15th Anniversary (Montreal)

Duck

Dessert

Winter Running (Blue)

Lately I have felt so much joy on my morning runs.  They start in the dark and the sky gradually lightens.  It is so lonesome (in a good way), just Rosie and me and whatever wildlife is watching us.  I feel like the world is just coming to, waking up, starting to breathe, and Rosie and I get to both witness and be an integral part of it.  It feels really special and really important.

One morning last week it began to snow just as the sky brightened.  Today it was crisp and clear and I brought my camera to try to capture the essence and beauty of winter mornings.   I also enjoyed yesterday's cloudy dawn, opening with a particularly spectacular and moody darkness/light.

As I was thinking about writing this post on the rhapsody of winter runs, it dawned on me that I mostly only write about joy here.  If you didn't know me and read this, you'd think I was always super happy and celebrating everything all the time.  That's mostly true, but it is also true that I prefer to keep my sadness private, or at least semi-private.  I like to send positive vibes out into the universe (or blogosphere), not whine and complain.  But if you are my mother or husband, you know that I've had some recent loss and disappointment.  And like everyone, I have bad days, get pissed off, stressed out, irritated and grumpy.  But I am terribly grateful for all the goodness in my life and in the world and feel compelled to share those joys.  And recently I was reminded that no ONE thing is your life, so when you lose something or something changes, you can roll with it and notice all the other things still in your life.  Like the blue, cold and lovely dawn.

My Grandfather is Nice By Patrick Favreau

A little while back, Patrick had to write a biography for school. He chose Grandpa David.

"David Gascon is my grandfather. He was born on November 3rd, 1942.  My grandpa is fun, smart and helps keep the world healthy.

My grandpa likes to go on walks and picks up trash while he goes.  This keeps the world healthy.

He has one daughter named Zoe.  He also has two grandchildren; me and my sister Harper.  He is a Bachler.  He has arthritis.  But it doesn't slow him down.

We go to his house every Thursday.  We usually eat fish there.  I'll tell you one thing...he is a fish lover.

My grandfather is fun and smart and I like to hang out with him.  He cares for us and the world around him.

My grandfather is an important person because he picks up trash.  One important fact about him is he has arthritis.

One interesting detail is that we go over to his house every Thursday for dinner.

I chose him because I know about my parents.  I wanted to learn more about my grandfather."
'

Unexploded Ordnance (UXOs), Clowns and Cheetos

Vieques is a beautiful, 21x5 mile island just east of Puerto Rico. Vieques has a long history of oppression and exploitation, of which the U.S. Navy is the most recent offender.   On our visit there last week, we went to an event billed as a "Photo Exhibit" of the clean up of the toxic, Superfund mess the Navy left behind.  We arrived at the multi-use building in Isabel II to see the exhibit at about 6:30 PM, just before they closed up for the day.  It turned out to be a lot of NAVFAC (Naval Facilities Engineering Command) propagandizing.  A pleasant, older man, walked us through much of the exhibit, telling us all about the clean up process, the high wages NAVFAC is paying locals to find and destroy UXOs and warning us not to touch anything we might find on the beach that could explode and kill us.  The Navy left in 2003 and NAVFAC hopes that they will be "done" with the clean up by 2021.

A week later, my head still spins with one big question:  What the f*** was up with the clowns?  Why were the clowns there and why were the clowns still there as the rest of the crew packed up their display boards and briefcases at the end of the day?  Are the clowns supposed to make me feel better about the mess my military has made of this amazing and complicated place?  You're talking about how to clean up a land you've unethically appropriated, a place where people have been wrongfully displaced and made terminally ill from depleted uranium.  Is this really a place for clowns?  For free Cheetos and tightly wrapped packs of cream-filled cookies?  And when the NAVFAC folks are clearing out of the gym, when the Navy has, at long, painful last, finally cleared out, why are those tired clowns still sitting on a bench, just outside the multi-use building?  Why haven't they at least taken off their wigs?

Reminder

At dinner tonight, the kids and I were talking about this in-between time. No longer really fall, not yet winter...what is this? Flinter?

