Wednesday, August 20, 2014
I can't help but contrast this homecoming to our initial arrival in Virginia, almost a year ago to date. Tropical, sticky summer heat, no friends, long days alone where we struggled to find our way around and anxiety attacks about the new school.
This year our homecoming includes sleepovers, kids who've missed mine, running through the neighborhood in the dark, texts and plans to meet girlfriends, book group and writers' group and the ability to find the grocery store without taking ANY wrong turns.
And yet, when I stop to think about it, we were equally at home in France.
I still have friends who date back to the days when I lived there. The language returned easily and soon my children were running to the corner boulangerie and ordering our morning baguette without me. We walked the neighborhoods of Paris and decided that, yes, this could feel like home too.
Without a doubt, Portland feels like home, even though we're not living there.
Friendships picked up as though the gap in time was a week instead of a year. Traditions carried on seamlessly and for almost a month we slipped back into our former Oregon lives.
We talked about it on the east bound plane, carrying us from one home to another.
"Portland will always be home, right?" asked my daughter.
"Yes, of course," I told her.
"But it also feels like home is in McLean."
Home, we decided, isn't necessarily a fixed place. Instead it's a state of mind, a place where there are people you love, community and familiarity.
For the moment, home is wherever our family is together, but soon (sooner than I want to think about) home might mean a college dorm room or a foreign city where my children know no one at all.
When that time comes, I'm hoping our nontraditional definition will give my kids the tools to magically transform unfamiliar settings into places that take on all the trappings of home.
Since clearly I'm on the subject, I hope each one of you had a magical summer and are equally happy to be home, wherever and however you define it.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Oh wait, pause, it is summer! Just not here. Not yet. Not until Wednesday. Tomorrow!
Tomorrow afternoon we're headed out on a world adventure. Just the three of us...which is a first for me. Usually my husband comes along on our international explorations, but this summer he's going to pop in and out like our family is a sit-com and he has a repeat guest spot.
We're the Love Boat and he's Carol Channing.
In my usual way, methodical and levelheaded, on Saturday it occurred to me I hadn't done any research on our trip aside from making sure we have roofs over our head and seats on an airplane. It also occurred to me there might be *gasp* lines and Parisians might not take kindly to my joie de vivre when presented in the form of no reservations and impatient children. This realization set off a marathon round of internet research and booking, the kind I suspect others might do more than four days in advance of their departure.
He paused and in that pause my mind inserted Picasso, Eiffel Tour, Monet, pain au chocolat.
"Bunkbeds!" he finished. "I've got dibs on the top."
So yeah, everyone's priorities are a bit different.
We will definitely go to the Louvre and afterwards there will be a visit to the in-ground trampolines in the park outside. Castles will be visited, as will swimming pools. I made Viking ponies plans in Iceland and located an archery pitch in case we're all in the mood to channel our inner Katniss. My plan is to balance culture with healthy servings of pastries.
As for blogging, that's going to have to wait until we return. Meanwhile, you can always follow me on Twitter @JohannaGarth, Google+ or Facebook, where I'm sure I won't be able to resist uploading the occasional photo accessorized with commentary.
Have a wonderful summer and I'll be back here with fresh perspective sometime in mid-August.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Everything took a sudden right turn when...no wait, scratch that, we drove off the bridge and crashed fifty feet into the water when I happened to leave the kitchen and glance behind me.
THERE IT WAS!!!
Under the baseboard of my kitchen was an extremely large mouse. Dead!! Tail, limp. Fur, brown.
I responded like any other reasonable woman of my age, which is to say I started gasping for air and making odd little moaning noises.
"You okay, Mom?" asked my son, who still hadn't spotted it?
"I'm okay, I'm okay." This was said more to convince myself than him.
My daughter appeared on the scene. The mouse situation was revealed.
"I'll pay you guys two dollars each to sweep it into a dust pan and take it outside," I told them.
My daughter, sensing opportunity for negotiation, raised an eyebrow. "Two dollars, mom? Really?"
"Ten," I said, because by this time it was clear I was unable to walk back into the kitchen.
"Yes, each. Just get rid of it."
They went at it with the broom and dustpan. This is where things took a turn for the worse. The mouse, it turns out, was only pretending to be dead. I know this because I heard cries of "It's moving," from the kitchen, while I was curled up in a fetal position on my bed.
My friend, who was staying as a houseguest, came downstairs. "I'll take care of it," she said. She walked into the kitchen with a swagger. Then turned around a moment later, retreated to the dining room and put her head between her knees.
"I thought I could do it," she said.
"Don't feel bad," I said from my new spot on top of the dining room table.
"It was just so brown and big," she said. "I was picturing it as one of those little white lab mice."
"You're mousist?" I asked.
I think she might have glared at me, but it was hard to tell because her head was back between her knees.
By seven o'clock in the evening the mouse had pulled itself together enough to disappear underneath the refrigerator and possibly into the walls.
We're not quite sure where it went. Out of sight, out of mind. Here's hoping it made it back to the great outdoors so that this summer won't unfold to the olfactory strains of Eau de Mouse emanating from the kitchen.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
The Family Warr
I'm alternating between being insanely proud of it and terrified she'll hate it. Or it's internally flawed in ways I missed. Maybe it's a good piece of writing that somehow misses the mark. Or maybe editors will like it, but not want to take a chance on it. Or maybe it's a bad piece of writing that hits the mark, but is nowhere close to being where it needs to be. Or maybe the market isn't ready for the subject matter. Lots of varieties on the theme of generalized angst.
When I tell people I've finished a book they congratulate me. And I try to be graceful about accepting their congratulations because it IS a big deal, however easy it is to lose sight of that given all the angsty thoughts above.
Maybe this book makes me feel particularly insecure because it's so different than anything else I've written. It's bigger and broader, which leaves me feeling exposed almost like wearing a particularly skimpy bikini to the mall.
In case you're wondering, here's my working version of the book's blurb. I'm sure it'll go through many, many revisions, but it's enough to give you an initial glimpse of my newest book baby.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
This was the quote that ran through my head all last weekend, assisted by Twitter, reinforced by The Atlantic and my Facebook feed.
Another news story of misogynistic violence followed by responses like the one below. I wish I could say this tweet shocked me, but even in all its callousness, it was predictable. As was the clench in my jaw and wave of nausea in my stomach when I read it.