big boy's toys

Initiating marital diplomacy, I struck out on a war path with determination. I was looking for a lawnmower. If I heard, "I need a lawnmower," one more time...

Instead of listening to the lament and unfulfilled intention of weeding through garage sales on a precious Saturday morning; instead of feeling the burn of frustration; instead of letting that frustration escalate; instead of letting this plight linger, I took it into my own hands.

No ad posted in the newspapers or on-line went unread for most of three weeks until I found the lawnmower with a mostly honest seller.

It runs fantastic, she said, when it runs. She failed to mention that it was bright green, that a few loose screws make it rattle like mad, and the spark plug was stuck.

When I showed up at our house with the lawnmower in back we didn't have much time except to eat dinner and drive to Home Depot. We had a loan to apply for and nearly one ton of materials to load into the truck for our new roof. Before we could get into the truck, Mark had removed at least one piece of the mower and was working hard at taking apart another. I hovered, with purse on my shoulder until he could finally drag himself away from his new project.

We returned about an hour later with sweat still dripping off him from loading nineteen sixty pound bags of shingles, twice. Then he fixated on the mower. He wanted to tinker. Even when he started to realize that it was ridiculous to continue, he wanted to tinker. Finally, something to do in his garage! It must have been fresh air to the man.

As I quietly left the garage after saying good-night, I smiled. It was not a $20 mower I had purchased, it was a $20 toy. In that case it was a much better purchase than I had imagined.

daisy maisy

All afternoon my head hammered with disputes over this and that indication of selfishness on his part. I did not want to feel this way. Every fifth sentence or so, I would turn to the Lord and tell Him He had to deal with me before I got home. I believe the Bible: that I must respect my husband in deed even when my feelings are out of line. But I wear my heart on my sleeve and he usually knows that I am struggling with something.

Spirits down, I drove quietly into the garage. He was hunched over his workbench. Opening my car door for me he said, "I have a present for you."

"You do? What is it?" I peered over his shoulder to see if this was some kind of a joke or something he had created. The echoes of my disputes laughed at me.

"I got you a BB gun."

And he had. He had picked up enough brass on the range to buy me my toy. So happy was I that I immediately helped him find a target and site in the gun. Purse, papers, and any news were forgotten in our spontaneous competition. Feet planted in my low heels and stretching my suit shoulders to their max, I shot at the bullseye with determination and concentration. The ultimate relaxation for me.

"I haven't eaten anything all day," he commented.

With a pang came the wifely guilt. "I guess this isn't getting dinner made--is it?" So we agreed that I while I assembled dinner he would set up the target in the hallway. After dinner we would compete. Before we dispersed to our tasks I planted a kiss on his lips that raised his eyebrows.

"You're happy then?"

"Ummhmm." So happy that all morning I have told anyone who will listen how thoughtful my husband is.

carrying

I'm carrying a secret. Hush--don't tell.

I am carrying more than that, and where all the world will see. We have not shared this with many people until confirming it with a doctor. This is hard everytime I talk to a friend, my in-laws, or when they ask for announcements at chapel.

It is harder when it feels that everyone I talk to glances at my belly more than once during our conversation. An expert could probably tell that my pelvis has adjusted already. But my co-workers, I hope, only notice that I have a little padding where I used to be flat. If they suspect anything, they are polite, and will be pleasantly surprised in a week or two.

Per my nature, I have checked out a pile of books from the library with more on reserve. Who knew that I should have read the preparatory material before my wedding night? It seemed that "Intended for Pleasure" was all we needed to have a healthy start. No one mentioned what you should do if you were prepared to get pregnant.

So then I panicked that I had already compromised the baby's health. My patient husband stood by as I, with big nutritional book in hand, poured over the prenatal vitamin labels; even more patiently, he served himself a helping of the grains I am experimenting with; more patiently still, he let me nervously plan the next nine months, which will inevitably NOT go as planned.

Then I step back, take a breath, and comment on the miracle taking place. "Our baby is still smaller than a dime," I tell him. Finally, I understand the excitement that surrounds the ultra-sound. When will we get to see?

Married Life

How is married life? They like to ask that question. I am puzzled, then my face melts into a faraway expresion, and I reply that it is wonderful. It is the only soundbite that I have. Afterall, they understand--don't they?

