A few posts ago, I wrote about adult nightmares and how I learned to live with them. My history of bad dreams goes back a long time, almost as long as I can remember. Two in particular stand out in my memory because I had them over and over again, but never with any improved endings.
My parents had a connected relationship, many friends, lots of fun, and a terrible marriage. I wouldn't be surprised if they both suffered from depression, and they certainly didn't have the social skills necessary for living with just one other adult. After four years together, they were finished with, or mostly finished with, a round of post-college education. They had me. My dad instantly regretted acquiring his law degree and went back to graduate school.
When I was two and a half, we moved to Long Island, where both parents taught at a private school that was walking distance away from our cute little house. I was farmed out to some young mother who was obviously overwhelmed and whose kids, if they learned anything from their bad childhood, would probably flee into therapy when they grew up. (Even then, I remember that I figured most of this out at the time, except the therapy part.)
Somewhere in there, my parents' marriage failed, like a bad seal. I've heard stories -- symptoms really -- but don't know and don't need to know the details. I knew that something off-kilter was happening, but I couldn't wrap my tiny brain around it. So here's how I explained it to myself, at least in my dreams:
We're riding in the family Simca, which belongs to my aunt but which we use. My parents are in the front seat and I'm in the back. It's night time, I'm sleepy. We start to drive over a long bridge, one with street lamps in it. The lamps glow eerily in the fog. There are patches of fog, so sometimes you can see and sometimes you can't. Part-way over the bridge, the car stops. The back door opens and I'm expected to get out. I do, and the car drives off. I'm standing on the bridge thinking about walking -- somewhere, but I understand that I don't have any place to walk to.
And of course, I wake up. So how do you go into your parents' room and explain *that* one? I can see waking your parents up when a monster is pursuing you, or a little green man is sitting in your room staring at you, or you finally learn to fly. But this one? How can a three year old even articulate the events, let alone the deep (or not so) meaning of the piece?
And then, later, after my parents did break up and it was just my mother and me and possibly my little sister:
I'm behind the wheel of our family Chevy, an enormous car. I'm driving down a familiar road, one my grandparents used to get to their country club. On one particular street, my mother has explained that there's a sensor that makes the light turn red when a car approaches (perhaps an early attempt at traffic calming). I'm driving down that street. I know the light is about to turn red, and it does, and I'm powerless to do what's needed. My feet are too short to reach the pedals. I'm responsible for driving the car, but I can't stop it.
Of course, I'm too little to understand the consequences of not stopping at a superfluous red light -- about hitting small children or getting a ticket. I just know that I'm in a situation where I'm powerless to be good; I can't prevent committing a Very Bad act. More important, I've been handed an adult responsibility, which at the age of three or four I'm just not ready for.
I suppose now, with many years between that child and the person I am now, I'm grateful to remember these two dreams. It give sme some insight into who that person was and what she experienced. Still, I feel a little sorry for her, the expectations heaped on her, and the roads she traveled seemingly alone.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
the men in blue suits
I live in a small town with an active police force. They mostly concern themselves with minor motor vehicle violations, operators driving under the influence of one substance or another, an occasional act of domestic violence, and assisting police in neighboring towns.
I know this because every week, the local newspaper publishes a report of police activities for the preceding week. This week, for example, there were 68 calls for service, 11 motor vehicle violations, and so on. The reports usually read as do the following selections from this week:
I know this because every week, the local newspaper publishes a report of police activities for the preceding week. This week, for example, there were 68 calls for service, 11 motor vehicle violations, and so on. The reports usually read as do the following selections from this week:
- Thursday. At 7:40 p.m. a caller reported a motor vehicle with Massachusetts license plates racing around on Reo Road. Police checked the area and found the vehicle gone on arrival.
- Friday. At 7:30 a.m. a caller reported a truck striking a wall on Acton Street causing damage to the property. A stone was knocked off the wall. However, the operator set it back in place.
- Saturday. At 2:40 p.m. an Old Marlborough Road resident reported someone calling her home for a donation. She said the caller told her he was from an association, but the resident does not remember completely what the caller said.