As always in late fall, I've been noticing a bit of the heaviness of November. So I was reminded, by my children, at our dinner table, of the Robert Frost poem my dear, deep and thoughtful friend Nichole shared with me several years ago. Nichole is a teacher (an extraordinary one) and every year she teaches her preschoolers Robert Frost poems. I really admire that. And I am so grateful to her for teaching me "My November Guest." After we ate tonight, I looked the poem up, read it out loud to the children (Nichole, had she been here, would have recited it for them), and just couldn't get through it smoothly for the tears in my eyes and small sobs in my throat. Harper thought I was a dork and Pat sought to console me. But I was so happy reading that poem! So happy to be reminded that if not for the quiet, dark November times, the other seasons would not be so precious. Happy for Frost's gift of this metaphor. Happy to have a friend who helps me understand those kinds of truths. Happy to have kids to read poetry to. Grateful for big feelings; for sorrow and joy and everything that means we're alive and connected to each other.  Yeah, I'm a dork.  And I'm glad.

Please read this poem and then read it again.  It's just awesome.  Thanks Nichole.

My November Guest by: Robert Frost My Sorrow, when she's here with me, Thinks these dark days of autumn rain Are beautiful as days can be; She loves the bare, the withered tree; She walks the sodden pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am fain to list: She's glad the birds are gone away, She's glad her simple worsted grey Is silver now with clinging mist. The desolate, deserted trees, The faded earth, the heavy sky, The beauties she so truly sees, She thinks I have no eye for these, And vexes me for reason why. Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow, But it were vain to tell her so, And they are better for her praise. From "A Boy's Will", 1913

Photos by Nichole Ruggles

And You Smile Because I Smirk

For those of you who may have missed this on facebook, here's Kali's very first music video.  I can't wait for more!


And here's Kali when he was little.  I took this picture and it is one of my favorites.  Kali has always been outrageously gifted.  I like to tell the story of this time when he was pretty little (maybe 5 or 6) and he made an entire set of miniature wind instruments out of clay.  They were perfect, delicate and just lovely.  This was the day I learned about the piccolo.  My little cousin had constructed one perfectly, showed it to me and explained what it was.  Incredible.

In Need

I've been experiencing a lack of inspiration.  My little notebooks have blank pages.  This poem is reassuring at times like this.



inquiry
      --ntozake shange

my questions concern the subject poetry
is whatever runs out/ whatever digs my guts
til there's no space in myself
cryin wont help/ callin mama wont help
lovers are detours/ no way to assuage this
poem/but in the words & they are deceitful/
images beat me confuse me/ make me want all of you to share me/
&i hide under my bed/


poetry is unavoidable connection/
some people get married/ others join the Church
i carry notebooks/ so i can tell us what happened/
midnight snacks in bed with whoever/ are no compensation/ when
i'm listenin to multitudes of voices/ i consume yr every word
move/

durin the day you are initiated into the holy order
of prospective poems/ i dream in yr voice/ sometimes act
yr fantasies/ i've made them my own/
whatever is here/ is what you've given me/
if it's not enough for you/
give me some more

on the way to get apples, on the way to get milk

Another Anniversary

Twenty years ago on this day our Champ died. Tomorrow most of us will gather at the dells, Champ's main hang-out spot, in the rain, to remember together. It's the together part that matters, at least as much as the remembering.

Last year on this date I posted some elegant videos, pictures and other ruminations about Champ. Please check it out and and join us in remembering.

The First Twenty Years

Neil and I fell in love in late September, 1989. I hardly even know how to type such an ancient date. Here's a picture from sometime in that first year:

Here's what happened: In July of 1989, the summer after I graduated from my suburban Boston high school, I went to Lyndon State College, in the northeast kingdom of Vermont, for Freshman orientation. I went by myself. I remember sitting in the theater, listening to all the important things they had to tell us, and looking around, wondering, "who here might end up being my friend? Who looks like someone I would want to hang out with?" I felt discouraged. Until my eyes lit on a tall, skinny guy walking through the doors, wearing a plain blue t-shirt, Levi jeans and a pair of chuck taylors. He had long hair. And a beautiful face. I thought, "maybe THAT guy..."

A couple months later, we started college. That very same cute boy, now in a black turtle neck, and with slightly longer hair, passed by me on a walkway as I headed to class. He smiled. There were dimples. I was smitten. A few minutes later he sat next to me in my first college class: Philosophy 101 with professor Ken Voss. The cute boy was drinking black coffee. His hair fell a bit over his eye on one side. He was SO cool.

