So? I’m finished. What’s next?

We planted trees in the backyard on Friday night—a tiny Magnolia with shy, pink blooms, and a straight and sturdy Pear. GB dug beneath gray clouds while I waited for the sky to unfurl. I pitched in wherever I could; this was, after all, 36×37 assignment #35: Plant a Tree.

Here’s proof:

This is my shovel, this is my foot

I’m glad I got this photo, because I really did try. In all honesty, though, I’m a little short on brute force, and when it comes to digging, I’m largely unsuccessful.

I’ll admit, then, that the scene mostly looked like this:

…and this

…and this

He We didn’t have much time to work before the sun set, but it was enough time for me to thank GB for being so supportive and for helping me with the project this year. (You can read my first post and the explanation of 36×37 here.) If I thought he was my best friend before the last 365 days, I know it with all my heart now.

I tried to tell him so as he scooped soil back into the hole. I hoped he could tell I was sincere.

It started to rain. He didn’t pause, he just kept planting.

~*~

Magnolia tree

At its start, this project was really just a cover for my early mid-life crises. I hypothesized the lengths I thought I’d need to go to keep from smacking my head against the predictability of daily routine. I thought I’d need big doses of adventure to keep myself from growing old and stale. What I didn’t realize was that I’d been planting and harvesting adventures all along—even in the smallest things, like sipping a new Greek coffee, or planning a quiet evening out with GB, or whispering bedtime stories with the boys. The big-time adventures—like flying the Light Sport aircraft and doubling down in Vegas and taking trapeze lessons and standing on the state line—were great, truly. But when I started to look for new experiences, I realized I don’t need to work so hard to create them. They find me, they find us, until it’s absolutely intoxicating.

I did right to bring my family with me on this year’s adventures. They were essential, because all along I understood how much they are the critical ingredients to my happiness. It’s so much better to see life’s surprises together, and no matter which direction I look, I will always land on my family’s faces.

Just as importantly, this blog became a place to seek out a community. I had no idea the blogosphere was full of such remarkable people. Now I’m rich with friendship—the face to face kind, and the screen to screen kind, too, because I’ve found both to be equally important. I’ve met good people, excellent writers and story tellers, all with a love for experience. Best of all, I’ve become entrenched in dozens of funny, insightful, engaging, ongoing conversations. No small talk here.

It was so much more and so much better than I expected.

~*~

Pear tree

This morning, at breakfast, I had an idea.

“You know what we should do this year?” I said. “We should start a box. And every time we do something new or interesting or different, we should find a token of that moment, bring it home and put it in the box. At the end of the year, we can look at it all together. I can blog about each one so we have a quick record of each…”

And now, I finally know what the next phase of 36×37 will be. Forget the race against time. Forget the numbers. We’ll just look at this life together and see what we can squeeze out of it.

…As for assignment #36? I did it. And I ate the most gorgeous ice cream birthday cake to celebrate.

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#34: Back to the Future

Now, two days before this 36×37 adventure comes to an end, I’m staring down the barrel of my most sentimental assignment to date—Build a Family Time Capsule. I wish I’d given this idea more thought before now; a recap of the year so close to its end is anything but a good idea.

Because at first, my family searched the house for tokens to represent ourselves as individuals. I gathered: a three-year-old photo of the four of us outside on a sunny fall day; a dog-eared copy of Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury; a widowed blue topaz earring that belonged to my grandmother.

I thought these things could sketch an outline of my character. But given the context, that sketch had no meaning, and I knew it.

Meanwhile, my fellas chose items that made much more sense. The boys handed me Lego guys and plastic, four-inch super heroes. (Appropriate selections, to be sure; they dominated nearly every conversation we’ve had this year.) GB added his ticket to OSU Vs. Miami 2010, his grandmother’s obituary from January, and last June’s Father’s Day card.

All tokens of April 2010 to April 2011.

That’s when I realized this assignment shouldn’t speak for us one by one. It should show the things families do to sustain themselves, to sustain each other.

~*~

Tonight, H sits down to dinner and reads us four books. He does this after 30 minutes of bike riding on a bright spring day. He can add and subtract now. He has a best friend. Soccer starts Saturday. Karate starts Monday. All of these things are new.

O made a duck this week at preschool. He can count to 50 with a little help, and he’s quick as a whip at building puzzles. He draws people and houses and cheerful flowers. He calls me “Mommy” now instead of “Mama.” It’s new and wonderful stuff. All of it.

