Glory Ho

November was a hard month for us. Because Scarlett, dear, you are a puzzle and sometimes Daddy and I don’t feel like we even have all the pieces, let alone know where to put them. But when you started crying inconsolably every day around 5:30, we knew it was time to trash the Dr. Sears book and start taking charge of our schedule. So we read the Baby Whisperer and Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child and we made it rain in your room and broke in the crib and plugged in the monitor and bought a couple dozen pacifiers and wrote it all down in your 1000 Days Journal. We rocked and sang and swayed together. Day by day. We just took it day by day.

Everyone kept telling me to follow my instincts but I gotta tell ya, my instincts and I have always had a complicated relationship. We’re just such different animals. I’m looking for all this approval and feedback, while my instincts are always insisting on this pesky independence. It’s a drag.

And then one day, I took you to the Sheridan DMV to get Daddy’s Volvo plates. Remember? It was the same day we pulled over to nurse in the McDonalds parking lot and the same day I drug you into Burlington Coat Factory to find socks that would stay on your feet. And as the cart rolled like a train across the parking lots toward the filth of low-income Colorado, your eyes seemed to outgrow your face as they looked up at me with innocence and fear and confusion. But I was scared, too. I realized that you would always be looking up at me for the answers and what was i going to do when i didn’t know them?

Ann LaMott says that motherhood is a scary business and if you’re not careful, you can trip off into this Edgar Allan Poe feeling of otherness. She’s pretty spot-on with that. Ann also says to ask people for help. I have. I do. But it turns out there’s a lot going on inside my head. Gender roles and self-loathing and ego monsters and more guilt than I’ever witnessed in one of life’s little intersections.

One morning as you stared into my soul, I reached for a link. You know, the blessings from my baby shower. This one was from Eva. It said: “Andrea, may you come to know that every choice you make with love, as a parent, is completely perfect.” And I kissed your little eyebrows and I knew it would be okay.

Then, that first weekend in November, your Great Grandma Enright passed away and Mommy really had to pull it together.

After crying into my robe the morning Grammy called, I knew that I had to go back with you in my arms. To beam new life into the stillness of death. So I carried you in your sling and nursed you through the take-off and landing and put you under my arm like a happy little basketball to meet Papa at the gate.

One day I will tell you about the farm where he grew up. About the green glass chalice full of mail and the phases of the moon on the Whiteside County Bank calendar. How Papa’s baby picture was the only photo I ever saw on Great Grandma’s dresser. How she always knew the White Sox line up by heart. Sometime, I will tell you about Great Grandma Enright’s mother, Mae Gainey and how she died just a month after giving birth to her only daughter. How Great Grandma grew up without a mom. And when I do, I hope that you will find it hard to imagine life without me.

Love,
Mommy

I had decided to drive home for Christmas. And once I put all those images of me stranded in a cornfield and then approached and kidnapped by Asgrow O’s Gold-logo’ed-mesh-hatted trucker in a locked drawer at the back of my head, it started to sound like the perfect idea. There would be pit-stops at interstate-side Subways with slow customer service. Cheap Caseys gas at the Mall of the Bluffs.  The home of Marion Morrison and the bridges of Madison county waving me on.  Signs for camping at Exit 25.   Country countdowns with Bob Kingsley. The icy Mississippi just a few feet over the edge of the I-80 bridge.

Some people find this drive one of the worst in America.  But I have found that while its so easy to see the snow-sprinkled poetry in the craggy peaks and canyons of the West, a place where image overcomes imagination, the Midwest calls for more work. It takes an ear for a story and a deeper life lens to sift through the wheat, corn and clapboards of the plains. This land made me who I am. It is my friend.  And I am secretly sweetened by the fact that it remains largely unchanged.

At home, however, while the soft corners of my hometown’s collage looked just like they always did–memories that aren’t meant to ever pass away–most everything else had changed. And at every counter, out every window, in every closet, I would undoubtedly find suddenly-grown children, a pasture no longer empty, drawers with items I didn’t recognize.  I needed that 12 hours to go home at my own pace. To watch the gradual shift from clear sticks of sun to a soft white haze. For the same reason walking the seventeen blocks from Christopher Street Station to Madison Square helps you understand New York City so much better than a subway ride, I needed to drive these roads myself.

So I filled up my Craig’s List Ford on the 19th, and in a 15 hour pocket between unpredictable ice storms, like a pioneer turning ’round, I drove back to my past.