- Wednesday. At 2:32 a.m. a caller from Great Road reported someone barking outside and running by out of breath. Police reported to the scene, where they spoke to the person, who admitted barking and running on the way home.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
too hot to trot
Last summer, I was home nearly every day, and we had a cool and comfy summer, mostly. We don't have air conditioning, so I notice these things. We're always teetering on the edge of getting at least a room air conditioner, but for various reasons, mostly having to do with being puritans and luddites, we never do. And then the heat is gone and we don't think about it again.
We usually have a few short heat waves up here, and truer to form, we've had a few super miserable days this year, when I've been home two work days a week. Having grown up in Washington without air conditioning (the southern equivalent of the New England hard-luck story in which you had to walk two miles to school, in the snow, uphill, both ways), I've developed some reserves around heat, mostly by sitting very very still until the temps drop again.
Last week, it was so hot than even when I sat still, I was drenched. (The cat, of course, found this attribute absolutely magnetic and wanted to snuggle, but fortunately she's fairly tiny.) Tuesday, it got even hotter -- the outside thermometer in my car registered 100 degrees at one point. But because the air was relatively dry, at least for someone who grew up east of the Mississippi, it was fine. Yesterday, though, was more on the beastly side -- the car thermometer registered 98, and it was definitely more humid.
And then, after a peaceful, blue-skied day, the winds picked up. By the time I got home, it was dark at an odd time. We heard a short rumble, the rains moved in, and the temperature has dropped. We're in for a couple of cool days, or so we hear.
We usually have a few short heat waves up here, and truer to form, we've had a few super miserable days this year, when I've been home two work days a week. Having grown up in Washington without air conditioning (the southern equivalent of the New England hard-luck story in which you had to walk two miles to school, in the snow, uphill, both ways), I've developed some reserves around heat, mostly by sitting very very still until the temps drop again.
Last week, it was so hot than even when I sat still, I was drenched. (The cat, of course, found this attribute absolutely magnetic and wanted to snuggle, but fortunately she's fairly tiny.) Tuesday, it got even hotter -- the outside thermometer in my car registered 100 degrees at one point. But because the air was relatively dry, at least for someone who grew up east of the Mississippi, it was fine. Yesterday, though, was more on the beastly side -- the car thermometer registered 98, and it was definitely more humid.
And then, after a peaceful, blue-skied day, the winds picked up. By the time I got home, it was dark at an odd time. We heard a short rumble, the rains moved in, and the temperature has dropped. We're in for a couple of cool days, or so we hear.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
curse you, black kitty!
Juliet has very precise ideas about what time people should go to bed and what time they should get up. Around 10:30 or 11 pm, she becomes increasingly persistent, meowing at me, going over to the bed, coming back to meow some more. When she realizes I'm starting my go-to-bed routine, she jumps on the bed and waits for me while I brush teeth, do exercises, and otherwise shut down for the night.
And then in the morning, around 7 am, I often feel a presence on my pillow. There's something about having someone stand on the same pillow where I'm resting my head that causes me to wake up, at least to see who it is. It's always the same being. It turns out that Juliet climbs up there so she can peer down on me and figure out whether I'm awake. Kinda reminds me of Charles Schulz's famous image of the Flying Ace on his Sopwith Camel crossed with a vulture.
This morning, as soon as I caught her in the act, I gently placed her on the floor, then went back to sleep. A short while later, I realized she had sneaked back up onto the bed and was curled up against my back. So she did get the message for today, but whether it sticks tomorrow is an open question.
Friday, July 22, 2005
questions not to ask
Last night, we attended another dance performance in our summer series. I hit a bit of a wall. The piece was called "Partial View," and apparently it's about how you can never get the full picture of anything, regardless of your point of view. The first part was a solo improv-looking section done on just one side of the stage. The second part, which seemed totally unrelated to the first, featured four dancers, some video clips, and live video taken from different angles.
