Family Moment

 

These family photos were taken on the final day of our summer vacation at the cabin on Sweet Lake, less than a month before dropping Sam off at the University of Minnesota in the Twin Cities for his first year of college. It was a bittersweet respite, with Sam struggling to "be with" us while trying to stay in contact via sketchy WIFI with his friends. I was sad that I couldn't get him or Tom out to kayak with me on the lake more, a sacred ritual for me. On the water I watched the loons guiding their chick, reminded of my similar role as Sam's mother. I am conflicted by my fear of that ending while excited for his new beginning. 

"If not now, when?"

Hillel's teaching played through my mind as I stood on the platform of the first tower of the high ropes course at Wolf Ridge Environmental Learning Center. I had spent the morning guiding fourth graders through the process of switching safely from the first ropes event to the next. Now, I needed to decide whether to traverse four more events then ride a zip line to the ground, or retreat along a familiar wooden bridge back to the ropes course entry.

The day before, I had retreated, content with the accomplishment of having spent three hours on a platform 25 feet off the ground. As a college student 30 years ago, I had acquired a strong fear of heights while standing on a hang gliding platform in the Cumberland Mountains. Only once had I challenged that fear when, as a newspaper reporter, I climbed a fire spotter's tower in northern Wisconsin for a story.

I was pretty confident I could do the course's two log events. But it was the web and wire bridge before me that gave me pause and the single wire later on that gave me concern. Would I be able to get back up onto that single wire if I fell off and was dangling? Best not to think about that too much.

My inspiration lay in the children who had crossed my tower earlier in the day. My son Sam completed the course fully focused, slowly and deliberately, Peter, who is limited in mobility, went across in a special harness attached to his Dad. Grace, who quit after the first station, decided to try again. As Grace neared the end of the wire and web bridge, our instructor Carrie asked the question I had been contemplating all morning. Did I want to head back to the entry or "do" the course?

I'm already up here, I thought, standing at the edge of the tower, looking out over the "rainbow bridge," admiring the view of Lake Superior and the birch, aspen and pine treetops. When will I ever have this chance again?

I chose to "do" the course. "Sam, may I switch my first carabiner?" I called down to my son and self-appointed ground partner. After safely switching my second, I stepped purposefully out onto the wire. A big rush of adrenaline carried me more than half-way across. I paused when the wind caused the bridge to shake and buckle. I realized how much my leg muscles were shaking. Determined, I pushed out on the two waist-high wires to steady the bridge and continued walking. The last five steps up to the tower seemed hardest. But once there, I knew I wasn't going back.

The next challenge, walking across two logs while pushing my harness ahead of me, was a piece of cake. I waited on the third tower while Grace finished the single wire and switched ahead. I looked back and saw Jeana, the adult who had manned the second tower, coming across the logs. To turn back now meant I would only have the encouragement and guidance of my 10-year-old ground partner to get me back to the ropes course entry.

The single wire proved most challenging. I had to pull out  my harness straps for balance as I stepped across a single wire suspended 25 feet in the air. Thankfully, the wire was much shorter than the one on the rainbow bridge. I was breathing heavily by the time I reached that fourth tower, my legs and arms shaking. Although I wanted desperately to feel solid planking under my feet, it took great effort to take those last few steps.

Walk across one more log to the zip line tower and I'm home free, I thought.

Attached to the zip line, all I had to do was jump off the tower. Home free? What was I thinking? I decided to sit and edge off instead. Buoyed by the chanting of my son and his friends on the ground below, "Let go Mom, let go Mom," I took the plunge.

My sensation of fear switched to incredible freedom once the free-fall stopped and the line caught. I rode to the steps overwhelmed by the awesomeness of what I had just accomplished.

Tis the season

I rushed out of synagogue to attend my son's "holiday" concert yesterday. "I'm going to go listen to my son sing "We Are Santa's Elves," I apologized to a congregant who had just arrived. "That's OK," he said. "In New York, we used to joke that it was the Jews who knew all the words and kept all of the Christmas carols in tune."

I arrived early, securing a seat in the fifth row. I saw on the program that my son's class was third in line to sing and planned an early exit. Then I remembered that one of my fourth-grade Hebrew school students had asked if I was going to the concert. Her class came on right after my son's. "No problem," I thought, just a bit more time.

