Elizabeth Atkinson's Blog, page 2
October 25, 2018
What Makes Us Tick
Lots of people are motivated by physical discipline,
while others by social interaction,
some by political passion, artistic endeavors, or intellectual pursuits,
and then there are those blessed with ageless energy 
and endless ambition . . .
However, a few of us are driven by less obvious incentives. And for me, that motivator is an insatiable level of nosiness.
My whole life I’ve been nosy. And, for the most part, I’ve been made to feel ashamed of it.
It wasn’t until I was a middle-aged adult that I understood it was a natural (even essential) trait among storytellers. We have to be nosy.
Our kind of nosiness isn’t about passing judgement on your successes and failures or scrutinizing the way you look.
What I, and many other nosy storytellers, am observing are your reactions, your emotions, your connections – those elements and details of your life which make a good story.
My nosiness extends to the world at large, the mysteries and splendors of the natural realm. Being outside in the woods, beneath the water, above a city, before a meadow draws me into possible hidden corners I’m yearning to discover.
Sometimes my nosiness backfires, like the time I took an hour long Uber ride late one day. 
After asking the driver my usual nosy questions (Do you like driving and meeting people? Have you had any funny experiences?), he not only shared his lifelong dreams & disappointments with me, but he insisted I listen to a recording of his heavy metal band the whole ride home, and then take several homemade CDs with me to give to friends.
However, the rewards of being nosy have far outweighed the misfires over the years. Just a few weeks ago, I persuaded my husband and our dog to wander down just one more dirt road, just one more overgrown trail, just one more weedy path until I spotted a glistening through the trees: A remote, pristine pond in the White Mountain National Forest I’d heard about for years, but could never find… pure, nosy bliss. 
What makes you tick?
UPDATES: I’m “Wandering & Wondering” on INSTAGRAM now, posting my nosy photos: www.instagram.com/elizzzatkinson
~ Are you participating in National Novel Writing Month in November? Join me, if you can, at the Nashua Public Library ( here ) and the Hamilton-Wenham Public Library ( here ) for #NaNoWriMo events!
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September 28, 2018
August 30, 2018
Set it ALL free
This would include almost anything from mayonnaise jars to the bureau drawer and even the dog’s collar.
You may assume it’s laziness on my part, but it isn’t. The problem is I loathe the idea of “trapping” anything.
Not only pet hamsters and fireflies,
but inanimate items as well.
I’m not exactly sure if slices of cheddar can make any decisions on their own — or where they would go if they could — but who am I to stand in the way of their cheesy dreams?
The older I get, the more I dread seeing lobsters in tanks or rabbits in hutches or birds in cages.
It feels wrong to tie a boat to a dock, just in case it would prefer to float away.
I can’t even bring myself to secure my tomato plants on those wire ring thingies and tell the tomatoes where to grow.
As a kid, I was a sucker for movies like Born Free and, later with my kids, Free Willy — any story which involved releasing a captive being, and giving them the freedom to find their way back to their true home.
Likewise, I’ve always felt dogs & cats — turtles, ferrets, guinea pigs, and all domestic animals — should be allowed to roam around freely a bit everyday. Just in case they’d rather hit the road and live somewhere else… even though it would crush me if mine did.
Years ago, I took our 3 month-old lab, China, on her first official puppy walk. Our house was a half mile from a lovely field by the Merrimack River. I let China off the leash in the field as I began the process of allowing her to feel free.
I kept a close eye on her as she sniffed along the shoreline and moved between the reeds. Suddenly, I lost sight of her tail. I walked over and peeked between the bushes, but no sign of her. Not even the tinkling sound of her new tags on her tiny puppy collar.
My heart now pounding, I kicked off my sneakers and waded into the cold water to search up and down the river, but the surface was still. I ran up the grassy bank and through the neighborhood, clapping and calling her name, not sure she even recognized her name yet.
After frantically scouring the neighborhood, I knew I needed help and ran back to our house.
To my surprise and enormous relief, little China was curled up in our front yard, sound asleep.
She’d found her way back to her true home.
