This Old Thing

No one could ever accuse me of being a fashion queen. I’m pretty sure my sisters have considered seeking the help of the TV show What Not To Wear for my wardrobe. But clothes have never been my focus. I tend to keep my favorites for a long time and wear them to death. And moving, which we’ve done a few times,  is a perfect excuse to cull out all those things one never should have bought in the first place. When we packed,  my clothing took up very little space.

There is one article that has moved with me for about thirty years; one thing that I don’t think I can do without, and that symbolizes my family solidarity, my mother’s love, and thousands of opportunities to show that love to my own children. It’s an old thing, but a necessary one.

Back in the early eighties, my mother made aprons for my sisters and myself at Christmas time. They are constructed of a sturdy pink cloth, edged with white bias tape.  She took the time to applique a heart on the pocket, and each of our initials below the heart, so we’d remember who we are.

We are a family of cooks; good cooks, if I do say so. My mother fed our family of nine simple hearty meals, puncuated with homemade bread and rolls, always crowned with dessert of some sort; Pinwheel Cake, Chocolate Chip Blonde Brownies, Peanut Butter Blossoms, Hot Fudge Pudding. I don’t remember learning to cook, but I do remember spending hours in the kitchen with her; washing veggies, peeling potatoes, sifting flour and mixing cakes and cookies. I learned by doing, and carried on that education when I got married and we two youngsters had to actually come up with meals three times a day. I believe I’ve imparted some of that legacy to my daughter, who is an adventurous cook; and in a small way to my sons, who at least know how to scramble eggs or stir up a batch of pancakes.

My oldest sister has blessed hundreds, or maybe thousands, by serving as head cook at youth camps. She specializes in decorated cakes, but is good at everything. My next older sister loves to bake cupcakes and take them to the local food bank to give away. She studies cookbooks and introduces us to new delights. My youngest sister is an exciting cook because she’s fearless about sampling more exotic fare, such as Peanut Butter and Bacon Cookies. Imagine! My brothers share an interest in cooking, but they’ve had to manage without the pink aprons. And we’ve all lived in different states and regions of the country, which has helped open up a world of distinctive tastes.

Now, Oklahoma figures into this mix. My church gave me an Oklahoma cookbook and I began browsing through it. I saw one particular recipe and said to my husband, “Chocolate gravy?” His eyes grew very big and a look of anticipation lit up his face. I haven’t attempted that yet, but between enchiladas, tabouli and biscuits and gravy, a whole new dimension has been added to our menus.

Moving, whether it’s across town, or across the world, entails upheaval. We forget for a time all the familiar things, like who we are. Finding my way around a new kitchen doesn’t usually take me too long. So when we moved to Oklahoma, the kitchen boxes were unpacked first, my trusty Kitchenaid was set up, and the cupboards all organized. But making it feel like home was harder.

Then I looked at my old pink apron;  stained, worn and a little worse for the wear. It reminded me of my family and all we’ve shared around the table. It helped me remember that whether we’re together or the long miles separate us, we bear a common love and a persistent obsession that binds us together. I looked at this old thing, saw my initials on it, and I remembered…this is who I am. I unfolded it, put it on and began some of my most important work.

Those We Leave Behind

We've moved a lot. My daughter numbers it in the millions, but that was when she was tallying up all the factors that have aged me. I only look as if I've moved millions of times.  Still, I've found the most difficult thing by far about moving is not packing and unpacking, or closing and opening accounts, or even meeting new friends and learning my way around a new place. It’s the ones we leave behind.

The first move I remember was when I was a sophomore in high school. I was too young to recall any moves previous to that, so I was leaving my friends and classmates I’d been with since I started school. I moved from a tiny Maine town where I knew every student and every teacher and every neighbor, to a slightly larger town where I was anonymous and lost. I thought something was broken in me, I was so homesick.

When I married a preacher I thought I knew the kind of life that would entail. My father, a preacher’s kid, gently informed me of the challenges of ministry life. Still, I chose that man and that life. We've spent thirty-five years together thus far, moving around the country and overseas. I've become quite adept at sorting out, packing up and switching gears. But it’s increasingly difficult to move away and yet maintain the relationships that form through the years. So I've consistently looked for tools to help.