I am no poet, so help me here: How do you encapsulate the thrill and quiet of your first few months of marriage?

It is the building of projects together, of eating dinner together on the back porch, of the time-consuming house work, of enjoying the sunsets from the sunroom, of waltzing in the living room with meaningful looks to the song "Small Home", of cooking together, and at the end of the evening, neither one of us has to drive anywhere. There is someone to thwart the orderliness of the house, force me to put my feet up when I am gung-ho, to laugh at my clumsiness, frighten me further after watching a scary movie--before holding me tightly in his arms. Married life is a rose--it has its thorns. But he is also there in the middle of the night when I wake from a nightmare or get too cold.

It is the absolute delight of coming home to him. My heart sings and twitters the whole twenty minutes of my commute. I can't wait.

If he is working, then I have about an hour to tidy the house and start dinner to welcome him home. He can't smell, but coming home to dinner on the stove is always a welcoming sight. Greeted by a cheerful wife, the gleeful dog, Roxanne, a clean home, and cold Guiness, a smile beams from his face. I always get a lovely hug.

Winter came back this April, but before that, when the days were long and seventy degrees mid-day, we worked a lot outside. My upbringing convinced me that home, among other things, meant home improvement projects. Since I was four-years-old, my parents and I were always working on something. If we weren't, it meant it was to move. Mark and I bought a house with lots of improvement projects. Each one brings us closer together and makes the house feel more and more like home.

Mondays were difficult. He has the day off, and I would have to go to work. All day I would want to be at home, throwing the ball for Roxanne, tending to my roses, and loving my husband.

If you have soundbite for all of this, it would be appreciated.

Dingle, home of really, really good food

To D.,

When you think of Ireland, you might think of sheep, green fields, cliffs diving into the sea, and Guinness. Guinness and Whiskey are the only notable culinary items the island has contributed to the rest of the world. This is a shame since they pride themselves in scrumptiously, fresh produce, local lamb, fresh dairy, and excellent seafood. Sheep sheparding is hard, dirty work, so maybe they never took the time to create something special of all their delicious food sources. Everything tastes good enough on its own--why change a good thing?

But there is a little town, a slow town, nestled between the coastal mountain ranges that did take the time to marry one taste with another into sumptuous courses. Dingle Town. Much to the townsfolk’s dismay, this little harbor has officially been renamed to something pronounced An-dang-un. Whatever it is called, their chefs know how to cook and their bands know how to play.

This is where I had the most delicious chowder in my life (which is saying something since I lived most of my life on the coast). I didn’t know anyone could make seafood taste that good. The chef would not give me his recipe. Not that it matters to a Coloradan. The ingredient list probably includes Dingle Bay shrimp, boiling the clams with a dash of Dingle Bay sea water, grilling the white fish over Irish peat, or some equally local particularity--all of which is unavailable here.

A quick search for recipes from Dingle landed me here: http://icecreamireland.com/. You are much better than I at watching sugar intake, but these recipes do look delicious. You’ll have to visit him when you go, as well as Dingle Crystal (http://www.dinglecrystal.ie/). The owner/artist of this shop rides a Harley. He had several pictures of himself seated on the Harley and toasting the camera with a wine glass of his own creation. Beautiful stuff.

Being A Woman

Having been sick these past three days I fell behind in preparations for this weekend. Perhaps it was by staying up late last night that I brought on my regression even though I had followed my doctor's orders, i.e. M.'s recommendations, and swallowed the medicine he brought the other night.

Anyway, it was dark out, the breakfast bread was baking in the oven, the bacon was cooling, non-perishable food, clothes, and weather protection were tightly packed in my car, and I was cleaning my rifles. If you could have seen me--I was thinking of you--you would have laughed at your Caiti being in her element: cooking for her man and cleaning her guns. I was completely satisfied with my contributions to the trip, feeling very feminine of all things, even though I knew there was plenty I haven't thought of. As our trip reveals my thoughtlessness, I know he will still appreciate me, and we will laugh.

