Jennifer Wilson's Blog, page 7

Here we go again.

That was then.

Looking here at my planner, I've just realized that for the rest of the semester, we will be driving around town after school for approximately 3.5 hours every day (with breaks). I know this is part of the deal when you have kids, but I worry about all of us getting lost in the shuffle. Last time I thought it was going to happen, we fled the country.

This is not always a practical solution.

And yet, here I am, looking at all the little reminders scratched at the bottom of every single day: ballet, tap, soccer, Lego League, piano, guitar. When winter comes, replace the soccer with gymnastics and swimming. Not to mention, Jim's been working more than ever. He's on a project he really loves, but still. Our time together has changed. It will change again when I get absorbed in book business as RUNNING AWAY TO HOME comes out on October 11.

So how do we live in this place where the wheel ruts are so very deep, without getting sucked into that same brainless motion that flings us around in circles every single day? The kids love seeing their friends at soccer. Zadie adores dance (and those little floofy skirts melt my heart). Their other activities are a part of the great education they get at school. Do I pull them out of stuff just so we can spend more time in the yard chatting and watching chickens? That seems dumb. Especially when half that yard talk is me telling them they can't go inside and watch TV or play vids. Besides, I like sitting through soccer practice. Watching other people exercise is awesome.

I mean, we don't live in a mountain meadow anymore. Some things were easy to bring back with us from Croatia—recipes, memories, photographs, friendships, history, booze. Some things are much harder to translate back here in America. The hiss of distance in open space. An uncrowded schedule. The slow passage of time.

But you can't have everything, right? When we lived in Croatia, we were also bored a lot. So there was that. Here, we're a lot of things, but bored is never one of them. I suppose it will always be this pull. Learning to be vigilant about my family's time, without being ungrateful for the abundance of options we've got. But it does take an effort to figure these things out.

You have to be either here or there, right?

Or do you?

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Moving-In Day for the chickens

Zadie and Dad work on the coop's green roof

The chickens moved in yesterday! They've completely outgrown their box in Josh's living room, to the point where they could see out the box if they were standing on the food or water dishes. One of the Barred Plymouth Rocks would hop up on the water jar and look out the window all day. I imagine it was disconcerting for Josh, sitting in the living room, reading a book, then suddenly the cardboard box starts moving, and six scruffy heads slowly rise up to stare at him. It was time to move on.

We spent the morning securing the coop, leveling the ground so it stands flush, stapling chicken wire to the bottom to make sure that digging varmints are foiled if they try to get the girls. There was only a slight emergency when one of the Ameraucanas got spooked and spent about an hour eluding us in the hostas and then in my garden. Eventually, Willa the Dog came outside and flushed her out—and then nearly ate her. I kind of forgot that even though Willa's tiny, she's still a hunting dog. The Ameraucana appears unscathed.

And this morning, my own little chicks moved out for the day. Sam and Zadie went back to school. Now, I've struggled with finding balance in my family—how much work is too much, how much together time will drive us berserk. For the first time this summer, I really got my balance right. The book is complete. I don't spend every waking moment in the office surrounded by sheafs of paper and notecards and piles of Kleenex and little Croatian good-luck relics and thick clouds of the incense that make me think of my Grandma Kate. The office didn't get a whole lot of attention, really. The kids were in camp for a week here and there, but mostly we all just hung out. Went to the pool. Had some adventures. Took walks. Argued about how much screen time will melt your brain. It's been really nice.

Part of it, I'm sure, is that the kids are little people now. They're not needy babies who can't tell me what's wrong when they cry. They're not bumbling toddlers who require constant vigilance lest they fall off a staircase or climb a countertop and break their skinny little necks. They're people. We talk. We enjoy each others' company.

There is a passage in RUNNING AWAY TO HOME where I begin to notice what it really means to be a parent. How, from the very beginning, it's about preparing those kids to leave the nest as healthy and independent people who will make a positive contribution to the world. With every brave step they take forward—into first grade and fourth grade already!—they're doing what they're supposed to be doing. Preparing for the day they move on.

But that doesn't make this day any less melancholy. How bittersweet that it's my job to prepare these two people I love so much to leave our home! To fly the coop.

It's a real relief that during all those years they were needy babies and bumbling toddlers, I kept writing. I knew with some weird blind faith that I'd need something to sustain me when the house became quiet like this. Whatever it is for you, if you are a parent, I suppose we just pull it back to us on the first day of school, or college, or post-wedding, or whatever it is. Those things that sustain us as independent people who can do just fine on our own.

For me, it's a clean, fresh stack of paper, with a whole frontier of book possibilities ahead of me. And the sound of little peeping chickens-in-training outside my window.

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Bad gardener!

 

I'm a bad gardener. I get out there and plant things, sure, and my gardens aren't unsightly or anything. But it's clearly not my special skill. They're never manicured. The flower beds don't have color year-round (or barely ever). Nothing has a water feature. My vegetables often do not grow properly. That garden up top? Not mine.

I'm pretty much okay with all of that.

When we were lucky enough to live in Mrkopalj, Croatia, last year, our neighbors in the village gardened like crazy. Jasminka and Pavice and Andjelka and Zjelko were really good at it. Those skills had been passed down through the generations and they were necessary to defray the cost of really expensive groceries. Plus, people liked knowing where their food came from, after hearing horror stories from more "developed" countries.

But I'm self-taught when it comes to the garden. I'm good at lettuce, because it doesn't need anything but planting. Same with tomatoes, though my success rate is spotty there because they also need cages and occasional eggshells around the base, and that's officially Complicated. I don't read books about gardening. I don't try to Improve. Until the economy bottoms out even further, or Michelle Bachmann is elected, my gardening success will be allowed to remain marginal at best.