(the real China
July 24, 2018
Plain Escape
But then about a month ago, I received a text from City Hall telling me to renew my permit with their new quick & easy phone app.
So I spent the next few minutes squinting at my phone, fighting auto correct, and entering the info for my annual parking permit.
Next, I was instructed to upload various forms of identification onto my phone, which (predictably) refused to be uploaded. I groaned and gave up.
A couple weeks later, I noticed last year’s parking sticker had officially expired, so I took my various forms of identification to City Hall to apply in person.
“May I help you?” asked the friendly lady at the information desk in the foyer.
“I just need to see the clerk about my parking permit.”
“Not the clerk’s office,” she said. “Third door on the right.”
I was confused. It was always the clerk’s office.
As soon as I opened the third door on the right, I saw that I was the youngest person in a room full of “mature” adults clutching papers in their mottled hands… with the exception of a few cheerful teenagers sitting at a long table.
Apparently, all of us (including dozens of others every day for the past two weeks) had failed to install the new parking permit app, and the teenagers had been employed to help us.
“Do you have email, sir?” I heard one of them yell at an elderly man, who had a small stack of manila folders in his lap.
“Yes,” he replied. “My daughter made an email for me. But I don’t use it.”
Sigh.
I don’t know about you, but these scenarios are becoming more and more common in my life…
While I love bits & pieces of our digital world – like keeping in touch with old friends on social media and facetiming with my adult children – for the most part, I feel overwhelmed.
Just last month, I attempted to buy an annual pass at a State Park at (you guessed it) the automatic kiosk. Of course, I forgot my reading glasses and bought the wrong kind of pass. And when I finally did select the correct buttons, the machine froze and refused to complete the transaction. I walked over to the office to get help.
The person in charge was unable to reboot the machine, so he told me to either call the state headquarters to report the problem or bring my credit card statement to his office as proof of purchase.
A few weeks later, I tucked the bill (showing the charge) into my purse and headed for the park. However, a sign was posted on the front door saying the office was temporarily closed (for grounds maintenance) for who knew how long.
Days later, I made another special trip, only to find the same sign.
So I called the office to make an appointment, which was now several weeks after the great kiosk freeze.
When I finally sat down face-to-face with the same person in charge, he looked at my bill and changed his mind.
“You need to file for a credit with the headquarters in Boston and reapply all over again.”
“Excuse me?”
“I can’t help you here,” he said and handed my credit card statement back to me. “Not without your voucher from the kiosk.”
I started to grind my teeth.
“But you told me I could come back here with proof of payment on my statement to get my pass.”
“I know,” he agreed, “but now I think it would be a lot ‘cleaner’ if you put in for a refund and start the process all over again. Just call this number right here and…”
I stared into his eyes.
“No,” I said, surprising us both. “You call the number. I’ve spent so much time on this, I refuse to waste one more minute.”
“Well,” he hemmed and hawed, “I doubt I’ll be able to get through. The line is always busy.”
“Then how do you expect me to get through?”
He called the number and, miraculously, got through immediately.
After listening to him explain the situation to the woman at the state headquarters, I heard her voice through the phone.
“Just give her the pass.”
I don’t know what my point is exactly, except that these soul-sucking situations seem be happening with increasing frequency. And I know they will only get worse as I grow older.
For me, the cacophony of our digitized world has grown exponentially with each new app and kiosk in my life. Every time I encounter a television set with four remotes or attempt the required self check-in at the airport or navigate purchases online or update this website, pangs of frustration return. And I find myself craving quiet and simplicity more and more.
So it occurred to me, Amish communities should consider opening a branch for those of us looking to escape this new reality. I’d be happy to pitch in and gather eggs and till the soil… just as long as I’m allowed to keep in touch with old friends online and facetime with my kids.
(photo credits: google images)
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June 25, 2018
We are all the same.
My parents dropped me off at JFK Airport knowing they would probably not speak with me for the next three months, and that mail would take up to two weeks.
However, they were confident I would not only be fine, but that my world would soon expand in ways they had only dreamed of when they were my age… and they were right.
