Family Vacations

What I remember about family vacations is sitting in the backseat of a car, usually with vinyl seats, and not being able to see out the window. I remember fussing with Jason and playing the no touch game - and invariably losing. I remember looking at letters from road signs and trying to spell my name. It was better when we were a little older and we had the black van - it had a full size bed in the back, and a sliding side window. There was a bit more mobility and freedom there - in part because seat belt laws were merely a figment of some tortured mother's imagination. I also remember stopping at neat little spots and getting out to roam and play. We stopped in Colorado once, all of us dressed in shorts, tee shirts and flip flops, and playing in the snow and thinking that was soooo coool. My mom, to compensate for back seat bickering, usually had us all in the car at 3:00 a.m. so that we would sleep most of the journey - and awaken some 6 hours later at our destination (or at least our first stop). She was also a big fan of leaving at 8 p.m. and driving all night to accomplish the same thing.

So imagine my mother's suprise - nay consternation - when we departed for Gatlinburg with 3 children in tow at the ungodly hour of 8:00 a.m. Since it took us some 45 minutes to get from Cadiz to Clarksville (we stopped for gasoline, had a bit of tire trauma), she huddled in her front seat snorteling like some evil gnome - waiting for the first "How much further!" Remembering all the headaches that my siblings and I had caused for her, she was ready to get payback, as was her due. But I had a secret weapon .... technology. No more staring blindly out the window as cars streamed past. No more making up back seat games to alleviate boredom. In the 21st century, the backseat is the entertainment capital of the car. Everyone had access to a mini dvd player and videos. Don't like what is on the radio, well here you go, have your very own .mp3 player with songs taylored for just your tastes. And for long stretches of time, there is peace in the car.

There are some of you who would claim that such a means of travel diminishes the family time together. And to you, I say poo poo. By what definition does family travel time have to be bickering in the back seat about who's hand crossed some stitched seam. Why does family travel have to be a frustrated parent slamming on the breaks, glaring in the rear view mirror and threatening to turn this car around if you don't behave. Oh sure, those of us who have survived such events laugh about them. But we laugh about them the same way people who have survived a massive car accident laugh about it. It sucked then, but it's funny now. And when that family arrives at the hotel, bitterness and tiredness rolling of them like smoke off of dry ice -- it takes hours to find the joy of vacation again. My family, they laugh and talked about a movie that we'd saved just for the trip. Headphones were removed as someone pointed out something to see on one side of the road or the other. And Elijah still managed to wonder aloud more than 10 times, how much futher it was until we got to Gatlinburg and what would we do when we got there. But when we finally arrived, stretched our legs, unloaded the car. We still liked each other enough to want to spend a few more hours in each other's company in the car - go see the top of the mountain. No breaks were slammed, no body cried, and no one got their hair pulled. Doesn't sound like a vacation does it? (click title to view movie)

Baby You Can Drive My Car

There are many things that you aren’t told about getting older:

1. how you will become afraid to sneeze or cough because you will most likely pee on yourself
2. how your ears begin to get a bit crusty (I don’t know else to describe that)
3. how every part of you expands, except your bladder, forcing you to wake up every night to pee at 2:30 a.m.

There are many, many more – really but what I wanted to talk about was the fact that no one tells you about how odd it feels when life starts to come full circle. When you have small children, you revel and bask in their new discoveries. It’s exciting to see and be a part of those times. Mostly that’s because you can’t remember those times first hand. I have several video camera memories. I’ve watched the video or seen a picture and those images are part of my memories, but not the moment itself. But when your children get older, they begin to experience life moments that you actually remember.

Franklin has just gotten his permit. And we have begun our endeavor of learning to drive. This weekend, I took the first step in creating a new family tradition and took Franklin to Land Between the Lakes to learn to drive. It’s really an ideal place because there’s nothing there. The roads are curvy and empty and there’s no better place to get used to driving a car. Sitting in the front seat slowly talking him through the process just made me think about learning to drive myself; though, surprisingly, the details seem somewhat dim. I don’t remember much about it. I remember driving Glenda’s giant car that took up most of the road and felt as if it were powered by a rocket. I remember driving across the Lake Barkley Bridge and gripping the wheel so tightly that I felt as if I might bend the steering wheel.