GB has learned to relax. These days, there are games of chase, hoops in the driveway, funny late night conversations, a zest for traveling and exploring our surroundings. It’s hard for grown-ups to find balance, but I think he’s starting to master it.

And me, I’ve learned to take inventory. I thought I counted blessings before. I thought I did, but really, I had no idea.

Now my time capsule list is very different. To the super heroes and Lego guys and ticket stubs, I’ll add print-outs of each and every 36×37 assignment.

It just seems obvious. Let this year and this family speak for itself.

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#33: The Tooth Fairy Cometh

(via istockphoto.com)

I hear a commotion from where I stand at the kitchen sink. There is a scurry of feet, a pounding at the steps, and then a few quick taps from one excited little hand.

I look down to find a bouncing H. His mouth is open wide, and he points urgently to his two front lower incisors.

“They’re wiggly!” he shouts and then bounces some more.

“They are?!” I say. “Well, buddy, that’s great!” I ask him to stop hopping so I can check out his teeth for myself. Sure enough, they’re as wiggly as worms.

I’m happy for two reasons. First, my kindergartener—who walked at 10 months and spoke full sentences by his first birthday—is one of the last kids in his class to drop a few pearly whites. The delay has turned into a point of stress for my kiddo; lately, I’ve caught him with a furrowed brow and two plier-like fingers in his mouth. Often.

I’m also excited because I’ve never played the role of Tooth Fairy. It smacks soundly of a new 36×37 assignment. I’m thankful for that because it will replace what was supposed to be assignment #33 – Learn to Change a Tire.

H pokes through one of our many “junk” drawers and pulls out the Tooth Fairy pillow my mom gave him a few months ago. “I can finally use this!” he says, flashing a smile that will one day soon be two teeth short.

~*~

Now, I don’t know about you, but some of the people I know get competitive about certain things, like where they went on their last spa vacation, or what luxury car they plan to buy this summer. The habit extends all the way down the rank and file, because some parents in H’s class have forked over $20 per tooth, and their kids have talked about it with their friends. “That’s preposterous,” I think. “They’re baby teeth, for crying out loud.” And besides all that, H has 20 teeth to lose. Do we really need to invest $400 in this enterprise, when a $20 total sounds much more intelligent?

I take the question to my friends via facebook: “How much coin is the Tooth Fairy dropping these days?” I ask. My friends give reasonable answers: One to two dollars seems to be the going rate.

I dwell and dwell and dwell on this. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t, but look at it this way: If I take the reasonable route, will H come home and ask why the Tooth Fairy gave him $1, while Joe received a cool, green Jackson? If yes, what answer will I give—that the Tooth Fairy donated the other $19 to his college fund?

So I dwell some more. In fact, I dwell so much that I do something really stupid.

“I ran into Scott at the store,” I tell GB. “I told him H has two loose teeth, and asked him his opinion on the going Tooth Fairy rate. He said he gave his kids $20 for each tooth. I told him I thought that was crazy!”

I notice a strange look cross GB’s face. Then I remember where I am and what I’m doing: standing at the boys’ bathroom sink, helping H brush his tiny chompers.

Oh no.

H looks at me quizzically. “$20 per tooth?” he asks.

I give him a hug to hide my face while I back pedal. “That was a long time ago…” I say eventually. “Mr. Scott’s kids are teenagers now. I don’t think the Tooth Fairy gives away that much change anymore. You know. Because of the Recession.”

I look at GB who shakes his head and laughs. “Good work,” I tell myself. “You’ve just added another idiot move to your growing collection.”

~*~

We spend the next few days doing everything we can think of to extract the wigglier of the two teeth. H takes to apples. Steak. Hard candy. Rigorous brushing. In the end, GB takes matters into his own hands—literally. It’s a quick and painless yank, and H is ecstatic.

He slides the tooth into the pocket of the Tooth Fairy pillow then places it under the cool side of his blue and red pillow case.

“You might not want to shove it under so far,” I say. “I’ll bet the Tooth Fairy is about Tinkerbelle’s size; the pillow might be hard for her to lift.”

H nods appreciatively at my advice and slides the tiny pillow to the edge of the bed.

“I should go to sleep!” he says. “I don’t want to be awake when she gets here!”

“Good thinking,” I say.

“You should get to sleep, too, Mama,” he says. “I don’t want you to ruin this for me.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” I say.