It used to be that people wrote letters when they were apart. One book I keep going back to is Letters of a Woman Homesteader by Elinore Pruitt Stewart. She was a young woman who lost her husband, went to Denver to support herself, and then moved in 1909 to Wyoming to work for a cattle man there. She ended up homesteading her own piece of land.  The fascinating story of her life is chronicled to a friend back in Denver. Her friendship with this woman remained firm because of such detailed correspondence.  My mother has letters I’ve written from Illinois, Nova Scotia, Maine, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, New Zealand, New Hampshire and now, from Oklahoma.  I think if she put them altogether it would fill a book; definitely not a fascinating best seller, but those letters have kept us connected through the long years of separation. Nevertheless, I’m thankful I don’t have to rely on that slower form of communication.

When we decided to move ten thousand miles away to the southern hemisphere, it was understood that we wouldn't be back for four years. That was a daunting challenge, but a new cutting edge tool was just starting to emerge and we were able to send e-mails through a server called CompuServe.  We had fifteen contacts and we felt like we WERE the future! When our oldest son moved back to the States before we did, it was like being part of a sci-fi movie to chat with him online, in real time, without the crippling cost of long distance phone calls.

My daughter and her family live back in Maine, as do my parents, siblings, in-laws, co-workers and previous church friends. This has been a difficult move, to leave all of them behind. I don’t know how I could bear it if it weren't for Skype, e-mail and Facebook…oh, and that old device called a telephone.  I’m thankful for these technologies that help keep those ties strong and sure over the miles and months that separate us. As much as I admire those in earlier centuries who could wait months for some word or news of their loved ones, I’m so grateful that I have numerous resources for keeping in touch. We commit our loved ones to God’s care every day, and then we go on Facebook just to make sure they’re okay!

When we were transplanted overseas, I made an unspoken decision to keep my feelings to myself.  I wasn't going to love the people we met and worked with, so I tried to hold myself aloof.  My reasons: I knew it would hurt again if we had to leave.  But, surprise! They wooed me and won my heart and I fell hard for them.  I learned then that loving is worth the risk of pain. I've decided to risk my heart, wherever we go, because I’d rather know and love and miss the ones I leave behind, than consider my life without them.  

Lost

A few years ago, my daughter and I took a trip to Texas. We relied heavily on a GPS to get us there and it steered us quite handily through Scranton, PA, Nashville, TN and on across the Mississippi River. However, when we entered the state of Texas, our GPS – let’s call her English Emily – started to become a little confused. Texas has roads that started out as farm-to-market roads, or FM routes. English Emily completely misunderstood and started telling us to follow “Federated States of Micronesia” routes to get to our destination. We had a good laugh, and wondered how English Emily could get it so wrong.

Right now, however, I can sympathize with English Emily. My internal compass is broken. When I look at a map and see where I am, it all makes sense. But when I try on my own to figure out how I’m situated, it’s a muddle. And I never really had this problem, even when we lived in the Southern Hemisphere. In Maine, I knew right where I was. I could tell by looking at the lake which way the wind was blowing, and didn’t need to look at the sun to calculate which way was north.

Part of the issue is a difference in communicating directions. In Maine, you go right or left, up or down and even though foreigners (from Massachusetts and such) get confused, we know that down means whichever direction you took. If you say you went down to Bangor, it was understood that you went west to get there. In fact, you go down to get most anywhere in Maine. But I’m learning that Oklahomans are much more precise.

I was at a basketball game, at half time. I heard some people in front of us talking about how to get someplace. The gentleman told his friend, you go right on such and such route. His wife shook her head and said matter-of-factly, “South.” And it was all cleared up. The points of the compass seem to be taught in kindergarten or even installed at birth, like a genetic GPS. People at our church talk about sitting on the south or north side of the sanctuary. Some acquaintances were talking about their lovely neighbor to the north. A friend asked which side of Route 48 we live on, and I had to stop and think, okay, is it right or left?  Rather than appear stupid, I told her the name of the street, and she immediately said, “Oh, east.” How did she know that?