It went on for about forty-five minutes or an hour too long -- a little bit of it, shown with a few other pieces, would have been fine. It seemed boring, dull, repetitive. Unfortunately for the dancers, the performances were great, and I hope the performers have long successful careers. In other companies. Also, the videographer is apparently famous in New York, so his presence was supposed to be a Big Thing.
I was sitting watching this thing, yawning louder and louder (I was fairly tired) and feeling like a philistine for not appreciating it. But at the question and answer session, some of the questions revealed that others got it even less than I did -- questions such as "what kind of story were you thinking about?" (My answer: duh, there was no story. The actual answer: Even though there wasn't a narrative, there is a story, just presented visually instead of in words.) and "were the primary colors in the costumes intentional and part of some message?" (My answer: duh, they weren't even primary colors, good theory though. The actual answer: The colors were chosen to show up distinctly on video.). I was especially impressed that the choreographer was gracious in his answers. He kept saying that everyone has their own experience of the dance and that everyone's experience is valid. Very sweet.
Questions I would have liked to ask, but didn't for fear of hurting feelings or revealing my true, unappreciative nature:
- Did your costumer actually think she was contributing anything to the dance, and if so, what?
- Why is your videographer so famous? (It wasn't apparent from this experience.)
- Is it ok for your dancers to have more fun than your audience?
- What kind of reaction are you hoping for from your audience?
- What is the typical reaction of your audiences so far?
- If there isn't a story, what are you trying to say?
- What would you like to have done differently, and do you think you'll change the dance?
And then,
- How do you support yourselves?
- Is dancing a full time job? And if so, is it full time with one company?
- What will you do in a few years when you can't dance anymore, at least credibly?
- How many years does a typical "one-person's-name Dance Company" last? And then what?
In some ways, I don't mind seeing things that I don't particularly appreciate or like. The experience leads to interesting conversations, it stretches me a bit, and it helps me appreciate things I actually do like. But I don't think I'll be rushing out to see this guy's work again.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
dance as if everyone's watching
We've had the great privilege of attending three dance performances in the last nine days. I've mentioned one already -- by Rennie Harris Puremovement. We also saw performances by David Dorfman Dance and David Parker and the Bang Group. Each of these performances (and the other three we'll see in the next two weeks as part of the Summer Stages Dance Series in Concord MA) included a question-and-answer session at the end.
None of these choreographers is as famous as, say, Mark Morris, but they're all good, and have all been around for a while. In fact, these three men are in their 40s and are still dancing (energetically, I might say), but they are becoming physically limited; in some cases, their vision needs to be breathed into younger dancers who are more physically capable.
I was intrigued by the variety of opinions about what makes a dance troupe. For Rennie Harris, the dancers are individually accomplished first and then assemble their strengths into a troupe -- think of a jazz band of talented musicians, playing together for a short while, then each having an opportunity to showcase their talents. David Dorfman, on the other hand, loves collaboration. He's had to work hard to get dancers, who expect to be told what to do, to invent their own voice to add to the chorus that he leads. And David Parker is way at the other end of the spectrum -- the choreography is all his; the dancers are welcome to express their opinions, but DP doesn't necessarily listen to any of them.
Rennie Harris was the most thought-provoking, because his troupe does hip-hop, encompassing the full range of all human emotion. He mentioned that in the beginning, when he danced with just men, they just danced. As he added women to his troupe, they started asking annoying questions such as "what's the motivation for the dance?" But he started to develop answers, and as he explored his own thoughts, the dance became richer.
David Dorfman talked about how in his life, he feels like he's off kilter, so his dance is about being off-balance and not fitting in. He also expressed his gratitude for his family (his wife appeared in a fun and loving duet with him), his dance family (his troupe, who in turn expressed gratitude to him and to their colleagues), and to his artistic family, those of us in the audience.
David Parker injected the most humor into his dance, though as he said in a recent interview, never at the expense of the dancers. He also pushed gender barriers the most. One piece, which featured two men and two women, all in identical stunning red dress/suits, was about passion and requited and unrequited love, and had inventive symmetries and athleticism. Oh, and it was danced to a Rachmaninoff piano concerto. At the very end, I was laughing out loud, unable to help myself.