Fifteen minutes later, my boy is in Snoozetown. Already he has turned away from his pillow to assist the transaction. Carefully, I swipe the tooth for the cash. When I retreat from his room on my tiptoes, I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

In the morning, I wake to find H snuggled warmly against my side. He’s reluctant to open his eyes until I remind him about his nighttime visitor. He rushes to his room, casts aside all pillows and blankets and finds two gold $1 coins where his tooth used to be.

Based on his new jack-o-lantern smile, it is exactly enough.

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#32 Cont’d: Freak Show Carousel

You have to understand: When I see a place like this, there’s no way I won’t stop for it.

Merry-Go-Round Museum, Sandusky, OH

The building is one of the first things we see when we drive through the heart of downtown Sandusky. It’s just the sort of unusual thing we’re searching for today. But lunchtime beckons, and so does a glimpse of the water. I make a mental note, and resolve not to leave town before seeing The Merry-Go-Round Museum for ourselves.

So we hit the bistro and the Maritime Museum. (I’ve told you all of this already.) When we finish, we power through the doors of the Merry-Go-Round Museum until we eventually come face to face with this:

I survey the 7’ carving slowly. “Is that…a stork?” I ask aloud.

The boys have already left me to see what else they can find, and GB ambles behind them. I realize then that I’m talking to myself, or at the very least, I’m talking to the painted wooden form of a gigantic bird. That strikes me as funny, but then I look to my left and see this:

And then I look to my right and see this:

Suddenly, the atmosphere takes a dreamlike quality. I wonder half seriously if I’ve fallen into some sort of strange and freakish slumber. When the organ from a working carousel begins to play, I follow the boys to their seats, feeling heady and a bit out of sorts, but that’s not a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.

~*~

You might not know this, but carousels are almost extinct. One of the only remaining manufacturers—The Carousel Works—is based in Mansfield, OH; and it’s the only firm that designs, carves and assembles under one roof. Given that nobody makes hand-carved Merry-Go-Rounds anymore, and everyone loves a good monopoly, it’s no surprise that a fully-loaded carousel will sell for anywhere between $300,000 and $1 million dollars.

If you ever find yourself at the Columbus Zoo, which boasts a Carousel Works original, you can think about that price tag when you pay for two tickets to ride.

~*~

The carousel ride lasts five minutes at least. I try to talk O into riding the baby bunny and H into riding the zebra, but in the end, they go for traditional horses, like this one:

Meanwhile, I’m still struck by the beautiful, slightly oddball carvings:

When we leave, I still have that same vague feeling of otherworldliness. I don’t know how to describe it, so instead I’ll redirect you to The Merry-Go-Round Museum online. You won’t see much beyond what I’ve already shown you here, but you’ll hear a bizarre, fun and uncomfortable little jingle to give you a true flavor of the place. It’s funny and mostly normal, but still just freakish enough to give you pause and question whether you really woke up this morning.

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#32: What Up, Sandusky?

It’s Saturday, and as far as Saturdays go, this one begins like all the others: Little boys awake and whispering by 7:30; everyone showered and dressed by 8:30; pancakes on the stove by 9:00; full bellies and clean dishes by 9:30.

With that routine officially under our belts, I pull out my computer and Google the map of Ohio. I call the boys to me, and when they arrive after some coaxing, I position one on either side of me. “Put your fingies together,” I say. “…Yep, together like this. Great. Now point to the map. Wherever you land, that’s where we’ll go today.”

And so they do. They put their pointer fingers to work, and by 1:00, we’re driving along the Ohio coastline, breathing the crisp Lake Erie air.

~*~

There’s no itinerary for this excursion, which is all very well; 36×37 assignment #32 includes picking a place the day of the trip, then going there without additional planning. Now that we’re here, we have nothing to do but drive around to search for adventure. And so we find a few things. They jump out at us the way tourist attractions sometimes do.

Dining

First, there’s lunch in a time-warped bistro—Barardi’s Restaurant. Based on our friendly and attentive server’s teased-up, platinum hairdo, I’m guessing we’re trapped somewhere between 1968 and 1972. The gargantuan burgers are slathered in cheese. The fries are hand-cut and doused in salt. There are flaky, fresh-baked pies in the pie counter. (Can you believe it? A pie counter?) Not only is that quaint and slightly adorable, but I’ll bet every last one of those cream-filled beauties is packed with unspeakable deliciousness.