I don’t think that Franklin has ever seemed more like Jose to me than during this time. He has this stoic-ness to him that amazes me. I have never really been one to hide my emotions – any emotion – from anyone. And Franklin, like Jose, keeps himself close to himself. His excitement manifests itself in raised eyebrows – no hopping up and down, or vocalizations for Franklin. And though he will admit to being nervous after the fact, he doesn’t allow himself to appear nervous during it. After he had finished driving, and we were on our way back to Bowling Green, he told me how nervous he was when he was driving over the bridge – especially when the moving van was coming at us from the other way and there’s really no where to scoot over on the bridge. And he stuck his hands in front of him and was pretending to steer and told me that he was thinking, Papita, you are talking but I am not listening to you right now, I will talk to you again when we are off the bridge. Which was so much like what I felt the first time I drove across the bridge, except I’m sure that I maintained a running commentary of everything that was happening the entire time it was happening as I was driving.

And when Franklin would make me a little nervous because I felt he was too close to my side (the passenger side) of the road and I would reach my hand out to grab the door, Franklin would say “it’s o.k. Franklin can do it.” And when he took a turn too wide and a tad too fast, or today when he the light turned yellow before he quite got under it, he would make a short, low “oooooooh” almost like he was about to say “ooh, you’re getting in trouble.”

I am glad that he is nervous and that driving isn’t something that comes easy for him – because I am hoping that will make him cautious and careful. I’m pretty sure that since he’s been practicing with the boys in the backseat and my dad in the front seat, he is really developing his skills to ignore in car distractions. He hasn’t even asked to turn the radio on – which seems so not a teenager to me.

It will be interesting to see, in some 30 years or so, when Franklin has a teenager of his own how he will feel about teaching him/ her to drive. I hope he takes his children to LBL to practice too.
(click on title to view accompanying video)

The FFO

When I was very little, my mother took us to Hematite Lake. It’s really more of a giant pond and is located at Land Between the Lakes. There is a nature trail around the lake, and some places to have a picnic lunch next to a stream. There is also a little waterfall area and some cement stepping stones that allow you to walk across the waterfall. When I was very little, I remember standing on those blocks and being terrified that I wasn’t going to make it to the next block. They were very, very far apart. And the water was dark and murky and bound to be over my head. I don’t remember receiving words of encouragement or words that would soothe my fears. But I’m sure that I got them. Though with my family, that’s not always the case. I could have just as easily been told that I’d better do my best to make it across because there was a sea monster that lived in the water and would come to eat my legs if I fell in. It’s really a crap shoot in the Walker house when it comes to negating childish fears. I do remember stretching my leg out as far as it could go and not making it. My leg plunging into the water and then scrambling onto the next block in abject terror. The rest of the walk is a blur, I’m sure blocked from memory because the degree of terror.

When we moved back to Cadiz when I was in the 4th grade, my mom took us back to Hematite again. And my first comment was, when did they add more blocks to the walk way. My mother looked at me, puzzled, and replied that there were no more blocks than there’d ever been. And I experienced my first moment of shifted perceptions. As a child, I knew those blocks were at least 3 feet across. I had to really jump to get across. Yet as a 10 year old, the blocks appeared to only be 6 inches apart. 6 inches – no way!

This weekend, as we were touring Land Between the Lakes to offer Franklin the opportunity to drive with his shiny new permit. And we returned to Hematite Lake. It was the first time that my children had gone to the lake as well. Elijah was immediately enamored of the stepping stones. Really, anyone with just the tiniest bit of a child still in them enjoys walking across. And because they are somewhat oddly space, no matter how long you’ve been walking, you have to pause in the middle to sort of regain your balance / equilibrium / gate. I’ve never crossed that I didn’t think that it was possible for me to lose my balance and fall in the water – which is still as murky as ever. And I took Isaiah, how must now be about the same size that I was the first time that I went to the lake and tried to cross the stones. Isaiah, who even at the age of 3 is very practical, looked at the stepping stones and though he wanted to cross, merely shook his head at me when I asked if he wanted to go, and then raised his hands for a lift. And I, afraid that I would fall in myself and a grand recreator of my past for my children, refused to give it. Instead, together, we baby stepped across. He’d stick his leg up and out as far as he could, and then sort of lean into it and tip himself over onto the next stone. All the while he maintained a death grip on my fingers.