Home was all I hoped it would be. This is significant. Because over the years, I have come to appreciate the longing and the anticipation of what’s to come rather than the object of my desire. As Rebecca Solnit says in the Field Guide to Getting Lost, “If you can only look across the distance without wanting to close it up, if you can own your longing in the same way that you own the beauty of that blue. . .”

Perhaps this strategy, which I learned from being away so long, eases your expectations.  When I stayed overnight in Omaha, after I met dear Betty and Owen, but before I saw Warren Buffet’s house, my friend Patrick also presented a wise gem. He said he’d learned to “accept love however people show it”. I thought that was important.

I made the return trip in just one day, perhaps needing a little less transition time as I headed back to the future or perhaps just eager to get back to my Michael. I lived in the present, marveling at the signs and communication that American infrastructure provides, admiring the cattle’s self-constructed still life, driving into the Colorado sunset and wondering what sign would appear on Ella Pierce Turner.

It was a +.

Growing up, my Mom taught me that going the extra mile meant giving the extra gift. So I selected souvenirs on trips and kept emergency items in the guest bedroom drawers. You never knew when a silver duck-head wine opener or a pear-scented candle set might be right. A small gift, she said, was a perfect demonstration of gratitude, celebration or sympathy. She was right.

When we joined the Peace Corps, I was forced to downsize. I found some small stones engraved with inspiration and slipped those inside stylish cards with a carefully constructed message. This became enough. When we left on this trip, Michael put his foot down. On my gifts. There was no room for rocks or cards, no matter how poetic. So I set out empty handed on a journey which depended (almost daily) on the kindness of strangers. It made me nervous.

But through her own example, my Mother also taught me to give of my time. My moment. Despite a ridiculous daily schedule, her energy was infinite. To friends, kids, sewing ladies or bank clerks, and especially us, she listened. Oh, how she listened. With the deftness of a lifelong fisherman and the sincerity of a lifelong confidante, she slowly drew secrets, doubts and ambitions out of everyone’s sea of issues, then sent bottles of encouragement and stars of approval toward their horizon.

While I think I picked up my Mother’s talent for bargains and thoughtfulness and I do have an inherent interest in others, I’ve never possessed her patience.

But travel has rescued me again. For one, it’s softened my schedule, sanding away the gritty necessity of hourly accomplishment. It’s also kept me away from Target, so I could pack my trunk with time instead of stuff, at least for a little while.

We are now frequently in the home of a local. We accept recommendations, rice, tea, sheets, tahina and hot water on a regular basis. I have often twisted with (perhaps knee-jerk) discomfort when I know we have nothing tangible to leave behind. Yet that feeling is slowly dissipating. I think because upon our frequent departure, I sense that the hearts of those around me are already full. That to have been there, giving of my moments, has been enough. That by listening to an organic farmer explain her methods or by hugging her child or by helping her bring in the laundry, I am giving of myself, just as my mom has always done. Or at least, I’m trying.

Maybe that’s the best kind of gift, after all. Because unlike some American flag magnet, which gets kicked under the fridge, you’re giving something that lasts.

Thanks Mom. Happy Birthday

I’ll never forget the night my brother Dustin took over.

It seems so silly now, our fear. But at the time it was very real. Mom and Dad, soft and sparkling, not much older than myself at this moment, had gone out for the night. We were watching TV. My youngest brother Philip sucked his thumb beside us. Our home wasn’t old enough to speak unless spoken to, so when we heard more than a few floorboards creak above us, we assumed my parents were home. When their voices never came, and the creaking continued, we hovered with uncertainty near the foot of the stairs in a makeshift meeting. But the plush pink carpet on the landing, the soft light of the smoked-glass chandelier and the familiar curve of the wrought iron banister didn’t calm us. This was exactly where scary movie scenes took place.

I was the oldest at 12. But it was Dustin who eventually led us all upstairs, where he swept up the bedskirt of the guest room to prove that nothing but wrapping paper rolls hid beneath, flew open the closet door to show us that my mother’s evening dresses stood alone and flipped on every light-switch to expose the emptiness of the living room. He was right of course. No one was in the house.

Later, he confessed how scared he had been. But he’d fooled me by flinging his fear aside and moving forward. I was grateful.