When I landed at the airport in Rio de Janeiro, I didn’t speak Portuguese and my host family didn’t speak English.
I was 16 years old when I arrived and had never traveled farther west than Pennsylvania, farther east than Nova Scotia, farther south than North Carolina, or farther north than Maine.
Immediately, everything – the air, the landscape, the language, the smells, the sounds, the expressions – felt so deeply alien, I didn’t know how I would survive for three months.
But I also remember – during that long drive from the Rio airport northward to the town of Campos, squished between members of my host family in the back seat of a wide sedan – the laughter and the reassuring pats on the back.
As I recall, the first night (or the second?) I arrived in Campos, our entire family drove somewhere downtown to celebrate something with everyone else in the city. Streamers, cheers, food vendors, music! Always, always music.
But I couldn’t figure out what they were celebrating. A Copa do Mundo?
And then I heard the words in English: World Cup
Still I was confused, so someone took my translation dictionary (my life source) from my hands and flipped through it to find the words: Soccer Tournament.
Apparently, Brasil had won a soccer game and there was pandemonium in the streets.
Like most Americans during the 1970’s, I hadn’t heard of the World Cup.
“Oh, Pelé?” I said.
They laughed. “Sim, Pelé!”
Even though Americans knew little about “football”, everyone had heard of Pelé, one of the most famous athletes on the planet back then… a magician with his feet.
That night would be the first of hundreds upon hundreds of times the Teixeira family would show me patience, empathy, and respect — carefully explaining the intricate details of their rich culture and beautiful language.
Living in Brasil, outside of my American bubble, was the hardest and the best thing I have ever done. It changed my world view and the course of my life.
And it was something I never could have done if my parents didn’t believe that people everywhere are good and loving people… no matter their religion, their politics, their education, their sexual orientation, their culture, or their financial status.
And it’s something I never could have done if the Teixeira family had not been so completely good and loving, generous, sensitive, and kind.
The most important lesson I learned that summer is this: If you get to know people who feel different from you, then you will learn to care about people who feel different from you.
Because the truth is, we are all immigrants on this earth, just passing through…
and we are all the same.
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May 18, 2018
What Type are You?
As I remember it, the small town in central Massachusetts where I grew up didn’t even have a tennis team until the year I started high school.
The summer after 6th grade, a few friends and I took tennis lessons offered by the community rec program, and we loved it.
So three years later, when one of our gym teachers decided to start a tennis team, we happily joined. I have no memory of how we ranked against other schools, because I was just in it to have fun with my friends.
College level tennis was very different and I felt out of my league. Most of my classmates who tried out grew up playing tennis at their parents’ country club or at private school, and they showed up in tennis whites. I had never even owned a tennis skirt, and normally played in cut-offs and an old t-shirt.
After several days of tryouts, the list was posted at the gym. I was hoping to squeak by and make JV, but to my astonishment, I was one of only two freshmen who made the college Varsity team.
The first week of practice was brutal. Not only were the workouts far beyond anything I’d ever done, but the upper classmen weren’t exactly friendly or welcoming. In a word, the atmosphere was cutthroat. Tennis was no longer fun and I came to dread it.
So a couple weeks into the season, I explained to the coach why I was quitting and I joined the dance company instead.
Everyone thought I was nuts, including the coach, but I didn’t care. I was happy again.
Throughout my life, I have struggled with similar experiences.
For example, I’ve never worried that much about grades. At least not enough to motivate me. As a kid, I mostly found them arbitrary and meaningless. Years later as an adult, when I was required to evaluate my English Lit students, I still felt grades were mostly arbitrary and meaningless. Consequently, I gave everyone who tried hard an A and all the others received a B. Needless to say, the administration wasn’t pleased.
As an author, I usually give all books I read 5-star ratings, unless I really don’t like the book – then I give it 4 stars.
I enjoy playing board games and even winning, but if I lose, I honestly don’t care. Same goes for watching local sports. In fact, I usually root for the underdog.
For a long time, I wondered what was wrong with me. Why am I not more competitive? Why would I rather not keep score, not rate others’ work, not grade students?