It reminded me of my mom. I used to think she did so much that was unnecessary for our road trips. Surely she could have made things simpler and enjoyed an hour or two more of sleep before we left at the crack of dawn. At times, my dad would voice my own concerns at her investment into our trips, but she was wiser and determined. We always ate well, saved a few dollars, and at least forty minutes when we dove into her sandwhiches and devoured our apples in the cab of the truck. We didn't always thank her for it, and must have made her feel bad when we said she didn't have to, but she knew she had taken the best possible care of us.

I could not always distinguish her motivations from responses to my dad's overpowering will, so I had graduated from college by the time I understood this insistence of hers to stay up late and get up early the day we would depart on a trip was purely her idea. This was part of her being a woman, a wife, and a mother. I get that now.

The Barnacle

She always said he was like a snail. If you touch him, ever so slightly, the wrong way, he would retreat into his shell. She said this because she never played with barnacles.

Barnacles have this amazing hand that waves in the water like a long eye-lash. They eat this way, and test for danger. When I brushed the lash with my finger it would vanish into the recess of the crusty white barnacle. All the beauty and gracefullness about the barnacle went with it. At this time, when the lash is hidden, one can only see the hard, uninviting shell. I understand, however, that the barnacle, the large ones, are an edible delicacy behind their ugly shell.

The snail is beautiful, perhaps more so, when he is tucked inside his shell. Then, you can always crush it. But the barnacle--no one smashes a barnacle.

I would wait, in those days, until the lash would creep out, one little tentacle, and then another, and then they would all come, and then they would come boldly out as far as they could come.

So it was with him. The door would slam, and maybe a lock put in place. I don’t remember how it was done, but she would be allowed inside the room. Finally, he would believe no ill was intended. If it were early enough, he’d come back out of the room with impressive silence. By noontime the next day he might be normal, having tested the waters every hour to make sure he was not under the perceived attack.

the worst wish ever that could come true

"I wish you were here and we could blast 80's, disco, and indy music really loud and dance in bright dresses and drink cocktails. What a wish! I think I will go to bed." That is what I wrote her. I think she will understand -- life has been just distressing enough that I think this could be fun.

Applying for Jobs

The funny thing was, was that I got wasted, totally drunk, for the first time, three weeks before I graduated from college. A swarm of alumni visited campus that week, for no particular reason, and assembled at a house. Because I was not talking, I was drinking, or maybe because I was talking (to Ben Coutney), I was drinking, and after I had drunk I would not be quiet. Maybe that was why I never got drunk before--I never talked.

When I got back to the dorm room, unable to walk for myself like any respectable, upstanding RA I plopped myself in front of the computer. Theresa squinted at me from her bed, “What are you doing?”

“I have to e-mail the manager at Zingerman’s. I promised him I would before tomorrow morning.”

“Caitie, go to bed. Do that tomorrow,” she advised before going to sleep.

But I wrote. I do not know what I wrote, but it got me the job anyway. I wonder, as I sit here applying for a new job, if I should not try that again and order a beer.

Train Journey

I.

I was four-years-old the first time I thought outside of myself. Our pre-school had an interesting playground, in the era before playgrounds came in primary colored plastic and sat close to the ground. We had a metal train sitting off to the side in the tanbark, and we would sit there for a few minutes at a time, pretending we were on a journey, before our energy transformed the peaceful trip into a train robbery. One fine morning we sat a little longer, I remember because I had time to think.

The other kids, I think, were talking, which was what kept us there. As usual, I had little or nothing to contribute, so was feeling the outsider again. Why? Why me? I did not know who I was asking, but I knew there was someone to ask this one question, and only one who could answer. Surely there were others you could have brought to this life who would have done a better job with what was alotted to them, who would have been happier and made others happier than I am doing now. So why did you chose me? Could you not have left me alone where I was before this? I almost cried. I could have gotten away with crying because I cried once every morning between five minutes to an hour after my parents drove away. At least that cry was explainable. This question and feeling of deep loss and loneliness, I knew, was not shared by the giggling group around me.

“You’re It!” one screamed as he hit me and everyone scrambled in different directions. The question was forgotten for the rest of the day, but would never leave me as I walked through my school years lonely, frightened, and hyper-analytical. I was It, alright, I was chosen to live a life I did not choose, and I lived it running around trying to pass my curse to someone else so I could be like everyone else. But I was a slow runner, lacked strategy, and lived life in defense, so I was stuck in the position to which I was born.

II.