There is a quiet, subtle joy in moments like that. Getting to see first hand what you yourself must have experienced, but can’t really truly recall. It gives you a feeling of being god like – seeing life through time and in the instant all at once. And you can’t help but smile and try to remember what it was like this time – so that you will remember it always. A moment like that makes me grateful for cameras (still and video). And a moment like that makes me wish we had neither – because I want to keep it precious on my own – but who are we kidding. Those memories get lost and fall to the wayside. And in 20 years, I will look back in confusion as the boys recount some memory they have in common that somehow shaped their young lives – but to me was just another day. And that saddens me – but seems to be rite of passage in itself – because I’ve done it often enough to my own mother. And sat back in dazed wonder as my brother and sister told a story from their point of view and wondered where they were because that’s not how I remember it at all. But it’s o.k. and it’s how it should be.

And as we made our way off of the stones, I told my dad that I couldn’t bring him back for about 8 more years so that he, too, would ask when they had added the extra stones. (click title for link to video)

Pipe Dreams and Gonna Do’s

My mom once described my dad as a gonna do. And to be fair, Wayne Walker is forevermore planning one thing or the other in his head. There is probably not a conversation that goes by that dad won’t say something like “you know what you oughta do…” And I have found that I have a bit of that in my own personality. I like to call it being the “idea man.” It is one of my trials in teaching. I love to come up with ideas, but I don’t much care about seeing if they work, or analyzing data, or the rest of the ick stuff that mucks up the joy of coming up with the idea. But I’m working on that.

I think an aspect of that is the glass ½ full, and more’s on the way, mentality. That pipe dream that something wonderful is just around the corner. For some people, not getting that pipe dream is a foundation for depression or despondency. But that’s only if you quit believing that something good is just around the corner . . . AND if you aren’t content or happy with what you have right now. My mind flashes to the beginning of Pretty Woman when the homeless guy is walking down the street saying “What’s your dream? Everybody got a dream?” And I think that as we get older, we forget what that dream is. When I was in high school, my dream was to get out of high school, to get a real life (maybe a husband, good job, be financially secure (able to buy what I wanted – that’s a pipe dream for sure), maybe a couple of kids). When I first started teaching, my dream was to be Disney’s Teacher of the Year. There is actually a lot of work that is entailed in being Disney’s Teacher of the Year – and I’m not sure how much editing goes into those vignettes, but I’m pretty sure that I’m not that enthusiastic about teaching (it’s still my job – not my life). And another bit of pipe dream comes from thinking, wouldn’t it be nice to be an author. I say that with about the same sort of self belief that I say, wouldn’t it be nice to be size 10. Do they make a magic pill for either? This whole blog thing is sort of my passive aggressive step in that direction. I’ll write, and then put it on the web and see if some exec. From Random house happens upon my writing and says oh my god, it’s brilliant, come write for me! I had thought of sending letters of interests to local newspaper and start a column – Erma Bombeck as inspiration. But you know, that’s also a lot more time and effort for something that I’m not sure that I actually want to pursue. Though don’t get me wrong, if someone came and said – we’ll pay you 60k a year to write for our paper. I’m pretty sure I could pop out some nonsense or the other once a week without any true difficulty. But that’s just a thought. And as Delores Claiborn says – wish in one hand, spit in the other and see which gets filled up first.

So anyway, I did a web search and found a small publish company and have submitted a few blogs for perusal / evaluation. I’ve a sneaking suspicion that it’s going to turn out to be a vanity press. At which point, I’m not so vain and too poor for that. But it’s better than the passive aggressive waiting that has been occurring. And who knows, perhaps someday I’ll be a published author and if you go into a ½ price book store, you’ll see my blogs, nicely arranged and on sale for 50 cents – of which I’ll make a whopping 2 cents. Ahhh, the sweet smell of success.