Why did I care so much about how the other person was feeling?
Then someone finally told me that I had a Type B personality.
Everyone has heard of the Type A personality, because A is revered in our culture. In fact, achieving the American Dream essentially requires a Type A effort. Type As are driven, disciplined, focused, over-achieving, and most importantly, competitive. In other words, Type As are SUCCESSFUL.
From a very young age, we pick up sociological cues telling us to strive for Type A . . . be an A!
But lately the world is finding out that the lesser known Type B – typically more relaxed, flexible, emotional, and empathetic – may be the better way to go.
How can that be you ask?
Well, experts have found that if you’re a Type B…
“1. You might be healthier.
2. Everyone wants you on their project.
3. You’re a better friend.
4. You take the long view.
5. You do well with risk and failure.
6. You see the good in people.
7. Creativity flows from you.
8. You know how to enjoy the moment.
9. You’re generally more satisfied with life.
10. You put new people at ease.”**
The truth is, like everything else in life, we’re all on a spectrum with tendencies of both Types. And a healthy mix is probably best!
So which way do you lean?
Type A or Type B BUZZFEED test:
https://www.buzzfeed.com/perpetua/are-you-more-type-a-or-more-type-b?utm_term=.ma60AwWE7#.gjNK5VzYx
**(From 10 Reasons You Should Be Glad You’re Type B by Meredith Melnick: https://goo.gl/AoK6CL)
(photo credits: HWS Colleges, Google Images)
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April 24, 2018
Not Just for Dogs
The dog park where my doodle, Obadiah, romps daily is a 16-acre forest with winding trails situated along the Merrimack River.
Obi is the third canine child my husband and I have raised during our 30+ years of marriage, and he is, by far, the most extroverted. Consequently, we gleefully greet every dog and human we pass.
Watching Obi’s pure joy as he runs up to others, and their reciprocating joy from meeting him, makes me smile and forget whatever I happened to be fretting about at that moment.
Recently, I was having a particularly anxious day with a lot on my mind. As Obi raced through the trees, sniffing the ground, he suddenly stopped and stared at a woman up ahead, as if he recognized her.
She clapped her hands and he charged over into her outstretched arms.
When I caught up to them, she was kneeling on the ground and scratching behind his ears.
I looked around for her dog, but didn’t see one.
Confused, I asked, “Do you know Obi?” as if my dog had a social life separate from mine.
She laughed loudly. “No, I just love all dogs! I’m not allowed to have a dog in my apartment, so I come here to see them.”
Hmm, I thought to myself, that’s interesting.
Then she stood up, still patting Obi’s head and asked, “Can I walk with you two?”
I have to admit, I don’t mind pausing for a minute or so to chat with other dog owners, but making small talk with a dog-less stranger for 20 minutes isn’t something I would ever choose to do.
However, this woman was different. She seemed so sincere. But more importantly, I too love dogs enough to be the crazy lady stalking them at the dog park.
“I could stare at dog videos all day on Youtube,” she explained, as we tagged along together, “but that isn’t the same as seeing them in person and watching them play. They’re just so wonderful! Do you know what I mean?”
Yes, I do.
As we wound through the woods, she told me all about her sister’s poodle, who was exceptionally smart, and understood full sentences.
Then she wanted to know Obi’s history, where he was born and the story behind his name.
When it was time for us to leave, she thanked me warmly and called Obi over for one last hug. Then Obi and I watched, a little deflated, as she moved onto the next dog & human couple.
It occurred to me that I had no idea where she stood on banning plastic bags or the second amendment or the Russia investigation. All I knew was that she was a friendly person who loved dogs more than anything. And at that moment, that’s all I needed to know.
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March 27, 2018
Over the Rainbow
Like any good vacation, within the first 30 minutes of arriving, my husband was stung by a bunch of jellyfish and I broke a tooth. Consequently, the two of us spent much of the time downing ibuprofen.
During the week, our rent-a-wreck started smoking as we braked down Haleakalā Volcano, and we all got carsick driving the 620 hairpin turns (roundtrip) on the Highway to Hana.