Of course, I pursued him, finally gaining the courage to give him my phone number. He called later that day, or maybe the next. On our first date, we watched the movie "Imagine" and I turned him on to Van Morrison. Our second date was a chance meeting at the library. I asked him if he'd like to go outside and play in the rain and he said yes. Then we got dry clothes and tried to go to Canada, but they wouldn't let us in, so we went back to my place and ate the delicious stuffed mushroom caps Auntie Sally had made earlier that day. The rest, as they say, is history.

(In the weeks that followed, he would come to the door of my insulated-porch-room at night, after his job as dishwasher at the Willoughvale Inn, smelling of Sprite and cold, autumn air, wearing that dark gray wool sweater his mom knitted. I waited up with calm anticipation, reading my school books.)

And here we are on the cape this last week, celebrating 20 years of love:
We've had an awful lot of luck during these 20 years. We fell and stayed in love, got a couple of college degrees, traveled some, lived in far away places, came home, got married, gave birth to a kid, adopted a second kid, made careers for ourselves, nurtured old friendships and built new ones, loved our larger families, loved our dogs, cleaned and cooked and worked in the yard, and have felt grateful most days.

We're looking forward to another 20 years and another 20 after that. What will we do next? Raise teenagers, wait up late, worry, send the children off, worry, stay in love, travel some, nurture friendships, talk to each other, love our larger families, be grateful most days. And maybe volunteer more, serve our communities, try new recipes, entertain family and friends, learn more, visit the kids, take care of the grandchildren, to give the kids a break, like our folks do for us.

And never take any of it for granted.

Music and Manny

Neil and I don't always dig the same music, but every so often we'll discover or re-discover an artist we both just love. Chris Pureka is our latest in that category, so we've been making dinner, cleaning up and generally hanging out to her cds on the hifi quite a bit lately. Patrick is amazing with anything music and last night he told us that this song, which has outrageously contagious and complicated timing, made him feel kind of sad. He said he thought it was about someone being left alone. Which it is, but in a very sophisticated way, both lyrically and musically. The refrain is, "I'll tell you what, I'll save you the trouble of running away..." Certainly not a direct line about being left behind if you're ten years old. That boy can listen. At least when you're not trying to give him directions.

After he identified the song's motif, he wandered into his room singing the song, beautifully and with perfect pitch. He's quite the kid. Here he is on the first day of fifth grade, a couple weeks ago. He was annoyed with me for making him pose for the picture.

I Wanna Show You Something Beautiful

I wish I could dance like this. Don't miss the final bust out at the end.

Take it Easy

Harper owns Kitchel! Across the road from our house and her favorite ride.

Poem (there is no touch)

This poem gets stuck in my diaphragm.

This Song

by Hayden Carruth

In an afternoon bright with

September, or in an old dissension

bright with fear, I went wandering where

there was purity in white lady's tresses,

hiddenness in peeping bluebottle gentians,

and where many species of goldenrod

and asters made funeral for the lost

summer world, and ferns, taken by frost,

made russet the fields and turned

the waysides yellow and brown.

It struck me that I had wandered all my years

like this, half a century, searching

for the touch that heals, but there is

no touch; searching everywhere for the

look that say I know, but there is

no look. This is Vermont, the land

hidden from violent times, far from the center

of life, they say. I walk by the gray brook,

around the knoll, through the pines. Winter

is coming. Searching, searching with my hand,

I feel September's little knives, and with my eyes

I see bright spattered leaves in the matted

grass. I hear this song, if it be a song: these

insistent little bright fearful hesitant

murmurs from high in the old pine trees.

The Kennedys

I'm watching Teddy's burial at Arlington Cemetery on TV and it seems so surreal. Teddy's really dead? Really?

I know, a bunch of rich, white men. Still, throughout my life, when someone criticized Ted Kennedy, I'd say, as a half-joke, "Don't talk to me like that; I'm from Massachusetts." I guess I'm not opposed to political dynasties if they do good, socio-political work. And for the last few days I've tried to explain to Harper the significance of losing Teddy. I simplify; he was an imperfect man, but he fought his whole life for oppressed people, so he was a hero. Okay, this is an oversimplification, but it is also true. And if you're a rich, white guy, it's right and correct to use your privilege in this way.

