick with fear, hesitation, second-guessing and more concern for the opinions of the world at large than for yourself.
When I think about it, my blog has been about moving on, and that is all that I have been willing to share really. The first blog was about loss and the frustration associated with jump-starting my idling life, but I shared that only belatedly, after most of it was written and past and it was no longer a true reflection of me.
I need to ponder this a while longer. I haven’t a deep need to write about myself beyond this blog right now. I am not sure how the world would benefit from another story about widows finding love again. It has the feel and the makings for a cheesy chick flick. Besides every widowed person I know talks about writing a book as though writing was a gift that came along with widowhood like the parting gifts game show contestant losers are sent away with at the end of a show.
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