But the islands were absolutely spectacular and, more importantly, our two kids had a ball.
On the last day of our trip, I could only think about my aching tooth, wondering how fast I could get an appointment with my dentist. My husband’s jellyfish bites had subsided, but now he had developed a strange rash on his feet and needed a prescription. We were worried we would be responsible for wrecking the rent-a-wreck even more than it was already wrecked, and we had no idea why the television had mysteriously stopped working… In other words, both of us were more than ready to go home.
As we packed up the suitcases, our young daughter – sweetly tanned with sun-streaked hair – wandered into the bedroom and asked us a strange question.
“Who are all these people around here?” she wanted to know.
“What do you mean?” we asked. “Which people?”
“Everyone,” she said. “Are they all still on vacation?”
“Are you talking about the people in the condos?”
“No,” she replied. “I mean all the people in Hawaii.”
My husband and I stared at each other, confused. Then I informed her, “Most of the people in Hawaii live here, honey, so they aren’t on vacation.”
“What?!” Now she was upset. “How come they get to live here? Why don’t we get to live here?”
“Because we live in Massachusetts,” my husband reminded her.
“But why do we have to live in Massachusetts and they’re allowed to live in Hawaii?”
And then it dawned on me.
“No one assigns us to a state where we have to live. We choose the state where we want to live.”
“Are you kidding me?” Hands on her little hips. “You two chose Massachusetts when you could have picked Hawaii?!”
Neither of us knew what to say. When you thought about it from a child’s perspective, it was hard to argue with that logic. So my husband fell back on the age-old grown-up excuse that covers just about every adult dilemma:
“It’s not that simple.”
But the truth is, it is that simple to choose a goal, a plan of action, a dream. The problem is, it’s very difficult to make it happen.
Last weekend, kids from all over the country not only made a choice for a better world, but they’re doing the incredibly hard work of making it happen.
From the bottom of our hearts, thank you for reminding us to stop focusing on the difficult details of daily life and remembering the power of our childhood aspirations.
We grown-ups couldn’t be more impressed or inspired or proud.
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February 22, 2018
In Your Dreams
Most families have a sleepwalking story. My family has a few, including the time my mother removed curtains at two o’clock in the morning and ironed them. In her sleep.
My parents were in the middle of packing up three young children for a big move from Rhode Island to North Carolina, so my mom clearly had a lot on her mind. The funny thing is she never took up sleepwalking again.
I, for one, was not surprised my mother chose ironing as her somnambulant activity, as it seemed to be her favorite and most frequent household chore.
We were lucky enough to have a mom who valued hanging clothes and sheets out on the line to dry, followed by a toasty press on the ironing board. The delicious aroma and texture of freshly pressed laundry defined motherhood for me. It meant I was well cared for and deeply loved. And that my mom was the kind of mother I needed her to be.
For some reason my mother, who worked full-time by the time I was in middle school, always found the time to dry the laundry in the sun and iron it at night. Even in winter.
However I, who always worked part-time and freelanced, could never find the time to commune with the family hamper. I barely managed to stuff the laundry in the machine and distribute it to the correct drawers on a regular basis.
In the summer, I tried to hang the sheets and towels on the line, but we had a black lab who enjoyed pulling it all down. And those times it dried before the dog found it, none of the laundry made it to the ironing board. In fact, I wasn’t even sure where the ironing board was stored.
Then one afternoon, after taking in a fresh pile of sweet sun-dried sheets, I suddenly got the urge to turn on the radio and iron them. I was feeling nostalgic and wanted to remember that crisp smell and feel of my childhood. And even more importantly, I thought it would make me a better mother.
So I poked around the attic until I found the ironing board and the iron.
Before cranking up the dial and strolling down Memory Lane, I had a few other things to finish up first. I was in the kitchen when my five year-old son came charging down the stairs. He was carrying the heavy iron with both hands, the cord wrapped tightly around the handle.
“What is this?!” he exclaimed.
His eyes were practically popping out of his head, thrilled by his discovery.
It was obvious he had never seen one before and he was hoping it was some kind of ancient weapon or a tool that sawed through steel.