I bet many kids who grew up in Massachusetts feel a special connection to the Kennedys. My parents divorced when I was four years old, and I remember many car rides with my mom, traveling from Lexington to the south shore on a Friday night. She would keep me entertained with a story, often a story about the Kennedys. About the day JFK was killed, about how Joe died in the war, about the disabled sister, Rosemary, about Chappaquiddick and everything else. And somehow, I think Bobby was our favorite.

Today we watched pieces of the funeral and burial, while cooking and playing and doing other things. My mom knows who all those people are! And what they all do for a living and what are their contributions and what are their shames. I'm proud of my mom's expertise (she really could teach a college class on the Kennedys), and I'm proud to be from Massachusetts, the state Teddy represented since before I was born. Rest in peace.

Seasons and Changes

Harper's first day of 8th grade.

We haven't been to the fair for a few years, but the arrival of the fair always signifies the end of summer. The kids, my mom and Wayne and I went last night and I had the most fun at the fair that I can remember. The kids are totally into the bigger, scarier rides now, and it was so fun to be with the while they were so excited and having such a blast. Monica and Sam are visiting and they LOVED it! They are lovely house guests and we've enjoyed their visit. Monica thanked me for bringing them to the fair before we even got out of the car!

An extra treat was that we got to hang with Henekis, Alan, Erin, Carolyn, Sarah and Phoebe.
LOVE Phoebe's new haircut!

Erin and Patrick were as cute as can be on the rickety old roller coaster.

Harper is the big kid now. Here she is hanging tough with Sarah.

Patrick and Sammi waking up the other morning. The two of them are kindred spirits and have been playing together non-stop. I think they'll be sad to say goodbye tomorrow.

This Is Also Who We Are: let it pass through

Life can be hard. Interpersonal relationships, difficult. People you love will disappoint you and you will disappoint them. Hearts get broken and mend. Nothing stays the same or lasts; people grow up and grow old. We are all inexorably connected like organs in a body, yet hurt each other deeply with words. I'm not trying to be profound and I don't have solutions. These are just my real observations.

And when sadness strikes, there is always something to redeem it, like the relief of a big breeze on a hot and humid day. Or your children playing together happily in your grandmother's lake. Beauty endures.

Vid Clips

I Lovermont

It is so lovely to be home! I had a great 3 weeks in the city and my class was excellent. I learned a bit of french and met some nice and interesting people. But I am so glad to be home in Vermont. In the beginning, I felt I could live in Montreal. It's a wonderful city, with great parks, lots of diversity, terrific restaurants and an easygoing, laid back atmosphere. But by the third week I was homesick for country life. There's no place like home and there is no place like the Northeast Kingdom. I love it here. I love the way the air smells, the sounds of the rustling leaves and bugs and birds singing; I love my home and my beautiful, wild yard. I love my friends and seeing folks I know everywhere I go. And I missed Neil, most of all.

Because I love running so much, I can't help but compare my two favorite running routes, city and country, and their apexes. In Montreal, I run in Parc Mont Royal, which is fantastic. The apex of that run looks like this:

In Vermont, the apex of my favorite trail run looks like this:

(for more pics of this route, on the Kingdom Trails, click here)

As you can see, these are two totally different places, both full of glory and wonder. I'm glad to know them both so well.

Lonely?

In some ways, it is good to be an only child. Because being alone is okay. I'm listening to the folks having a dinner party on the deck across the way. They seem very sophisticated and whatever they are cooking smells amazing. Someone else on the street is playing their guitar. It's fun being a voyeur and listening to them all. City living at it's best! What's more, there is a 3/4 moon. And whoah....pretty brilliant fireworks, of which I am not usually a huge fan, but sitting here in the living room and seeing them perfectly without too much excessive noise is alright! Anyway, the kids are in bed and my mom and Wayne and Neil all left for points south earlier today. It's a gorgeous night. I do wish Neil were here and it was a treat having my mom and Wayne hang out for a couple of days. But I'm not actually lonely and I don't mind being alone. Oh, and Rosie's here. She might even sleep with me.

Still in Montreal!