H is more adventurous than usual with his meal. By that, I mean he actually eats it, and I think that has more to do with his newly loose tooth and his desire to extract it than it has to do with anything else. He’s trying to show it off for you in this photo:

Entertainment

We stop next at the Maritime Museum of Sandusky, which sounds like a snooze but—surprise—it actually isn’t! First, as it turns out, the Maritime Museum happens to employ the nicest man in the world who smiles at the boys and lets us all in for the family price of a wee $6.00 total.

Secondly, the place has all kinds of photo opportunities, like this:

The boys get to “test drive” a vintage Lyman Boat simulator that rocks like it’s on water and comes complete with working horns and windshield wipers…

They make boats…

Tie nautical knots…

And admire the pristine models.

Later, when I ask the boys about their favorite part of the trip, they agree that the Maritime Museum wins hands down.

History

If you’ve heard of Sandusky, it’s either because you’re from Ohio, or you’ve visited Cedar Point Amusement Park, which boasts the largest collection of roller coasters in the world. However, for much of the late 19^th and early 20^th century, Sandusky was known for something else—the largest fresh water harbor in America and the finest fish market in the world. It produced more fish than all the Great Lakes combined.

But it wasn’t just a fishing town. In the down season, when the lake froze 18 inches thick, Sandusky morphed into the largest ice shipping port west of the Hudson River. Its harvested ice was used predominantly to ship fish and beer, and would travel as far as Havana, Cuba—10 lbs of ice for every lb of fish.

Sandusky also was an active stop on the Underground Railroad. As Harriet Beecher Stowe described in the novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin, many runaway slaves sought freedom in Canada, and arrived at this nationally known port of escape to cross Lake Erie with the help of a captain willing to take the risk.

The American shipping industry died in Sandusky years ago. These days, when you watch the Great Lake waters and spot an industrial boat, chances are that boat is Canadian.

Sightseeing

We end up at the Marblehead Lighthouse.

It’s chilly, so we don’t spend much time there, but for a Maryland kid like GB, it’s nice to be back on the water. We take a different route for the ride home—one that takes us along the coast, so we can watch for just a few minutes longer the icy waves waking up to a Northern Ohio spring.

To Be Continued

That’s not all we do. Between the Maritime Museum and the lighthouse, we make another stop. I’ll tell you more about that tomorrow because I need real estate for all the truly strange and excellent photos I took. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with a riddle: What has two legs, a long neck, and goes up and down in a circle? The answer is “Stork.” You’ll find out why tomorrow.

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Randyland Revisited

(via vuvan.com)

In H’s room, there sits a wall clock with a minute hand that ticks louder than it should. I always notice it, but when the house is dead quiet like it is today, I almost stop the hands so I can fold and put away my son’s clothes in peace. From his windows, I can see a slog of soggy gray clouds hanging above our house. I dismiss them happily, because by this time next week they’ll be gone, and it will be springtime, finally, in Columbus, OH.

If you’re counting, this also means that my last 36×37 assignment is due in 11 days. That’s fun to think about—the number of accomplishments and silliness we can fit inside a year—but before I can hand in #36, I have four others I need to accomplish first. This means I have some work to do.

While I’m doing that, here’s an old piece with some major tweaks here and there to refine the story. As far as 36×37 assignments go, #5 was a personal favorite. I hope you enjoy the repost…or at the very least, I really hope you’ll like Randy.

~*~

36×37 Assignment #5: A Postcard from Randyland (June 1, 2010)

A few years ago, GB drove to Pittsburgh for a weekend to help my brother and former sister-in-law with her family’s business. When they returned and I asked about the trip, they peppered their recount with stories about some guy named Randy.

“You should see this guy,” GB said. “He was a server at the restaurant in our hotel, but he’s also an artist with a huge, quirky personality. I guess he bought an old building on the Central Northside, completely renovated it with recycled stuff, and started this whole rejuvenation project across his community. It’s wild.”

Now, I love art. And I’m fascinated by people who can cut themselves loose from social convention. But so far, nothing about the guy sounded that out of the ordinary. He sounded like a lot of other people I’ve met over the years.

GB could see I wasn’t convinced, so he opened a Google search. And he showed me this:

And this:

And this:

“This is Randyland,” he said.

I scrolled up and down, clicking picture after picture. “Is this for real?” I asked.

GB nodded, arms folded.

“Huh!” I said, nodding back.

~*~

Now we’re here in Pittsburgh. My brother and I have seen the city dozens of times, but this trip has a special purpose: We’re here to see Randy. It’s 36×37 assignment #5.