The third-graders were second in line to sing. I picked out a boy from my son's bus stop. Then I spotted another of my religious school students in the group. I ran through a mental checklist of my students, realizing I should probably stay to hear the kindergarteners too, the next to the last group.

I sat bemused by the irony of being a Jewish school principal proudly listening to her Jewish students sing Christmas songs.

Finally the fifth graders! Knowing my only fifth graders go to schools in Two Harbors and western Duluth, I confidentally stood up to make my "early" exit. Wouldn't you know it. They were the group singing the only Hanukkah song.

Ahhhhh?

There's nothing like sinking into a tub full of hot water to relax and get away from the stress of motherhood -- until you realize you poured in your son's bubble bath instead of your own.

In today's mail

A postcard arrived in the mail today from the Minnesota Department of Agriculture issuing notice that an aerial application of a biological insecticide to slow the spread of the gypsy moth will occur in my area the week of June 13.

Seems a tad late, considering yesterday's posting.

A month full of firsts

Three weeks ago...

• My husband started teaching at a college again,
• My son started kindergarten,
• I opened my school and started teaching Hebrew

...all during the start of the Jewish High Holidays.

We're still recovering from the flurry of activity and stress.

Happy Birthday Grandma Edna

My son lost his second tooth tonight, on his Grandma Edna's 80th birthday.

He bumped into me while we were dancing to the theme song of Peter Gunn.

If you recall from an earlier post, he lost his first tooth at his Grandma Diane's birthday party a couple of weeks ago.

Apparently, he wanted to make both of his grandmothers' birthdays special.

I better go check our calendar for the date of Grandma Lee's birthday. (She's our neighbor next door.)

Bad guys

I wanted my son to be Haman for Purim. He's the bad guy who wears a black tri-cornered hat after which the pastry hamantaschen is fashioned. Everytime his name is mentioned on Purim, people boo, hiss and rattle their groggers.

I brought home the hat and black tunic from our religious school's costume bin and excitedly showed them to my son. He burst into tears at the suggestion that he dress up as Haman.

"Mommy, I don't want to be the bad guy," he cried, tears of despair running down both cheeks. "I really, really don't want to be the bad guy."

"We can talk about this tomorrow," I reassured him, as bedtime was drawing near. Next morning, my son plaintively called me into his room. "Mom," he said, from his bed. "I just don't want to be the bad guy."

Looking at the clock, I realized I had about 35 minutes to pull together an alternate costume and get myself dressed before I headed off to synagogue to set up for the carnival. My husband would need to manage this one.

I dug into my son's outgrown clothing box and last year's Halloween costumes and came out with some options, then handed the affair over to my husband. I opted to dress myself as the evil Haman.

When my son arrived at the Purim carnival, he proudly showed me his pirate costume. With his black eye patch, bandana, torn clothing and sword, I couldn't help but marvel at how good of a bad guy he made.

To sanctuary

A sign hangs on a door in the basement of Chester Park United Methodist Church. "TO SANCTUARY" it reads in crisp blue letters on a background of white.

On election days, one of four election judge stations is set up directly across from this sign.

I really appreciate that the sign doesn't say, "TO THE SANCTUARY."

It's fun to to contemplate all of the possible "sanctuaries" that could be behind that door.

Roots

The bike trail in my home town of Glen Dale, W.Va., tools along the Ohio River for about 3 miles to Moundsville, W.Va., the town where my mother and father both grew up. The trail ends at a boat launch under a highway bridge, construction of which took my father's childhood home.

It was a grand old home with 12-foot-high ceilings, pocket doors into the parlor and dining rooms, a built-in china cabinet that extended from floor to ceiling, a large main stairway, a narrow back stairway out of the kitchen, built-in benches and fully paneled walls in the entry and a wooden mantlepiece around the parlor fireplace.

Every time my husband and I ride the trail, I bemoan the loss of my grandmother's and grandfather's home. I wish I could have shared it with my husband and son, even moreso, I wish they could have met my grandmother.

On this summer's trip to West Virginia, I learned something new about my family history, thanks to my brother's presence. He had taken his wife for a tour around Moundsville to show her the sights, which included the home of my grandfather's parents. My great-grandparents lived two blocks down from my grandparents in an even older home that still stands.

The next time we biked the trail, my husband and I stopped to take photos of the home on the corner of 14th Street and Lockwood Avenue. I wondered what it was like when Michael and Mary Novel lived there.