Quick post. Neil and I are in the park, the internet at home not working so well. But we are happy and just had a wonderful, bargain dinner at L'academie, a not-too-fancy BYOB with a special of Pates ou Moules several nights a week. Neil had the pasta and I had the moules and we both enjoyed the Malbec we bought at the SAQ. Today, class was excellent and the afternoon tour was long, but informative. I feel lucky to be here, thankful for my family and this beautiful city and for the opportunity to study and vacation here for 3 whole weeks.

It is a beautiful night. Neil and I are headed home with full bellies and much appreciation for the goodness.

Love you, familles et amis.

Parfait

How to write succinctly and accurately about my first few days of language study here in Montreal? Here's a quick effort without editing.

I really wanted to take a French Immersion class, but as time drew near, I wished I had just taken a vacation. I needed a vacation. Good news is, this feels like a vacation, so, yay! I get to have it both ways. Story of my (pretty dang nice) life, for the most part. By which I simply mean, I can't complain.

I'm really enjoying the rhythm of the city and the rhythm of my days here. Funny, I used to come to Montreal and regret that I couldn't stay up late and party in the streets (as I have done just once or twice with much pleasure) but this week I've loved settling in just as the streets start to hump and waking up in the morning as almost everyone else is still tucked away and all is quiet. And witnessing the gradual progression of energy and excitement throughout the day. It's a lovely rhythm and I feel like Pat and I are some kind of small harmony to the larger song; doing our own thing, but flitting in and out of the bigger picture. Quite a pleasure (and new experience) to feel so truly a part of city life.

I love routine and keeping busy and our days have accomodated these needs. I get up first, make and drink coffee, then Manny rolls out of bed and gets his cereal and we leave at 8:00 for day camp about a mile north of here, he on his scooter, me on my bike. He LOVES riding that scooter and cruises along pretty quickly. After depositing him at day camp (on Ave du Parc in the Mile End neighborhood), I head downtown with, seriously, 2 million other bike commuters! It is quick and easy to cruise down the bike lane on St. Urbain. One must be just as aware of the other bikes as the cars because there are just so many of them! I am very cautious, in part because I am not used to city riding and because of my bike accident 2 years ago. So when the light turns green, I let the masses of pedalers pass me and gently ease on down the road. I've got nothing to prove and plenty of time.

I arrive at the UQAM on St. Catherine (corner of Hotel de Ville) in time to sit in a little park and eat my yogurt before class at 9:00. Class is excellent. Perhaps a tad easy, but a relief that I'm not getting frusterated or overwhelmed. And I feel like I'm learning a lot and gaining much confidence. We speak, read and write in a completely intertwined way. There are nine students and one teacher, Guy, who is not bad to look at and very personable. And a really good, encouraging and enthusiastic teacher. Besides the U.S., other students in my class are from Canada, Korea, Italy, Mexico and Mongolia. So there is a nice diversity, too. And did I mention that Guy is pretty easy on the eyes? (Funny aside, if I had a picture of him to post, a lot of you would say he looks like Neil minus the bike racing tee-shirts!).

So I am in class until noon, at which time I have an hour for lunch. I bring a picnic and take a short walk to Place des Arts where I can sit and dine by the fountain or on the steps with about a million other lunch time revelers. Not too shabby.

The afternoon session is only 2 hours and is focused on conversation or guided tours (in French). Then I hop on my bike and head back up to Mile End et je rencontre mon fils. Then Patrick and I head home on scooter and bike, freshen up and hit the streets for a walk or groceries or what-have-you. We ate out tonight after a trip to the big salvation army store on the other side of town, but otherwise, we've eaten in and done puzzles, and just hung out. Tonight's tapas at Sala Rosa were outstanding. I especially loved the fried eggplant with cheese.

Then home for quiet time and tomorrow's lunch prep. Right now Pat is reading and I am writing and soon our day will end. I'll read my book and listen to the street sounds, which will pick up in the next few hours.

I could live here. I'm lucky to have a home here and no doubt my peace and relaxation this week owes much to that crucial fact. An adventure with all the comforts of home; parfait!

Placement Test

I think I failed my placement test this morning. I am taking a 3 week French Language class in Montreal and today is the first day. All we did so far was have a brief orientation and take a written and oral placement test. It was really quick for me because, well, I just don't know much French. The written part was multiple choice and you were supposed to stop when you couldn't answer any more questions and not try to guess. So that didn't take too long. Then I sat down with a nice lady who tried to have a conversation with me in french. That didn't take too long either. So I got out early. Actual classes don't start until tomorrow, but I do go back at 1:30 today for 45 minutes to learn about the activities that are supplements to the classes for the next 3 weeks.

