Pack Rat

Earlier today I decided to have a shot at packing my room. I've found out something interesting about myself. I am a Pack Rat. Somehow, in the 19 years I've known me, I've missed that little fact. It would have been nice to know.
I've decided that the source of my pack ratism is that I have a habit of attaching too much history to too much stuff. I wouldn't have a problem if it was just stuff. I could get rid of that. The trouble is that the stuff reminds me of things I would prefer not to forget. I have a plastic cone about six inches tall that came from Wiregrass Catholic Youth Day 2006. It is covered in signatures of friends as well as persons I don't even know. It was a great day though. I have a golden colored feather from Matilda, a very talented chicken; the last of the Golden laying hens. She came when she was called, caught tiny pieces of bread, stole food from the dog's dish, beat up the cats when they tried to steal from her, and survived multiple attacks from hawks and dogs. We found the feather the day she was tragically murdered by a neighborhood dog. I have a rabies tag that belonged to my first dog. I have a dragon puppet I helped my mom make for my brothers. Sadly, the dragon was slain the first time he faced a knight. He was slain very thoroughly indeed.
I thought I was doing really well after I finished mercilessly going through my wardrobe. Throwing away holey t-shirts and worn out shoes is one thing. Tossing Matilda's feather is entirely different. So I'll keep the feather on the off chance that I remember where it came from when I have finished traveling the world. The great thing about feathers and rabies tags is that they don't take up much room. I'll stash the cone somewhere, and decide what to do with it another day. I'll throw away something else instead. Something that doesn't make me remember anything. I'll throw it away just as soon as I come across it.

August 29, the antepenultimate day of the Month.

The Stowaway's cake. I'll have to get a picture of the Boy's cake from the Stowaway.
I made the Stowaway a birthday cake yesterday (the 29th). Making anything a surprise for the Stowaway is easier said than done. Making a surprise in the kitchen is impossible. She claimed medical reasons for needing food (remember, she has a weak constitution) so the surprise wasn't nearly as good as the Boy's birthday cake was. (He turned seven on the 25th) He is a total NASCAR fan and a Lowes (Jimmie Johnson) fan. I managed to convince him that I was decorating his cake like the Home Depot (Joey Logano) car. I tried really hard to make his cake look like Jimmie Johnson's car, but there was a food coloring malfunction (the food coloring turned out to be light blue, not navy) and that failed in the first step. Just as I had decided that half the tube was as much color as I could add without bad aftertaste setting in, I realized that the color was exactly right for The King from Cars. Fortunately, the Admiral is a fan of Richard Petty, so the Boy is also a fan of The King. So that's the cake he got.
The Stowaway got a much more simple cake, since a) she wouldn't stay out of the kitchen, b)she is 21, so the outside of the cake isn't so important and c) she has a weak constitution and too much sugar is bad for her, so it's okay if the icing layer is a bit thin. Really though, it was a pretty cake, according to the Harbor Master it was "Happy and Sunshiney like the Stowaway when she is in a good mood." It also tasted good, which is important as well. Persons well enough to leave the house went to Mass last night, so that the girls could get an early start on their drive to FL (they didn't) and so that we didn't have to leave the sick ones during the day.


Today, the penultimate day of the month, was a day for resting and recovering. It was also the day that I realized we have nine days before the day we plan to leave. There is so much to do between now and then that it is really ridiculous. We are old hands at packing on a moment's notice. No big deal. We'll be fine. Piece of cake. All we have to do is finish packing up all of the books, clothes, things we won't need etc., find homes for three cats, some chickens and a tankful of guppies, pack the camper, and find out where we're going. And I start school on the day before we leave. Wahoo!
It's gonna be great.

Growing up

Above: The Harbor Master's thrifty tip. Reuse the same Ziploc Bag for four years.
Below: The Stowaway prefers to dig out lost baggies of quarters.


Sunday, the college girls are leaving for college. The day after tomorrow the Harbor Master and the Stowaway are departing for the sunny tropics of south Florida. The house will be quieter. I will have an uncontested right to the front seat in the car. My dog will be able to eat without the Stowaway fussing that she's in the way. Their belongings, which have threatened to completely smother the house since the day they came home will be packed into the Harbor Master's little car and drive away. The girls have driven me crazy for three months. Not a day has passed that I couldn't find some reason to complain about them. Now, with only a single day left I know that I'll miss them.