We drove to see family in Texas at Thanksgiving, and we went the complete opposite direction than I thought we would. “Oh,” I exclaimed. “This is south?” My husband showed great forbearance and didn’t sigh. My son tried to help. “Just look at the sun to figure out where you are.” For me there’s a whole equation that has to be figured, like algebra – which is inscrutable – before I know where I am. I start with the basics - the sun rises in the east, the sun is on my left, it’s still before noon,  that means we’re going south. However, if there’s a cloud cover I’m lost. 

I really don’t why I feel so off balance. Moving is very stressful, and although I don’t feel particularly stressed I guess it’s taking me awhile to get my bearings. Gradually my place here in the mid-west is coming clear and my compass is swinging true. I doubt I’ll ever develop that innate “knowing” that Oklahomans have. But, especially now at the end of the year, when folks naturally stop, look back, look forward and set goals, I have a plan. In the Bible, the Apostle Paul advised, “Press on toward the goal…” and I’m going to press on. If you ask me in what direction that is, I can unequivocally answer…ahead.

Thank You, Dear Oklahoma

I was lost on my way to Maine from Massachusetts, where we had lived for a short while. I don’t really know how it happened, but this being before the days of the GPS,  I got on the wrong route and ended up going through downtown Boston. If this has ever happened to you, you know it’s not a very comfortable feeling. Unlike this very sensible Midwest, there are no straight paths or clear signs in Boston; no numbered streets or square grids. Not only was the traffic zipping along at what I felt was a dangerous pace, but I was being bullied, threatened and frightened by those with whom I shared the road. It’s been said that Massachusetts drivers are the most aggressive drivers in the country and I’m the one that said it! I was blessed to get behind someone just as timid as me, who gradually drove right out of the city and north to sanity.

In Rhode Island I remember being the lead car in a line of about six drivers who were in a very pressing hurry to get…somewhere, but it was a densely populated city street so I was going the speed limit. With all the tailgating going on, I felt like a junior high student experiencing some weird form of peer pressure and was relieved when I finally came to a stop light. My relief turned to astonishment when the woman directly behind me squeezed around on my right and levered herself in front of me so she could get ahead. I resisted a sudden impulse  to react like a junior high student.

While driving some friends through the heart of New York City, my husband had the audacity to change lanes and get in front of a garbage truck at a light. The driver of the truck rolled down his window and threw a water bottle at the windshield of our car. Our friends from New Zealand laughed out loud at the brazen show of New York ire.

New Hampshire, our stomping grounds for about eight years, is a close rival in the Scariest Place to Drive contest. This is where our youngest learned to drive, and that was when my hair started going gray. My husband almost lost his life on a motorcycle on the turnpike there and gave up his bike because of it. So, much of my adult driving life has been one of bewilderment and disbelief at the way some people operate on the road. And I haven’t even mentioned business man who couldn’t be bothered to stop at a stop sign, consequently knocking over our son as he rode his bike home from school. 

My driver’s education teacher back in Central Aroostook High School taught us to drive defensively, but cautioned against using the vehicle as a weapon. Too many people, it seems, missed that class.

Imagine my relief when I found, the further west I got, the better the driving conditions. It took a little while to realize, but like the sweet oil dripping down Aaron’s beard, so is the attitude of the driving population here.  Even the young men in their big trucks don’t scare me. So, thank you, dear Oklahoma, for being such sweet drivers. Thank you for actually stopping at the four way stops, and for not laying on the horn if someone is a little slow out of the gate. Thank you for signaling when you turn or change lanes. Thank you for staying off my tail, and for waiting until it’s safe to pass. You have my gratitude for driving carefully when it’s icy, and for slowing down for construction and for acting like thoughtful, sane adults.  I’m sure you don’t even realize, unless you’ve been to Boston, how well-behaved you are. But take it from a grateful New Englander, and don’t go trying to prove me wrong.

Dreaming

I get the feeling that around here a white Christmas is neither anticipated nor dreamed of. Judging from recent events, Oklahomans don’t really care for snow. I saw a plow truck with its hopper filled with sand, but it was very tentative about using the plow or the sand. There I was, a Mainer enjoying a little bit of Maine-like winter and everyone appeared to be…let’s say - put off by it. I don’t think people want any more snow.