And we have a contra dance next weekend, which can be funny, collaborative, choreographed, (and in our version, gender-challenging), but only rarely as graceful as what we've been watching lately. One can always dream.
None of these choreographers is as famous as, say, Mark Morris, but they're all good, and have all been around for a while. In fact, these three men are in their 40s and are still dancing (energetically, I might say), but they are becoming physically limited; in some cases, their vision needs to be breathed into younger dancers who are more physically capable.
I was intrigued by the variety of opinions about what makes a dance troupe. For Rennie Harris, the dancers are individually accomplished first and then assemble their strengths into a troupe -- think of a jazz band of talented musicians, playing together for a short while, then each having an opportunity to showcase their talents. David Dorfman, on the other hand, loves collaboration. He's had to work hard to get dancers, who expect to be told what to do, to invent their own voice to add to the chorus that he leads. And David Parker is way at the other end of the spectrum -- the choreography is all his; the dancers are welcome to express their opinions, but DP doesn't necessarily listen to any of them.
Rennie Harris was the most thought-provoking, because his troupe does hip-hop, encompassing the full range of all human emotion. He mentioned that in the beginning, when he danced with just men, they just danced. As he added women to his troupe, they started asking annoying questions such as "what's the motivation for the dance?" But he started to develop answers, and as he explored his own thoughts, the dance became richer.
David Dorfman talked about how in his life, he feels like he's off kilter, so his dance is about being off-balance and not fitting in. He also expressed his gratitude for his family (his wife appeared in a fun and loving duet with him), his dance family (his troupe, who in turn expressed gratitude to him and to their colleagues), and to his artistic family, those of us in the audience.
David Parker injected the most humor into his dance, though as he said in a recent interview, never at the expense of the dancers. He also pushed gender barriers the most. One piece, which featured two men and two women, all in identical stunning red dress/suits, was about passion and requited and unrequited love, and had inventive symmetries and athleticism. Oh, and it was danced to a Rachmaninoff piano concerto. At the very end, I was laughing out loud, unable to help myself.
And we have a contra dance next weekend, which can be funny, collaborative, choreographed, (and in our version, gender-challenging), but only rarely as graceful as what we've been watching lately. One can always dream.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
last weekend
Last weekend, we journeyed west to the Massachusetts Berkshires for a couple of days away.
We stayed in a sweet bed and breakfast in a small town that nearly everyone has failed to hear of. The B&B is on an old farm that's been in the same family for generations; the people who run it are a sister and brother in their late 70s or early 80s, but full of energy and terrific hosts. Their home is furnished with antiques, including Shaker items that their father bought at a yard sale when the Shakers up the hill were pulling up stakes. As happened last summer there, we met fascinating people, including a former spy. (I was visiting Cambodia. Oh, what were you doing there? Well, I wasn't living there -- I was just visiting; I was actually living in Laos. And so on.)
We went to two concerts at Tanglewood (summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra). One featured Joshua Bell, a violinist we've seen a number of times, and whom we like. (Apparently everyone else likes him too -- the cheers after he played approached what one might hear at a sports event.) The second featured Emanuel Ax, a popular pianist. And Kurt Masur conducted both concerts; he was also quite popular with the audience.
In addition, we went to a dance performance, of hip-hop. The dance troupe is run by Rennie Harris, who gave a great talk-back afterwards. He said that hip-hop is often seen as pure entertainment, but he wants to present the full range of emotions, from rage, to sorrow, to play. It was pretty amazing to see him dance. He's quite tall, certainly taller than Robert, and heavy (but not particularly fat). But he was incredibly light on his feet, far more graceful than I usually feel.
On Sunday afternoon, it was a little hard to leave. But we'll be back later this summer, so we have a little more Berkshire experience to look forward to.