This, to me, marks the end of the summer more definitely than fall ever could. It is an end to middle-of-the-night-no-boys-allowed (excepting, of course, the Harbor Master's fiance) movies. It's the end of sitting up half the night joking about how crazy Mom can be or how loopy Dad is getting in his old age. It's the end of the summer do-you-remembers and time for the fall split up. The last one. The next time the girls come home, the Harbor Master will get married. So this year it isn't just the end of summer, it's the end of all of us being kids. It's good bye to pretending that being grown up is a long way away. It's hello to Oh My Gosh I'm Going to Be Twenty in SIX MONTHS. Which, I guess is the reason that this parting is at as hard as the first time they left.
Fortunately, tomorrow is the Stowaway's birthday, so we'll have a reason to party. Ha! Take that back to school!

Cardinal Lessons

The 2nd Mate and the A.B. officially have the Swine flu. The 1st Mate seems to be going down as well, and I don't think the Boy will make it through unscathed. Now that we know we have the Swine flu it is actualy a lot less scary than when it was a mystery disease. According to the doc, the best thing for everyone but the Stowaway (she has a weak constitution) is to get it and have immunity to it.

Anyway, while I was making supper for all of these flu victims, I happened to look out the window and spot a cardinal sitting in a tree. This particular cardinal, Fred, is marked by extraordinarily bright plumage. He is also surprisingly tame. Fred and his mate, Mrs. Peppering built a nest in the rosebush outside a bedroom window. The nest had been abandoned earlier in the summer by some other bird, presumably because they couldn't stand the noise. Mr. and Mrs. Peppering didn't mind the noise, which was good because the boys spent the entire thirteen days of incubation, and even more, the ten days of the chicks growing up with their faces mashed against the window. During the twenty-three days that they lived there, we all became closely acquainted with the chicks. We watched Mrs. Peppering and Fred slave to keep the chicks' stomachs filled. The A.B. took pity on the poor overworked parents and dropped an occasional bug into the nest. This was strictly against orders.
On day ten the chicks began to bail, with some help from Fred. Within two hours the chicks were flying awkwardly around in the clump of trees in front of our house. Mrs. Peppering was the only one who looked distressed. While she seemed to approve of the chicks' leaps out of the nest, she also seemed determined to herd them back in again. By the end of the day they had disappeared, never to return again to the home of their youth. Fred and Mrs. Peppering also became rare sights.
It was strange that Fred showed up today. This morning the Commodore mentioned my being an "adult child living at home." Although I realize that she's right, and that I have to be careful about "sucking up all of the air" that is needed for the younger guys, it was still a little frustrating. Seeing Fred gave me a mental image that gave me an idea that led to understanding. I am perched on the edge of the nest. It isn't big enough for me to fit in all the way, but I'm not ready to jump quite yet. My mom is trying to look after the little guys on the inside, and trying to shove me out of the nest and herd me back into it at the same time while I am also trying to jump and balance on the ledge at the same time. It makes for some prickly moments to work through. We'll get over them I think, as long as God keeps sending cardinal messages.

Introducing the Crew...and Co.

The crew is the result of reading Arthur Ransome's Swallows and Amazons. It has been in existence for a little over 2 years, and most of the persons in my immediate family are regularly referred to by their titles. My dad is the Admiral, or, occasionally the Dadmiral. Mom is the Commodore. The looks that persons give a kid when he yells "Wait up, Commodore!" across a crowded parking lot are really funny. I was elected Captain in the early days of the crew, and at the same time my brothers (12, 10. and 7) were appointed 1st Mate, Able Seaman and Ship's Boy according to age. My younger sister joined the crew at a later date (just before our first voyage) so she is the 2nd Mate, even though she is older than the other crew members. The crew has had to learn to work very closely together. Literally. We've spent quite a lot of time in seriously cramped quarters.
My older sisters, both away at college, were also noticed. We have the Harbor Master, responsible for finding places to anchor for the night while we are traveling, and the Stowaway, who slipped aboard on an Easter Voyage. Last, and yes, probably least, is the Ship's Dog, Robynne, who protects the crew from the dangers of wild dogs, potentially rabid squirrels, and staying inside all day. She is also Guardian of Tallulah when the crew goes ashore.
We named a little tin rowboat the Silver Star and have had quite a few adventures in her. Our beat up station wagon was christened the Y.S. Wagon.(Y.S. for yellow station wagon. Technically, it's a beige station wagon, but that doesn't work nearly as well.) We have since nevigated several 1000+ mile voyages in her. When we acquired a 35ft. R.V. it was understood that she would also need a name. There was some talk of calling her the Silver Star II after our "actual boat" but only the Commodore was really in favor of that. We loaded up the crew and went for a test drive. "How about we call her Tallulah," the Boy said. (Cool Runnings 1993) The vote was unanimous. Tallulah she is.
The Master and Mistress of Swampwood are not crew members, but they were instrumental in the formation of the crew. They provided our first chance for adventure are so enmeshed in all of the doings of the crew that no account could be complete without them.