I grew up where you measured winter in feet of snow and months of cold. A Christmas without snow was unheard of. If it happened, we felt very uncomfortable, our internal barometers knocked off kilter. We went to school in blizzards in northern Maine, and dressed in so many layers of protection that we always made sure to go to the bathroom before going outside. I remember one year when they closed school early because a snowstorm started while we were there.  By the time the school bus made it out to our house in the country, the driver had to carry my little sister to our door because the snow was too deep for her to push through it. I’m used to snow, especially at Christmas time.

But not to worry. I’ve done this before. We spent four years in New Zealand. Southeast of Australia, New Zealand is in the southern hemisphere and December is in summer there. Not even a chance of snow! Our first Christmas there we went with friends to have a picnic on the beach, complete with mutton sausage and a swim in the Pacific. We spent subsequent Christmas breaks visiting Hot Sands Beach where you can dig down through the sand to hot water springs, making your own little spa; we swam in  Lake Taupo (some of us – it’s an icy volcanic lake); and went to Kareotahi, a beach of sand on the Tasman Sea that is as black as coal. I found that if you’re on a white sand beach and you squint hard enough, it almost looks like snow.

I would show our friends there pictures of our winters in New England, and I swear, in their eyes was kindled a little look of longing. They really wanted to experience that kind of Christmas. However, when my husband traveled in Africa and showed some gentlemen a picture of our house in winter, they were horrified. “You must pray,” they insisted, “that God change your weather.” We humans judge the norm by our own experiences. So I know that my “white Christmas” dreaming is very subjective.

We've been blessed to have such a variety of Christmas experiences. The snowy ones, for me, evoke a sense of nostalgia and rightness, but the beachy ones were other-worldly and great fun. I know now that Christmas will come to pass, whether white or green or golden brown. With the new friends we've made here, and the great love they've shown us, more than ever I realize it’s what Christmas means more than how it looks that’s important. I’m OK with that. I promise not to pray for more snow, but you will forgive me, I hope, if when it happens, you see a little smile on my face.

The Journey

Bouncing along in the cab of a 26 foot U-Haul somewhere in Ohio, I wonder, not for the first time, if we’ll ever get there.  We are accustomed to quick and easy. This journey is neither, relatively speaking.  Just when you think you’re coming to the end of Illinois, there’s more Illinois.  When you can’t bear to see another corn field, there is a slight (very slight) variation (World’s Largest Wind Chimes) followed by more cornfields.

But then I think of the early travelers to Oklahoma and I feel a rush of gratitude for this bouncing cab and air-conditioned comfort.

The first of many land runs to Oklahoma was in 1889 when thousands hoped to stake a claim on a little piece of this earth. But long before that people were crossing the country looking for something different, something better, something good. They came to stay or to pass through, but those early pioneers made a commitment when they set out in their covered wagons.

These were not built for comfort.  No engineers studied the design and extrapolated weight times length of journey divided by conditions of the road.  Purely utilitarian, they were the RVs of their day, carrying the food, medicine and clothing they would need for the journey, while providing dubious shelter from all kinds of weather extremes.

People mostly walked along beside these covered wagons because of the said comfort level.  There were no hotels to check into at night when they were exhausted; no restaurants where they could order a scrumptious hot meal; no protection from the dangers of the road other than their own quick wits, quick draw or God’s mercy. Those dangers could include wild animals, accidents, breakdowns, illness, other people, weather, and losses that led to starvation and death. 

None of these things really cross my mind as we set out from Maine with all the food, medicine and clothing we need for our journey, and to set up housekeeping in a new and different place. I have no fear of attacks from wild animals or wild people. I doubt  we’ll have an accident, and if we suffer a breakdown we ‘re covered.  Protected from the weather, with our box packed with bread, peanut butter and Doritos it is doubtful we will starve.

But as we are making our way across New England, to Niagara Falls, then down along Lake Erie, through Ohio, Illinois, Indiana, Missouri, reality is getting closer and more…well, real.  Like those who came for a little bit of something to call their own, we are here with a settled purpose.  In this economy, in dire circumstances, you do things you never thought you’d do.  I’m not talking about a life spiraling down into prostitution, or exchanging secrets with foreign governments (although I might have to tell the Governor of Maine about fried pie) but we have pulled up roots again to make a new life in a place far,far away called Oklahoma. Will we be okay?