We stayed in a sweet bed and breakfast in a small town that nearly everyone has failed to hear of. The B&B is on an old farm that's been in the same family for generations; the people who run it are a sister and brother in their late 70s or early 80s, but full of energy and terrific hosts. Their home is furnished with antiques, including Shaker items that their father bought at a yard sale when the Shakers up the hill were pulling up stakes. As happened last summer there, we met fascinating people, including a former spy. (I was visiting Cambodia. Oh, what were you doing there? Well, I wasn't living there -- I was just visiting; I was actually living in Laos. And so on.)
We went to two concerts at Tanglewood (summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra). One featured Joshua Bell, a violinist we've seen a number of times, and whom we like. (Apparently everyone else likes him too -- the cheers after he played approached what one might hear at a sports event.) The second featured Emanuel Ax, a popular pianist. And Kurt Masur conducted both concerts; he was also quite popular with the audience.
In addition, we went to a dance performance, of hip-hop. The dance troupe is run by Rennie Harris, who gave a great talk-back afterwards. He said that hip-hop is often seen as pure entertainment, but he wants to present the full range of emotions, from rage, to sorrow, to play. It was pretty amazing to see him dance. He's quite tall, certainly taller than Robert, and heavy (but not particularly fat). But he was incredibly light on his feet, far more graceful than I usually feel.
On Sunday afternoon, it was a little hard to leave. But we'll be back later this summer, so we have a little more Berkshire experience to look forward to.
giving myself bootstraps
I'm walking down the street talking to someone. I'm sitting quietly, minding my own business. I'm all alone in my house. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a man with a knife or a gun appears, a large, imposing man. Or he breaks into the house and starts to fight with me. Or it's a very large and mean and hungry animal, poised to eat me. Or a huge angry monster is chasing me. The edges of my heart curl up in terror while a drum beat resonates through my body. My breathing becomes heavy and labored. My movements slow down and eventually, I'm frozen, unable to move, unable to save myself.
I wake up, eyes wide, heart beating out a steady loud rhythm. I turn on the light. I'm afraid to go back to sleep lest the job be finished. I worry that someone evil is in the room with me, or maybe in the house. I'm in terrible danger. I don't understand where it came from or where it is right now. Several hours later, if I'm lucky, I go back to sleep. I'm shaken, feeling bearly alive, feeling like I've survived something important, but only so that I can be thrown back in for more of the same treatment. The next day, I'm on edge, certain that the dream will continue, only in real life.
In my late twenties and early thirties, I had this dream and its infinite variations over and over again, sometimes once a week, sometimes more often.
In the beginning, I'd lie in bed terrified. I couldn't manage any other response. After many of these dreams, I'd obsessively replay the events. I'd be terrified. I still wouldn't go to sleep for hours.
Then a survival mechanism kicked in. One early manifestation was to carefully note the lead-up so that I could be better prepared the next time this happened. (Of course, my very creative mind always invented new means of torture.)
One night, as I was trying to relax my breathing, I started to think about the lead-up and how I could have responded differently. I revisited each part of the dream, nearly frame by frame, to discover a break in the logic, to find something I could have done or said to change the outcome. I looked at whether I could have argued, tricked the perpetrator, reacted with charm, or just run away.
And then magic happened. My creative mind did replay a dream. I responded (very meekly the first time), the outcome changed, and when I awoke terrified, I evaluated and decided how else I could have reacted. It turned out that I had many opportunities to practice, sometimes with the same dream, sometimes with more terrifying variations.
As I learned to respond in a more self-preserving way, those dreams tapered off. Eventually, they stopped visiting me at all.
I still have nightmares, but they're far more benign. In a recent one, Robert and I were on a plane which was about to crash -- a mechanical failure. I realized in the dream that I had no control over the situation except my response in our last few seconds together. There was a moment of pure love. Just before impact, I woke up terrified, yes, but also at peace, knowing that no rerun was necessary.
I wake up, eyes wide, heart beating out a steady loud rhythm. I turn on the light. I'm afraid to go back to sleep lest the job be finished. I worry that someone evil is in the room with me, or maybe in the house. I'm in terrible danger. I don't understand where it came from or where it is right now. Several hours later, if I'm lucky, I go back to sleep. I'm shaken, feeling bearly alive, feeling like I've survived something important, but only so that I can be thrown back in for more of the same treatment. The next day, I'm on edge, certain that the dream will continue, only in real life.