“But indeed, O man, who are you to reply against God? Will the thing formed say to him who formed it, “Why have you made me like this?” Does not the potter have power over the clay, from the same lump to make one vessel for honor and another for dishonor?” [Romans 9:20-1]

A few years later I secretly began to assimilate the ideas I heard in my parents’ conversations. I believed that we had some choice in who we belonged to, which meant that I had some choice in being a part of the family I feared. It also meant that I had been given an opportunity to reconcile with these two people whom I might have offended in a previous life. I clung to this idea to bear the unbearable wounds I collected each year.

Hope wore thin, and the conclusion that eventually life would become worth living after the reconciliation (which I thought would come about through constant service and compliance) was not enough. I started asking why I, or anyone, would chose to put our family together, to put three people together through an unusual chain of facts and events to produce so much hurt? I started to think I had nothing to do with the decision.

Now I am told that I am not supposed to ask questions like this, at all. The fact that I never arrived at satisfactory conclusions to the questions that started on the train were probably part of the journey that led me to Christ. I had hoped, of course, to find some answers in Christ to my questions. I find not answers, but redemption and grace and hope--let this be sufficient.

Three Books

The three books I would bring to the speed-dating table would be:
1. The Little Prince -- which summarizes my idea of love and friendship.
2. The Lost Pictures of ---- by Van Allsburg -- to laugh over, to speak of wonder, imagination, dreams, and childhood.
3. The Scarlet Pimpernel -- because I want a man with the honor and courage of Sir Percy. I have met no better man in literature and only one with such character in life.

The three books I would bring to the island would be
1. Bible -- to live by
2. Frankenstein -- to cry by
3. Alice In Wonderland -- to laugh by

The three most obscure books on my bookshelf
1. Peter Ibetsen
2. The Broad Highway by Jeffrey Farnol
3. Old grammar books

Because of Christ

She was late because she got lost. She said that she was too independent to call me sooner. Because it was getting late I changed the plans from going out to staying in. I put the water on to boil, turned on the oven, pulled out a couple baking pans, and made fresh muffins. I made it look effortless and casual. For the first time in my life I was a super woman.

Then we talked as only two women can talk over a pot of tea, even though we hardly know each other. This does not matter, we have both agonized over careers and love and friendship, so we talk like old friends and about old friends. This one and that one, she tells me, are getting married. I add a couple more to the list. She inquires after the possibility of my own marriage and I answer frankly. So I show her a picture of us taken at Thanksgiving, and she gets to see his humor in the picture he placed on my screensaver. He is dressed from riding his motorcycle to our Sunday evening social hour, and before playing with Grace, our friends' child, he jokingly sits on her tricycle. Her mother thinks this is funny too, and takes the photo which now scowls from my computer screen.

My guest looks thoughtfully at me as we move toward the door. "You certainly can not be taken at face-value.... I would never have guessed... all this..." her gesture means to include the insights she gleaned from our conversation. She said this before, last time she was visiting, that something about me had changed. She tried to describe me as she had known me in college, and she imagines, for some reason that all this was beneath that surface, when I laugh. I was the way you thought I was then, I assure her, because I did not know myself that I could be a competent, intelligent, and interesting woman. I regret to think of the people who did believe this, and never got to know me the way they wanted to.

She wants to know if it was work that brought me out of my shell, which I agree to, then quickly disagree. Work, I explained, was more likely to stuff me back into that shell. In the describing why I forgot to tell her how Christ had changed me. When I finally sought His intimacy is when I started getting comments like those above.

I should have told her about the time I sat on a rock and really thought about that rock--it's texture, shape, temperature, size, smell, and the way it felt to sit upon it. I knew, with my feet dangling off the ground, what God wanted for me, He wanted to be my rock and my salvation. So I asked to know Him so well I could rest on Him as I rested upon the rock.

I also had a theory behind my shyness: I had no self-confidence. As a Christian, this meant I had no confidence in Christ, so I started praying from Timothy to know no shame over my belief, but to have confidence. My belief, faith, and knowledge grew. My confidence in Christ grew, and I can not remember the last time I was scared shy like I used to be. I have moods where I prefer not to socialize, and people believe I am not feeling well, but the fear is forgotten.

Since I did not tell her, I wanted you to know.