That's fine by me. I'm in it for the outdoors time, and to get my hands plugged into the dirt for a recharge. It's fun to grow things, even if I'm not an aficionado.

This is not me.

I do a lot of work for magazines, which show off people's houses and yards when they are literally picture-perfect. I'm going to go ahead and confirm what you already know about that: It's a myth. I've been to those photo shoots, and pretty much only that very precise area being photographed looks that good. Then the cameras get put away, the family dog pees on the floor, a kid dumps out a bunch of markers, or someone spills coffee on the white slipcovered couch. Soon, the natural chaos of the universe returns. It's not as perfect as it looks. Never is.

As I've gotten older, it's been nice to happily accept that I will only be good at a few things, and everything else is just screwing around for fun. I'll get out in the garden when it works for me and the kids, time-wise. My house isn't up to the latest trends, nor will it ever be. My chef skills are limited to Things That Zadie Will Eat, which revolves around unadorned meat and cereal and yogurt without chunks. (I am naturally gifted at parallel parking, so that doesn't require any time or attention. It's more like a magical skill bestowed by God, really.)

But there are a few things that command real attention. I want to be good at having a family, so I work hard at that, and it dominates most of my thoughts. I want to be good at telling you stories, and this is a close runner-up in the daily-thoughts category. Good books and music also get a lot of my time, because they inspire the other two things.

So that's it. As I write this, I'm sitting on the porch with Sam and watching birds, which I'm also not very good at, but I like asking other people about. I own a few birding manuals, but mostly I bought them because the pictures are so pretty, and looking at birds makes me happy, even if they're just sparrows. Or that asshole bluejay that bullies everything in the yard.

I'll never be an expert or anything. And I'm super okay with that.

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Urban Chickens, 9 Days Old

Josh still has the chickens in his living room, which he says is becoming mildly problematic because they're getting really big already and they're literally trying to fly the coop. They've already ripped through a 5-pound bag of feed and have about doubled in size. Their "output" is equally prolific. So we've got that to look forward to when they move over here.

Want to see some pictures? Yes, you want to see some pictures. Josh sent these last night. Now, remember that Josh and I agreed heartily that if these chickens become a burden, we will eat them. But these girls look pretty pampered, don't you think? We will have to take some drastic measures to avoid anthropomorphizing our little feathered layers.

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Live music and God

I've gone back and forth with the church thing. I grew up in a devout Catholic family, so I'm programmed to be a churchgoer. When I fell away in college, it was tough stuff. I missed that big swelling of the soul that you feel with a particularly good sermon, or watching a baptism, or when the music is just right (I've cried through more than one "Ave Maria," courtesy of a Colfax, Iowa, crooner named Joe Gannon).

Fortunately for me, live music is also church. I found that out when I was a teacher for tough kids in the Twin Cities area. The work brought me to my knees nearly every day. Music sustained me then, and the live shows at night felt very much like I was plugging my uterus into the sound equipment for a recharge. That was during the era when Uncle Tupelo was still together, but The Replacements weren't, and you had to catch Martin Zellar solo because the Geardaddies broke up. There were so many bands, so many roadtrips with soundtracks with friends and sweethearts. There was that big swelling of the soul again.

Last night some friends in my neighborhood put together a house concert with a band called Roman Candle. They're traveling the country in an Econoline van with their little kids, playing house shows at night, trying to find swimming pools and parks for the wee ones during the day. It's a story I feel particular kinship with, and so we went. Also, one of their songs, "Something Left to Say," was in heavy rotation in the Peugeot while we were traveling last year. It's a great song. I'll post it in the soundtrack section of this blog in a day or two. Roman Candle is more like a country band from the 40s than a rock band. The songwriting is gorgeous. The voices aren't like radio voices. I appreciate both very much.

It's been hot here in Iowa. But I sweardagod the minute Skip Matheny picked up his guitar, the sun began to set and we felt the first cool breeze of fall. He played that song I mentioned up there, and dedicated it to my family and the Peug. Zadie and I sang along quietly with him. His wife, Timshel, came out and harmonized in between keeping an eye on their kids, who were running around like nuts with the rest of the short set inside.

The cicadas were droning. The night was just about chilly. There was cold beer and delirious kids and smiles on faces all around. I was so happy in those moments—you know the kind. Grateful to be here. Infinitely thankful for what was going on around me. That big swelling of the soul.

I'll leave you with some song lyrics (I'll try to post the song, too. Let me know if it works–WordPress and me don't quite get along yet. Don't click til you've read the lyrics, because I think it'll bounce to a new page.). For me, it's about gratitude and love. I hope something you need is in here, too. With thanks to Timshel and Skip Matheny.

I WAS A FOOL

Out in the evening past the bridge and below

frogs and cicadas left and right growling low.

I've spent so much time round here when spring is done

been here a thousand times, not heard a single one.

Birds in the morning while I'm shoveling the snow

coffee pot wheezing soft as my stereo

All of the things I've had whether I've known or not

All of the things I've known and then somehow forgot

When I was young riding around

beer in my lap, one window down

bird in the tree, kiss on the mouth

I thought that I had figured it out

I was a fool. Then I met you.

Dusk was the longest hour when I was a kid.

Beautiful things sometimes can seem pretty hid.

Funny the things that make you want to walk the land

are the things sometimes you barely understand.

Found lots of crooked road before I found you

hard to curse any road but sometimes you do.

Feeling all strung out, drawn up from head to gut

I was calling out, I didn't know for what

When I was young riding around

beer in my lap, one window down

bird in the hand, kiss on the mouth

I thought that I had figured it out

All of these things so hard to find

up in my face, lost to my mind

hand on the knee, kiss in the mouth

I thought that I had figured it out

I was a fool.

 

 

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