So the crew: Admiral, Commodore, Captain, 1st Mate, 2nd Mate, A.B., Boy, and Dog.
And Co: Master and Mistress of Swampwood, Harbor Master and Stowaway.
And the Vessels: The Y.S. and Tallulah.

Also, please pray for the A.B., who is going to be checked for the flu tomorrow morning, and the 2nd Mate, who is also sick.

Farewell to my Costa Rica Pen.

I stepped on my favorite pen. I was writing outside and stopped for a spray of bug repellent. I guess I dropped my pen when I was soaking the 1st Mate. I didn't realize it until after he had doused me with the spray (which did absolutely nothing to repel the hundreds of more than usually bloodthirsty mosquitoes) that I didn't have my pen. It was lying on the ground where my foot had landed when I tripped as I stood up to be sprayed.
It's a beautiful pen. It was hand decorated with a coat of clay and a pretty sunflower. The artist's fingerprints in the clay around the tip fit my fingers exactly right. It beats those squishy rubber grippy-things to pieces. It didn't even need a name, since there's one right on the side of it, a little wooden strip that says "Costa Rica." The ink always comes out in a beautiful, steady, dark blue almost black line, but it doesn't get all clumpy and nasty on the tip. It doesn't scratch or stick. It was a present from my uncle.
Now there is a crack around the top of it, through the clay and the plastic. The ink flow has slowed to a faint blue line. My Costa Rica Pen has written its last letter. RIP.

Boxed Books

A conversation reminds me of something from a book. The phrasing eludes me. So I wander over to the bookshelf where the book ought to be. It is an utterly thoughtless action, pure reflex. I can see the book I want. I can feel the print on the cover and the individual feel of those particular pages between my fingers. I reach out to pick it up, confident that the itchy half memory will soon be soothed. Wrong. There are no books on the shelf. It's empty. The books are in boxes, stacked up in more or less out of the way places. Herein lies my problem: Books should not be in out of the way places. They should be easily accessible in moments of dire need, such as mine. Instead, I am forced to go and stare dejectedly at the book's name on the roster on the outside of the box that imprisons the friend I so desperately need, and then settle for Googling the quote. It isn't the same at all.

The reason for boxing up our books is simple. After two years of deciding, it actually looks like the family is going to head out on an extended road trip. This decision is exactly what I have been campaigning and praying for ever since the idea came up. Unfortunately, after you jam seven people, a border collie, and all of the necessary things like food and clothes and tennis balls into a camper, there just isn't enough room for all of the books that one needs. So we have the important ones: the Catechism of the Catholic Church, Jesus of Nazareth, Tolkien, school books, and assorted instruction manuals. The others will stay behind. All alone. It's a hard trade though, giving up adventures on paper for the real life variety. I didn't know until I closed the lid of the first box how difficult it was going to be. Nearly every book is linked with a memory, a time or place where I first read it, or first understood it. I read That Dog! five times a day while I cried my heart out when my first dog died when I was ten. I sneaked Little Women out of the shelf and read it out in the yard when I was eleven. When I was twelve, I became obsessed with The Lord of the Rings. I was trying to read the Return of the King when I broke my arm. I read it in a day a year later when I realized there were only twenty-four hours until the movie came out. I read Swallows and Amazons aloud when I was seventeen, to comfort my brothers while my mother was in the hospital. My entire childhood is packed away in the boxes that are steadily climbing up the walls. I suppose I shouldn't wonder at how hard it is to close the lids!