The name Dustin means “valiant fighter” and this describes my brother very well. While my heart tends to build nest after nest neatly upon my sleeve, Dustin has always tucked it away in the lining of his armor, ready for skillful negotiations, peacemaking and poker. Growing up, he excelled at every sport, was a natural leader and made more trips to the emergency room than Philip and I combined. He is a hunter and a defender. Drying tears is a tall order for him, but he’d risk his own life to save mine (and others) in an instant.

Today, Dustin conducts his life with the calm of a ship captain and the determination of a madman. Officially, he is a regional safety specialist for TransCanada, runs his own business and saves lives as part of the volunteer fire department. Unofficially, he is a gardener, football player, husband, canine master and community leader.

And on May 22nd, he became a father.

Garrett Stephen Enright emerged from his fetal slumber into he and his wife, Christine’s arms, instantly inheriting the noble qualities of them both. In fact, the name Garrett means “strength of a spear”.

It’s a big step, becoming a D-A-D. I have no idea how Dustin’s feeling about now. As we get older, disclosing fear gets a little harder. But he will take on this role as he has so many others. With bravery of the boy scout he’s been and the wisdom of the man he has become. This I know for sure.

About nine months ago, I rediscovered the satisfaction of catching a ball.

We were at the final Peace Corps retreat up in the mountains. I was playing a little catch with a couple volunteers after a glorious run up the switchbacks.

My stubby fingers fit neatly inside the leather, like so many hands before me. I felt the explosive sting as the ball connected with my wedding band through the mitt. Noticed the puff of protective skin form on the upper part of my palm. Remembered the walled-stance of fielding a grounder. Caught my mistake of starting with the right foot when in fact the left foot was a better idea for my right-handed throw.

Baseball was something my Dad taught me in Toby’s field across the railroad tracks from the Mississippi River. My grandfather was a die-hard White Sox fan–perhaps the only one in our Cub-crazy Illinois county–and my grandmother knew the names of Sox fielders and basemen, including one Lou Boudreaux. Today baseball means beer, people-watching and the cones of mashed potatoes they serve outside Coors Field. But the sport, not the big league event, was what interested my Dad. It mirrored his intensity, drive and preference for silence over idle chatter.

I hadn’t played catch, let alone been at bat in several years. Now, the sun was in my eyes. I was sweating. The gnats were swarming. Our triangle would reform slightly every time I missed. I was spinning in a self-inflicted trap of competition with myself. I ran after the ball, crawled in the bushes, desperate to continue the flow. I was alarmed, as I always have been (by a frisbee or football or an orange) every time the ball approached my face with growing speed. A moment of complete fear and panic before I gained the confidence to position my glove for a catch, then surprise myself with the force and fervor of my sometimes-on-target return throw. But I wanted to do well. High-flys. Line-drives. Grounders. Bouncers. Unexpected angles. I. Must. Catch. That. Ball.

The thing is, my partners David and Greg were two of the calmest people I knew. I could tell that they enjoyed the hypnotic and metronomic cadence of this whole thing. Throw and catch. Throw and catch. Throw and catch. They practically glowed with effortless concentration, their pitches forming two straight lines across the grass. Like my Dad, they were content to let the baseball do the talking.

Like my Dad, they didn’t mind when I missed.

But this was about more than just baseball. It was one summer after an anxious day of learning to water-ski that my Dad had pulled me aside for a talk along those same railroad tracks and said: You know, Andrea, you’re good at lots of things. You don’t have to be good at this. He knew that like he sometimes did, I was putting too much pressure on myself.

Over the years, I’ve accepted my lack of traditional, team sport athleticism and found alternatives in running and yoga.  Yet perhaps my Dad–as well as the dissipation of those self-loathing white caps within my own waves–are why I’m still up for a game of catch and ready to slog it out so I can do. . .not half bad.

But that day in Bulgaria, in case of an unexpected tsunami, and since my Dad was half the world away, the universe had arranged for two Buddhist angels of baseball to break down the bleachers of judges I had invented around me. I didn’t relax or anything. But I knew I had the option. And that, believe it or not, feels like a home run.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

Since we’ve let the United States, two years and six months ago to this very day, I realize that there’s three of us on this trip. Me, Michael and Sophia.

Sophia, as many know thanks to popular culture, stems from the Greek word for wisdom. Its root rests between suffixes and prefixes throughout the English language. Sophisticated means full of a certain kind of wisdom. Philosophy means in love and pursuit of wisdom. Sophomore means both wise and foolish.

Around five years ago, Michael was sitting in the comfy green chair of our past life, reading Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time, when he told me that Sophia was a biblical figure, said to be the personification of the feminine in God.