“That’s an iron,” I explained, “for pressing sheets and clothes.”
He looked confused. “Why would you do that?”
“So that they won’t have wrinkles.”
He studied my face and said, “What’s wrong with wrinkles?”
“Nothing,” I told him, “except sheets and clothes look better without wrinkles. And also, it just smells really nice and feels good and makes me think of my childhood and Grandma who likes to iron everything.”
He stared at the bottom of the iron. “That’s what this does?”
I smiled, but I wasn’t so sure anymore.
Needless to say, I didn’t iron the sheets that night. Instead I carried the ironing board and cold iron back to the attic.
My son never did sleepwalk, but when he was little he often crawled into bed with his dad and me in the middle of the night.
That night, after my failure to be the kind of mother I wanted to be, my son climbed over my head and snuggled his warm, tiny body against mine under the covers.
I realized this is what defined motherhood for him. And that I was the kind of mother he needed me to be.
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January 23, 2018
The Day I Met Him
I knew his age, the color of his hair, his overall demeanor, and that his name was Crispin… but unlike all the other characters, I felt like I hadn’t met Crispin yet.
Frustrated by that (and by other things in general), I decided to give the story some space and see if Crispin would make an appearance in a month or so.
I’ve always been drawn to islands, as there’s something magical and otherworldly about an island community that gets the creative juices flowing. So during my hiatus, my husband and I took a quick side trip to an island off the southern coast of New England.
After crossing over on the ferry, we chatted with a nice woman at the tourist info booth. She suggested we take a popular 5-mile island walk, which would bring us past most of the main attractions.
What she didn’t mention was how hilly the route was . . . and it happened to be a hot, windless day.
A couple miles into the walk, as we dragged our feet up a particularly steep incline, we saw a boy at the top of the hill standing in the road and waving.
“Everything okay?” my husband called as we picked up the pace, despite our sweating and panting.
“Do you want to buy some lemonade?” he yelled down to us through cupped hands.
It turned out this kid had an elaborate lemonade stand set up at the end of a driveway at the steepest point of the island.
“Great location,” said my husband, who appreciates anyone with entrepreneurial wherewithal. He handed the boy a dollar bill for two small cups of a watery, faintly sweet liquid.
“My family stays at this house every summer for a month,” explained the boy, “and I sell lemonade every single day.”
Freckles covered his nose and he had a charming smile.
“You’re clearly not spending a lot of money on ingredients,” my husband said approvingly. “No need to, since you probably don’t get repeat customers, just tourists passing through like us. You must be making a tidy little profit?”
“Last year,” said the boy, “I saved up enough to buy a new bike.”
My husband nodded enthusiastically. “A sound investment.”
I recognized that look on his face, the one when he’s about to ask a young person about their career goals.
I quickly shifted the conversation.
“But don’t you ever spend a day swimming at the beach or doing something fun while you’re here?” I asked.
The boy shrugged.
“This is fun to me.”
“You bet it is!” said my husband. By now he had slipped behind the wooden stand to check out the whole operation. It was clear he was about to make a buyout offer.
Worried the boy’s parents would come outside and find an overly friendly stranger handing their son a business card with an invitation to do lunch, I signaled it was time to go.
“I guess we better get back to our walk,” my husband sighed. “But we’ll take two more for the road!”
“Thanks for the lemonade,” I called out as I retreated down the driveway, encouraging my husband to do the same.
But he hesitated, and asked one last question. “By the way, what’s your name?”
I tried to give him the you-aren’t-allowed-to-ask-unaccompanied-minors-those-kinds-of-questions glare, but then the boy answered.
“Crispin.”
“What?” I rushed all the way back to the counter. “Who named you that?”
Now it was my husband giving me the secret glare.
“I’m sure his parents named him that,” he said and took my hand.
The boy shrugged. “I guess.”
As my husband dragged me down the driveway, I called out, “It’s SO great to meet you, Crispin!!”
A minute later, carrying my second helping of lousy lemonade, I stopped and turned back for one last look. Crispin was standing in the road again, this time waving goodbye.
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