Nearing the end of our journey, I realize something. Every town, every home - whether on the banks of a swiftly moving river, or perched on the edge of a mountain; whether nestled in amongst the trees of a forest or standing alone in the middle of a vast prairie – is someone’s destination.  Someone can’t wait to get there, and there’s a reason for that.  Our destination is home to so many that love it. I wonder, double-minded person that I am, if I can too.

As we pull into the parking lot to empty our truck, under heat that might dissolve us Northerners, a crew of people meets us.  We are not alone in this daunting, sweaty, exhausting task.  And before we begin, one lady gives me a hug, calls me “Sweetie” and turns to heft my writing desk.  I swallow hard, blink back tears and think to myself, “We’ll be okay in OK.”

Jiminy Cricket

In the Disney movie “Pinocchio”, the character Jiminy Cricket is a friendly, helpful and wise being who aids Pinocchio on his journey to become a real boy.  He is fully clothed, uses a monocle and a cane.  He looks kind of green and has a friendly grin.

I come from Maine, where the crickets are also friendly, kind of furtive creatures who occasionally get into your house and sing a scratchy song.  They’re supposed to be good luck, and you can buy huge brass versions of them if you can’t get them to come in person to shed their luck about.  Sometimes in the cool of the evening, when the sun has slipped below the horizon and the winds have died down, you can hear crickets calling to each other through the twilight.

We have other bugs in Maine: mosquitoes, blackflies, minges, horse and deer flies.  The mosquitoes come in hordes in spring, right after the blackflies have wearied us with their omnipresence.  We know enough to defend ourselves when we go out.  The horse and deer flies stay in the woods, except if you happen to go swimming and then they magically appear over the water and only get discouraged by frantic splashing. We Mainers know how to handle our bugs.  We even celebrate and boast about them with jokes about blackfly festivals and the state bird of Maine being the mosquito.

Now I’ve moved to the Midwest and, Jiminy Cricket, nobody warned me about the bugs! When we went walking in the cool (relatively speaking) of the evening, at first I thought…blessed Lord, no mosquitoes…no blackflies, no minges.  I was free of bug dope, and free of bugs!  Until I heard a humming sound, and saw, far off at first, then very quickly closer, what I thought was a small bird.  A hummingbird to be precise.  But then it landed on my husband’s back and it was a horsefly!!  ARRGGHH!  I almost called 911, but he said “Hit it!” and I did.  When it fell to the ground I pulverized it with my walking stick, disgusted and trembly.

Why do I carry a walking stick?  Because said husband saw a tarantula before I ever got here!! Double arggh!  I’ve been spared that sight so far, (update: have seen one with my own two eyes now - was not happy about that) but between the cringing and flinching whenever I hear a horsefly, and the constant scrutiny for tarantulas on the road, I figured I’m burning twice or thrice the calories on our walks.

But back to the crickets… being new to Oklahoma, we went exploring in a suburb of Tulsa.  Walking outside in a plaza near a movie theatre, we realized there were masses of crickets along the walls of the buildings.  We edged closer to the other side of the sidewalk, the side that’s not protected from the crazy hot sun, because there were so many of them.  These crickets were not fully clothed, green, smiling or friendly.  They were big and black, with long barbed back legs that we knew were strong enough to jump up, perhaps onto a person.  We went to another plaza and, to our dismay, there were even more.  Inside a furniture store we could hear them, signaling to each other.  I almost sat down on a couch when just in time I saw that black cricket, waiting for me, right where my head would have been. Outside again, we saw them crawling up the storefronts, rather like little Zombies attempting to get over the walls of Jerusalem in World War Z.

What is going on?  What do they want from us? One or two crickets squeeze into the house and creep around the room, silent and waiting. I know they don’t bite but frankly I feel a bit menaced by such mysterious and inexplicable behavior.  Give me a buzzing mosquito focused on my blood any day over an inscrutable black cricket who just won’t declare his intentions.