In my late twenties and early thirties, I had this dream and its infinite variations over and over again, sometimes once a week, sometimes more often.
In the beginning, I'd lie in bed terrified. I couldn't manage any other response. After many of these dreams, I'd obsessively replay the events. I'd be terrified. I still wouldn't go to sleep for hours.
Then a survival mechanism kicked in. One early manifestation was to carefully note the lead-up so that I could be better prepared the next time this happened. (Of course, my very creative mind always invented new means of torture.)
One night, as I was trying to relax my breathing, I started to think about the lead-up and how I could have responded differently. I revisited each part of the dream, nearly frame by frame, to discover a break in the logic, to find something I could have done or said to change the outcome. I looked at whether I could have argued, tricked the perpetrator, reacted with charm, or just run away.
And then magic happened. My creative mind did replay a dream. I responded (very meekly the first time), the outcome changed, and when I awoke terrified, I evaluated and decided how else I could have reacted. It turned out that I had many opportunities to practice, sometimes with the same dream, sometimes with more terrifying variations.
As I learned to respond in a more self-preserving way, those dreams tapered off. Eventually, they stopped visiting me at all.
I still have nightmares, but they're far more benign. In a recent one, Robert and I were on a plane which was about to crash -- a mechanical failure. I realized in the dream that I had no control over the situation except my response in our last few seconds together. There was a moment of pure love. Just before impact, I woke up terrified, yes, but also at peace, knowing that no rerun was necessary.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
I've seen the future...
Over thirty years ago, a friend (now, sadly, no longer with us) peered into the future and decided to act out what he'd seen. He had a long antenna which he attached to the back of his bicycle. He affixed a Princess telephone to his rear luggage rack. Then he rode up Connecticut Avenue in Washington during rush hour, acted as if the phone was ringing, answered it, and talked to his imaginary friend while pedalling slightly faster than the surrounding cars. He reported that several drivers nearly hit him as they stared, fascinated by an idea that they never could have imagined.
Fast forward to today. I was driving along a fairly narrow numbered route frequented by bicyclists. I was caught in a minor version of rush hour traffic, when I noticed that the slowish car a few positions away was trying to pass a cyclist. As each car passed and I got closer, I noticed that the cyclist was sitting up, but slightly hunched over. I assumed he was taking a sip of water and would soon dip down to cycling position when it was my turn to pass. I glanced over and realized that he was engaged in a cell phone conversation. Yikes! And we thought driving a car and talking was dangerous! Needless to say, I quickly got out of his way.
Fast forward to today. I was driving along a fairly narrow numbered route frequented by bicyclists. I was caught in a minor version of rush hour traffic, when I noticed that the slowish car a few positions away was trying to pass a cyclist. As each car passed and I got closer, I noticed that the cyclist was sitting up, but slightly hunched over. I assumed he was taking a sip of water and would soon dip down to cycling position when it was my turn to pass. I glanced over and realized that he was engaged in a cell phone conversation. Yikes! And we thought driving a car and talking was dangerous! Needless to say, I quickly got out of his way.
Monday, July 04, 2005
first summer trip, 2005
Last weekend, I flew down to Washington to see family. I spent the first part of the trip with my mother. We had a lot of business to transact, and we get along well in that mode. She's working on projects for the next stage of life -- fine-tuning her estate plan, moving my step-father, and moving herself -- lots of big and important thoughts. I'm pleased that she has decoupled the two moves; she and my step-father have different needs. When she was thinking of moving together, I wasn't sure she was solving any long-term issues. I'm also pleased that she's making decisions while she's of sound mind and fairly active; I would hate to make any of these decisions for her.
I briefly saw my step-father, though I'm not sure he saw me or registered that it was me. He looks even more frail than he did the last time. He doesn't speak much, so it's hard to know how much he's taking in. The word that popped to mind was "transparent." He does get good and loving care, and I'm expecting that any decisions made will try to match what he has now.