Since I was so quick with my testing, I rode my bike back to the apartment, went for a run, bought a falafel and now I'm in the Parc des Ameriques where there is free wireless, gorgeous sunshine and a lovely breeze.

I'm really happy to be here now that I know how to (a) get Patrick to his daycamp (he rode the scooter this morning and was so excited about the whole thing. I can't wait to see him at 4:00 and hear about his day. I'm a little nervous for him and so proud of his bravery in doing something like this), (b) get myself to the University and (c) ride a bike around the city. I was kind of afraid of doing that, but so far so good! It's easier than I thought it would be and a great way to get around quickly. There are lots of streets with bike lanes.

And I think my course is going to be really excellent. The orientation and testing this morning had a very well-organized and professional feel to it and there are lots of people to answer questions. The campus is pretty huge, but our program is only in 2 buildings, so now that I know where those are, I'm feeling confident and ready to learn!

White Crosses and my bike.

This is Neil, I'm hijacking Zoe's blog.

A few years ago Zoe and I saw Jeffrey Foucault perform live. I’d never heard of him before that day. He opened with a song titled “Don’t Look for Me.” I was floored by his voice and fine guitar playing. We bought the cd after the performance and I listened to the studio version of the same song but it just did not impress as much as the live performance had. Many years back I had a Deadhead friend in college who once said, “the moment is superior to the artifact” when talking about the Dead’s music. For some reason that little quote has stuck with me. Initially it stuck because I thought it was a funny thing for one 19 year old stoner to say to another, but then as I dwelt on these seven words I came to conclude that this saying summed up my feelings about most things in life. I’ve never become attached to “stuff” (the only possession I'm really attached to is my road bike. Not so much because it's so great, but because I use all of the time, but if I were to lose I would not realistically be able to afford to replace it) and it dovetails nicely with my inability to remember just about anything. Alas, once again many years later, it would hold true for Jeffrey Foucault’s song. Purchasing the cd however was not a loss. It is a good cd, but what made me love it were the first two lines of the first song on the disc, “Cross of Flowers.” They are as follows:

There's a cross of flowers at the roadside
Where some fool bought it two years back

I will somewhat shamefully admit that I secretly and guiltily liked the irreverence of referring to the subject as a “fool” here. I can’t explain why, but I’ve always felt the same way when I saw a cross by the roadside. I hate them. I feel cold hearted admitting it, but it’s how I feel for some reason. The white roadside crosses, or descansos (in Spanish, descanso means “resting place”) are a common site on all of my main cycling routes from the house. There are three major routes that I commonly ride from home, one to the north, one to the south and one to the west. There is a white cross within 6 miles on each route. I see them up close every day as I meditatively peddle, therefore I spend a lot of time thinking about them. The cross means nothing to the person whose name emblazons it, obviously, and if I were asked if I wanted one, should I meet my demise in a car accident (or be splattered by a vehicle while on my bike on the road, I think that would qualify), I would emphatically say no, absolutely not. To me these shrines seem to be an extenuation of grief by and pity for the living. Perhaps it’s cathartic to work so diligently on these things, but I get the weird sense that the people who maintain them like doing it, I can’t imagine up-keeping one of these things for someone I had known. Similarly, after 9/11 and after the invasion (and subsequent occupation) of Iraq, stickers and flags on cars popped up everywhere. I felt the same weird way, “these people all sort of enjoy wallowing in this.” I’m not saying my interpretation is correct, it’s probably way off, but it is what it is and I’m admitting it for whatever purpose.

I decided to investigate these emotions. So like anyone who was having a slow day at the office I referred to the internet. You know, the internet, that place where, with enough research, the most common bug bite is potentially fatal, or at the very least, horrifyingly disfiguring. I thought this would be a great place to investigate. It wasn't. Here’s the first thing I stumble upon:

Mark the loss of a loved one to road accidents with a roadside memorial. Each roadside memorial is designed from UV-protected polyethylene, to make it last for years. The descanso – available with a personalized nameplate in several designs, from religious symbols, the national flag and animals – carry a and a mounting stake

Your Tribute Memorial Cross:

● Durably constructed from UV protected polyethylene

● Includes a mounting stake for easy installation

● Comes with a personalized nameplate

● Can be used for People or Pets

● Free Delivery included within 48 contiguous states

● Size: 24"H x 15"W x 2-1/2"D
Artwork and symbols are further below on the page
Ships in approximately 4 business days

Our Price: $175.00

Or if you're a little more strapped, 27- 45 bucks here.