Warning

I took my son to the doctor for his annual check-up on Friday. He got a clean bill of health, a lollipop and a flu shot.

I got the flu.

It literally laid me flat for the extended Labor Day weekend. My accomplishments over those three days: filled three plastic grocery bags full of used tissues, read the fifth Harry Potter book, took a shower, managed to croak out one chapter of Charlotte's Web to my son.

My advice this flu season: Stay away from those doctor's offices. And a special thanks to my husband for being Mommy and Daddy the entire weekend.

More on fighting city hall

In all fairness, I received a call from a police officer today regarding the recently assessed late fees on my husband's parking ticket. (See One good reason not to live in Duluth post.)

She had gone through the investigating officer's files and checked on the date of the hearing and the time our payment of the parking fine arrived. She was willing to forgive $40 of the additional $45 we had been assessed. Apparently, my husband should have sent the payment when the officer called him and told him his findings, not when we received the official notice of them in the mail.

Technically, we were late in paying the fine. We needed to pay the $5 late fee, she said, but she would forgive the $40 that was tacked on for us not paying the late fee.

So you can fight city hall -- for $5.

But two street sweepers and another sprinkler truck came down our street early this morning. (See One good reason to live in Duluth post.) Our wonderful chalk drawings have been washed away.

One good reason to live in Duluth

My son and I were digging up dandelions on our hillside Monday when a city truck that cleans the sidewalks headed down our street.

"Oh no," I cried to my son, as we watched water being sprayed on the sidewalk. "There go our chalk drawings."

The driver slowed and turned off the sprayer as he drove past the colorful sailboat, train, rainbows, gulls, flowers and Mother's Day greetings we had drawn in chalk yesterday. He waved to us, then resumed his work farther down the street.

One good reason not to live in Duluth

"You can't fight city hall." That's a motto that certainly rings true in Duluth, Minnesota.

My husband received a parking ticket on Dec. 26 for not having moved his car 24 hours after a snowstorm. Our family had traveled to a holiday event on Dec. 24 in our other vehicle. We all stayed home on Dec. 25. There wasn't any reason for us to move the car.

Except for the city's parking rules.

Believing the ticket to be frivilous, my husband went to city hall to appeal it. Because of the holidays, he couldn't have a hearing until after the first of the year. The city worker assured him he wouldn't incur late charges for not paying the fine on time since the hearing was scheduled for after that deadline.

The police officer who investigated his appeal sympathized with him over the ridiculousness of many of Duluth's parking laws, including the one he had violated. However, he had violated the law even if it was a disagreeable law. So, we had to pay the $21 parking fine. (I mailed the check.)

Today I received a "delinquent violation notice" in the mail. Although the fine had been paid, it hadn't been paid on time. I owe another $45, or I face 1.) being turned into the credit bureau, 2.) losing my driver's license, and 3.) having my vehicle(s) towed.

Prophetic

I use puppets and props in teaching Torah to my group of preschool and kindergarten students. On Saturday, we were studying Moses receiving the Ten Commandments.

Maybe we spent too long gluing the first 10 letters of the Hebrew alephbet to our tagboard tablets, but by the time Moses was climbing Mount Sinai, the children were, let's just say, a bit unruly.

"Whack." (That's the sound of one puppet hitting another.) One child and his puppet were gently kicked off the mountain and assigned to wait at its base. "Whack, whack." Another two children and their puppets were scrubbed from the mountain.

By the time we got back to the story, only one Moses puppet remained atop Mount Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments. The rest of the puppets were misbehaving at the bottom of the mountain.

The karma of Hiroshige

My husband and I donated a 19th century Hiroshige woodblock print to a fundraising auction for my son's preschool. It was part of a larger group of Japanese woodblocks we had purchased several years ago when we had a case at a local antique store. We had never framed it, as we much preferred the two Hiroshiges we already had hanging on our living room wall.

A week after I dropped off the print, my husband received an e-mail from a man in Kansas. "Do you still like Hiroshige?" he was asked. We failed to connect the man's name to anyone we knew though my husband answered the e-mail in the affirmative.

In the mail soon after, we received a gift of a Hiroshige. It was from an old friend of my husband's who had purchased a collection of art from the man in Kansas. Not a fan of Japanese woodblocks, he had told the man to send the Hiroshige on to my husband.

It's of Nihonbashi, one of 53 stations along the Tokaido Highway, framed in traditional style and much more to our liking.