This was long before our decision to join the Peace Corps. But during our service, Sofia turned out to be the namesake of a city we called home for two years. In Beirut, Sophie is the generous, eccentric founder of Inma Foundation, for whom we built a website—the mother of Inma’s giving spirit. In Carnivale, an downloaded HBO series we’ve watched in many a dingy, freezing Arabian hotel room and a story which mirrors the nomadic lifestyle we’ve adopted, Sophie is the strong, fortune-telling character played by Clea Duvall. Recently, but before I realized this strange Sophia-ness, I purchased the book Sophie’s World, a novel of philosophy by Jostein Gaarder.

As you can see, we never get too far across a new border before her skirts find a way to twirl into our life.

So when our first niece, Sophia Louise, was born January 22nd, 2008 to Michael’s sister Meagan and her husband Ryan, we knew she was a gift from the universe . We will forever remember how we were sprawled across the world in search of the very wisdom her name embodies as she was born. And although we’re not there to hold her little pink hand at the moment, we promise to be the best Aunt and Uncle ever upon return. We love you, Sophia.

Four weeks ago:

“Hi, how are you?” (My 25 year old brother, Philip, in Arizona)

“Hey, what’s up!” (Me, in Bulgaria)

“Sucks. It’s 109 degrees in Arizona and the AC in our house is out.” (He lives with his dog, Castro, and Saudi Arabian roommate, Faisal, and perhaps a slough of other dogs. . I think they’re breeding. . .I can’t keep up . .)

“Oh my God!” (truly aghast, as I consider Arizona kind of like a different planet. . .and bewildered, why does he enjoy living in a place where where car door handles can cause third degree burns?)

“Yeah. So were staying in a hotel now.”

“Wow, well that’s good.” (expressing sincere relief as I abhor being hot and naively assume that this is necessary for sane survival).

***********************************************************

But since then, it’s been triple digit hot here too. For a few days, the weather actually lollygagged between 100 and 106. No AC. But its the walking around that kills me. That and the fact that most places do not offer AC either. I’m one of those people who starts to panic in high temps. I experienced my first hot flash at 19. . . . I can still remember running from the lecture hall during an advertising class. (Menopause should be interesting.) The hair dryer is now my enemy. Cooking is out of the question. I feel I’m being marinated by a massive turkey baster over and over again. And I keep thinking: if I could only appear sweaty but composed, like Sandra Bullock in A Time To Kill.

However, this is a terrific lesson in life tolerance for me–and good preparation for the Sudan. It’s remarkable how 92 can actually FEEL lik 82 when YESTERDAY was 102. I think I am still in awe that at a certain point, I don’t just faint. Even when its over 100 degrees, life just keeps going on (!!) And at some point, you get so wrapped up in finding the right tram or digging for your phone that you actually FORGET about the heat.

And. . .most importantly. . .while stepping outside honestly feels like I’m diving head first into a toaster oven, never once did I consider moving to a hotel.

Perhaps I am making progress as an RP (recovering princess).

I was half-watching a terribly cheesy movie the other night while cooking dinner. The heroine was in the backseat of a taxi as the driver swerved across one of New York’s bridges. And at that moment, this woman realized that the man on the motorcycle in the next lane was in love with her and that she was in love with him and that without a doubt, she needed the taxi to stop immediately so she could tell him about this epiphany and so they could then begin their life together, right then and there.

It was the crescendo of the film.

But you know what came to MY mind at this moment? Continue reading ‘Effortless Communication’

I’m warning you, this first part is cheesy.

On Christmas Eve, we hosted South Dakota Toni and Bulgarian Bobi over for a little holiday hootenany. Michael soaked, boiled and mashed beans for burritos. He made sweet and sour for margaritas and mashed hard, unripened avocado’s into guacamole. I combined eggs, sugar, vanilla and cream for egg nog. I went through an old Oprah magazine and cut out quotes and illustrations and letters to spell Merry Christmas on the wall. I hung fifty-stotinki strings of garland across the table and over the lamp. We exchanged gifts. One a piece. I wrapped everything using a glue stick. We were listening to Baby, It’s Cold Outside, a Rat Pack special. We even had a tiny little tree, our first ever.

In short, none of the things we would have done in Denver.

And I loved it.

(Okay, you can put down the crackers now.)