Or maybe I don’t like them because I’m an Atheist. This article says, “Consider also the point that atheists and other non-christians find them offensive, annoying and depressing.” Wow, they apparently speak for me and they really hate those crosses.

Maybe I don’t like them because they are a little artifact that is just glued there in that moment and place of despair. I feel like maybe the survivors can’t move on and are stuck in a holding pattern. It’s like they are stuck in that spot, in that moment, in that awful time and place for as long as the shrine is maintained(and some are very meticulously maintained). It seems like the point is to not move forward, it’s to stay there in that spot forever. Ah, but I think the moment is superior, remember? So I prefer the moment or moments that come before that fateful split second in that tragic spot when I think about the people that I have loved who are no longer here.

Enough stalling. I have to write why I like camp if I ever want any more jelly.

Shelter

Remember that show, "This is Your Life"? I don't really remember it, but wasn't there a show where they brought out long lost friends, family members and colleagues from the person's past? Tonight was kind of like that for me, at least in regards to my work, which is inextricably a part of me.

Fourteen years ago I was a VISTA worker (Volunteers in Service to America) for a domestic/sexual violence program in Newport, Vermont. I quickly realized that the Northeast Kingdom really needed a shelter for battered women. I thought I would spend my year in VISTA making that happen. I was 24, full of hope and ideals. It didn't happen that year, or in the 14 years since, despite my wishes and hopes. Fast forward to 2009. Tonight we hosted a small reception for donors and community partners at our soon-to-open shelter for battered women; the first in the Northeast Kingdom. The shelter includes 8 crisis beds and 3 transitional apartments. It is an amazing facility and I didn't believe it would ever really happen until tonight. (An aside: It is strange to be thrilled and gratified by a shelter you are working to make unnecessary. Yet it is necessary, more necessary than ever, and I am grateful we can finally offer this crucial, basic support to survivors).

So here it is, finally, a shelter, an option to offer women when we are safety planning together. It is cause for celebration. But what really moved me about the reception tonight was the folks who attended. It was a "This is Your Life" of my work in the movement. Some of the committed and supportive attendees (in no particular order) included:

• The former coordinator of our state coalition, who coordinated the VISTAs in 1995 and therefore trained and mentored me extensively (she also organized a baby shower for me at the end of that year!)
• The advocate with whom I job-shared when my kids were little and I could only work part-time. We grew up in the work together for many years. I love her dearly.
• The former director of my organization who was the director when I volunteered on the hotline right after Harper was born. Another important mentor.
• The victim advocate from the prosecutor's office where I worked more than 10 years ago as part of a special domestic violence unit. She taught me everything about the criminal system, the courts, the community and lots about how to fight and speak up for survivors.
• A past director of an anti-poverty organization, which oversaw that first DV program for which I worked as a VISTA. Always a smart and thoughtful activist who is now on my organization's board.
• Our shelter coordinator, a strong and capable woman who I have known for almost a decade. We have worked side by side for years and I am so proud of her as she embarks on this new project with her whole self, heart and soul.
• Our Executive Director, who I think of as the conductor of a symphony waving a baton. Or is that a magic wand? She's also one of my best friends.
• My newest colleague, co-worker and comrade from the north who impresses me daily with her dedication, intelligence and advocacy skills. At least once a week I come home and tell my family how great she is.
• Our statewide coalition representative, who serves as an expert and support person for our work locally; someone I turn to when no one else has an answer to my question. She's just brilliant.
• So many more community people who have supported our work for longer than I've been doing the work. I'm so grateful for their continued, solid, persistent presence.
• My dad. What can I or do I even need to say about the profundity of the lovely fact of his presence on this special day?