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The second part of the trip was a visit with my brother, sister-in-law, niece, and nephew. They're in Washington for a few weeks to see grandparents, to allow the kids to revisit their home base, and for my brother to run a three-week theater camp, something he's done every year for over a decade.
I got to stay with them at the Annapolis house. The tenant graciously moved out for a few days, though he did drop by one evening to chat. He was really there so he could get in an evening boat ride with his girl friend and their three dogs.
One of my favorite activities is to sit on the deck by myself and watch the water. The little cove at the bottom of their cliff is now teeming with life; we saw an otter and a great blue heron within just a few minutes of each other. Boats sail by, the light changes. It's one of the most peaceful places I know.
And the kids are great. Paloma, who is nearly four, loves to dress up. This is the outfit she wore to dinner one night -- and she wore all her accessories through dinner. Strangers came up to pay her homage and to announce that there was a princess in our midst.
Santiago, seven and a half, is suddenly fascinated by ancient cultures, foreign languages, and alphabets. He soaks up information about the Egyptians, loves Mayan ruins, and has been printing a notebook worth of information he's found over the web this summer. He built a temple and talked to me about Stonehenge, specifically about how the sun shines through the pillars at specified times of the year. He also talked to me about Saturn (how far away it is, what the rings are made of, the differences between a meteorite and a moon), and apparently he's interested in dinosaurs, too. His mom called him a "mini-Robert."
It was a good trip, but an exhausting one. I was up past midnight every night, and continued that pattern when I got home. (My return flight was three hours late, which turned the last evening from one with plenty of time to get a good night's sleep to a bit of a nightmare with almost no time to sleep.) Fortunately, this weekend includes some extra days, so I have some time to recover. Next weekend, we're off again, this time to the Berkshires in western Massachusetts for a weekend of culture and more relaxation.
I briefly saw my step-father, though I'm not sure he saw me or registered that it was me. He looks even more frail than he did the last time. He doesn't speak much, so it's hard to know how much he's taking in. The word that popped to mind was "transparent." He does get good and loving care, and I'm expecting that any decisions made will try to match what he has now.
------------------
The second part of the trip was a visit with my brother, sister-in-law, niece, and nephew. They're in Washington for a few weeks to see grandparents, to allow the kids to revisit their home base, and for my brother to run a three-week theater camp, something he's done every year for over a decade.
I got to stay with them at the Annapolis house. The tenant graciously moved out for a few days, though he did drop by one evening to chat. He was really there so he could get in an evening boat ride with his girl friend and their three dogs.
One of my favorite activities is to sit on the deck by myself and watch the water. The little cove at the bottom of their cliff is now teeming with life; we saw an otter and a great blue heron within just a few minutes of each other. Boats sail by, the light changes. It's one of the most peaceful places I know.
And the kids are great. Paloma, who is nearly four, loves to dress up. This is the outfit she wore to dinner one night -- and she wore all her accessories through dinner. Strangers came up to pay her homage and to announce that there was a princess in our midst.
Santiago, seven and a half, is suddenly fascinated by ancient cultures, foreign languages, and alphabets. He soaks up information about the Egyptians, loves Mayan ruins, and has been printing a notebook worth of information he's found over the web this summer. He built a temple and talked to me about Stonehenge, specifically about how the sun shines through the pillars at specified times of the year. He also talked to me about Saturn (how far away it is, what the rings are made of, the differences between a meteorite and a moon), and apparently he's interested in dinosaurs, too. His mom called him a "mini-Robert."
It was a good trip, but an exhausting one. I was up past midnight every night, and continued that pattern when I got home. (My return flight was three hours late, which turned the last evening from one with plenty of time to get a good night's sleep to a bit of a nightmare with almost no time to sleep.) Fortunately, this weekend includes some extra days, so I have some time to recover. Next weekend, we're off again, this time to the Berkshires in western Massachusetts for a weekend of culture and more relaxation.
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