So why Mexican? Well, besides the fact that if I had to choose one snack for the rest of my life it would be chips, salsa and sour cream, Mexico and Bulgaria are actually somewhat similar. Not exactly twins, but perhaps sparring cousins from the same red, green and white striped dysfunctional family. Both are developing countries with high corruption and rich neighbors who vacation at their resorts. Both have a history of long-term occupation, fairly recent independence and are now quasi-functioning democracies with identity issues. Most relevant to our party, finally, is that Bulgarians and Mexicans are fond of the same food.

Tomatoes and peppers are a huge part of both national cuisines. In Bulgaria, bean soup and bean salad are staples. Refried beans, pinto beans, jumping beans, need I continue? Then there’s corn. Here, it’s all over pizza and served between bread as a deli sandwich. Mexican cornbread is lengendary. Of course, Mexican food is much better, mainly due to cumin, coriander, chili pepper and cilantro.

See? There is always a connection—a way to wrap it all up in a big burrito and make it taste good.

Thanks to my Mom’s, Lori’s, Emily’s and Erin’s supply of American-made ingredients. We couldn’t do it without you.

A few years ago, finding the phrase “Night Train to Bucharest” on a page in my planner would have sounded exotic. The idea of crossing the Danube River on a communist-constructed train tressle in the middle of the night would have inspired travel research and work on my Peace Corps essay.

Now it’s just what we’re doing on Friday. A plan for the weekend. And I need to stop and appreciate.

Maybe you, too, are doing something now that once seemed either:

a. impossible
b. crazy
c. unfathomable
d. all of the above

Maybe its being a parent, or owning a business or having a clean bill of health or becoming friends with your sister or being the proud owner of a scarf that you crocheted yourself. It can be anything. Really. The point is that you relish these moments right now, mundane as they may seem. The phone ringing, grocery shopping, picking up your son, decorating your mantle, whatever. Try to stop fixating on the future.

On Thanksgiving, I spoke to my family. What great moments these were, particularly with my Dad and my brother. While I frequently talk to my Mom, (she’s still my touchstone, even across the world), the guys were harder to catch. But now, trapped in the house, forced to sap and socialize, with no meeting to attend or customer to handle and at a complete loss for a legitimate escape, we fell into long conversations.

We chatted well into the morning, or rather, my morning. Increasingly impressive accomplishments with my father’s laptop, which he now keeps in the kitchen. Dustin spoke of ex-boyfriend sightings at the local tavern, along with children I used to baby-sit, who now have children of their own. He shared a little bit of his life–still a fearless leader, I see, building communities wherever he goes.

But then my Dad surprised me. After my whining regarding what I would do with the rest of my life, he encouraged me to focus on the now. A bit indirectly, but I’m pretty sure this was the point. My Dad was talking about his team, the Chicago Bears.

Back in 1985, I was only ten, but Dustin, Philip and I sat in front of our four channel television set with our babysitter, Jodi, specially-purchased candy bars in hand, ready to run to the phone lest William Perry score a touchdown, because they were giving away refrigerators at the local radio station. Nevermind that I didn’t understand the game. Excitement was in the air! Even now, I can strangely recall every verse to the Super Bowl Shuffle.

Ever since then, the team has been fairly unremarkable. But this year’s Bears finally have some buzz. Legitimacy can’t help but leak from their promising performances and fans feel like the rest of the country is watching with them. My Dad was thrilled.

But, he lamented, everyone (fans, critics, that guy named Boomer) keeps talking about the damn Super Bowl and how far they might go and blah, blah, blah. Instead, he said, we should be enjoying the wins! The Bears are Winning, he said. The Bears are Winning Right Now!

He’s right you know.

And it doesn’t matter if you care about football or not. Think big, but think now.

So the other day, in Bucharest, temperature roughly around 38 degrees (yes, I mean Fahrenheit!), we were at the palace of the former Romanian ruler Ceausescu. The one who was assassinated back in 1989. This building, which happens to be the second largest structure in the world (the first being the pentagon) resembled a dreary, rain-washed wedding cake, sorely in need of a happy couple. We’d received some wrong directions and somehow walked nearly the entire perimeter of its castle-white walls and still hadn’t found the entrance. Our feet were crampy. We were cold.

But these are the moments when Michael pulls out his bag of tricks. And his recent one involves telling me: Andrea! The bears are winning. Remember, the Bears are Winning Right Now!

I would prefer, of course, that he said the Broncos are Winning, but its too late. The phrase has stuck, so I’ll always be reminded of my Enright family loyalties!