What a list! But on the eve of the opening of our shelter (finally!) to have all of these people in the room filled my heart with love and gratitude. And really, the people who attended tonight were just a small representation of the many comrades I have the good fortune of knowing personally in this movement. Way too many to list here. It's nice to know we're not alone. It's good to have the shelter of community.

The Anti-Holiday

To escape fireworks*, parades, and the general celebration of so-called "Independence Day", I like to take my family to the Montreal Jazz Festival. We had a good time last year and decided to go again this weekend. Yesterday I was superpsyched to see That 1 Guy was giving a free show at 7:00 PM. I saw T1G several years ago and have been watching his tour schedule ever since in hopes of catching him again. His is a feel-good-laugh-riot-rock-out-with-your-socks-out show. I took some video clips, but there is nothing like the feeling of his live performance.

A clip from one of my favorite songs: Weasel Pot Pie...

At the end, Patrick got his autograph and a picture.

Happy Jazz Fest!

*My parents and I are the only people on the planet who do not love fireworks. We have our reasons. Not that they are the same reasons; no particular family trauma or anything like that. We're just weird, I guess.

It Seems Like Forever

Since this day.

I'm not one to complain about the weather (or too much else). But when I see the pictures of that perfect morning, I'm lonesome for the sweetness of early morning sun. Funny how it makes me miss my momma, gram, Camp, and everything else that is sunny and sweet. Though I like the sound of the rain at night and the cool breeze through my window.

That Girl

Click on either one of these to see a wild beast.

Treats

A colleague of mine from central Vermont brought me a jar of goat milk caramel the other day, made by some friends of hers. Neil says it was made by the devil. He says that because he loves it so much. He wants to know if we can buy it by the 5 gallon jug.

Introducing: Dance Duck

Last weekend I went to Montreal with some friends and we went to a great Fringe Festival show called Dance Animal Presents: Dance Animal. Inspired, we all created our own dance animal personas. This is the bio of my friend Dance Duck. I think it (and she) is beautiful.

Close your eyes and imagine a duck in motion.

You’re probably picturing a duck walking; her awkward waddle painfully amusing. Or perhaps you’re imagining her flying – encumbered by her bulk as she lifts, dragging her webbed-feet like landing gear as she approaches the water.

But you see, ducks are designed neither for walking nor for flying. They have none of the gracefulness of their long-legged bird cousins on land, or of their sleek cousins in the air. They don’t step effortlessly through the marsh grasses like the snowy egret. They don’t soar like eagles or dip and dive like barn swallows.

And yet, the duck is not sorry that she waddles and flies heavily, because she knows that ducks are designed for floating. The essence of a duck in motion is actually stillness. The duck is moved only by the medium upon which it floats. Water.

Stillness can be defined in any medium. It is darkness to light. It is blankness to color. It is silence to noise. These are not opposites – darkness is the beginning of light and the end of light. Blankness is the beginning of color and the end of color. Silence is the beginning of noise and the end of noise. Stillness is the beginning of motion and the end of motion. The duck is still and yet a part of motion.

I’ve always been aware that I am a person of stillness. When the light is bright, I stand in the shadows. When the noise is great, I am silent. When the color is strong, I seek the solace of muted tones.

But I didn’t realize that my stillness was necessary, that I was necessary, that I was Dance Duck until Dance Tiger looked deep in my eyes – crossing the distance from her place on the stage to my seat. Yes, my seat in the shadows as far from the motion and noise and light and color on the stage as I could sit. When her gaze reached me there, I realized that indeed I was Dance Duck, destined to celebrate the stillness that is necessary to the motion and the noise.

You will see me on the stage with my Dance Animal friends, STILL – but not unmoved by the music. And you’ll understand that without my stillness, the motion is meaningless. My friends will dance and I will float. I am Dance Duck and I am necessary.

Really? I Live Here?

I took my cute little camera on my trail run this early morning. These are shots from my usual course that my friend Dance Duck (aka Nichole) turned me on to many years ago. I've run this course countless times and even gotten brave enough to do it all alone in the early morning when I figure lots of critters (bear and moose?!) are moving around. But I bring my good dog Rosie and we make noise. This morning I startled a deer, who startled me. But mostly, I'm just in awe of and in love with the beauty of it all. I've even written poems about this run. I feel so fortunate to live here and after 12 years I still marvel at my luck and the wonder of this amazing place.

Click on this picture (just below) to see the wild beast!