There are rules to this trip. First of all, Randy doesn’t know why we’re here. No one is allowed to tell him, either, because I want to observe him organically.

Maybe you’ve never heard of Randy, but he’s actually somewhat a celebrity, and from what I can tell, he’s a rare and interesting guy. The Chicago Tribune thinks so. Good Morning America thinks so. The Dave Matthews Band thinks so. And so do 50,000 or so other tourists annually. I wanted to see for myself whether I should agree.

~*~

Randy was raised in a poor neighborhood across town from his current address. His mother—a Salvation Army minister—was a single parent to six children, so his family didn’t have much when he was a child. In one article I found (on popcitymedia.com), he said his interest in recycling and refurbishing trashed items began when he was small. He built bikes and made toys for his siblings year-round, then stored them in the basement. At Christmas, he placed his creations around the Christmas tree so his family’s holidays would look like the ones in magazines.

In another article, he said he’d been told all his life that he’d never amount to anything. He took that as a challenge, and redefined what success meant to him: Happiness.

I’m not sure how or when he came to live in the Mexican War Streets district of downtown Pittsburgh. However, I do know his restoration project began in 1982 with a $1,000 unemployment check and some barrels filled with dirt and flowers. In 1996, he bought the 3-parcel Jacksonia Street property for $11,300.

Today, Randy is almost single-handedly responsible for installing 800 streetscapes, 50 vegetable gardens, and eight parks across the 30-block area.

~*~

Now we’re eating breakfast, and Randy is our server. I’ll concede that he’s loud, talkative and gregarious, and I’m guessing busy and/or perpetually hung-over patrons would find him “hard to take.” But for folks with a good sense of humor, Randy’s the man. He pulls off his abundance of energy with sincerity and sweetness. He makes an impression.

Here’s what I mean:

While we’re eating, five families come and go, and each makes a special point to tell our host goodbye. They initiate hugs and handshakes. He remembers their names. They leave the restaurant feeling important, like they’ve just seen a long-lost friend.

Me? I’m taken with how he treats my boys.

“Do you know why good food is important?” he asks them. They nod like smiling, hypnotized puppets, so he continues. “The food goes down your throat and into your belly and down to your toes and up to your brain, and that’s what makes you smart! That’s what makes you strong!” His eyes crinkle into a smile as my boys shovel spoonful after spoonful of cinnamon-scented Irish steel-cut oats into their tiny, chewing mouths.

~*~

Before we arrived, some of my online research uncovered articles and posts that painted Randy as a court jester of sorts–someone to observe then scoff at in private. Not all reports were unkind; but they all did consistently force him into a kind of  “otherness.” They used phrases like “eccentric,” “larger than life,” and “colorful” to build a storied image of the man.

Maybe, but if you look beyond those words, you might see a man who is kind to the core. That’s who I see, anyway: a unique person with a tender, exposed and joyful spirit.

I feel guilty. I realize now that I came here to gawk at a man who walks to his own beat, even though I told myself I had honest intentions. Today, however, I marvel at his pure and obvious love for companionship, and his desire to turn each day into something that feels like a promise. I’m ashamed of my short-sightedness and relieved he proved to be more than just a caricature.

“Randy, when you have a minute,” I say, “Can we get a picture with you?”

I love this photo. It’s blurry, but it captures everything I want to say about Randy: He makes people happy.

Anyway, we click the picture, and the next thing I know, Randy is handing me a map and offering to give us the Randyland grand tour if we can wait an hour for him to go home and tidy the place. I figure such a tour will add a certain “flavor” to this particular assignment, so we head toward the Mexican War Streets. We arrive before Randy does, unfortunately, so we snap the photos you saw above, then pile into the car to head back home.

The boys burst into tears. They don’t want to leave Randyland.

And from what I can tell, the grown ups don’t want to leave either.

Want more photos of Randyland? Check out this set on Flikr.

P.S. Randyland wasn’t the only “new thing” we did in Pittsburgh. Check out Assignment #5 (Part II) for more…

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Update on #36: Death by (Lack of) Chocolate

Temptation, she is a cruel, persistent mistress.

Now 25 days into my promise to ban all sweets through (the week before) Lent, I am pleased to report that, for the first Lenten Season in my life, I am still 100% dessert-free. However, I feel I should point out that the sacrifice has taken its toll, as I am now but a brittle, broken shell of my former self, and besides all that, I’m quite grumpy.

You think I’m melodramatic, but consider the lengths I’ve gone to just to keep my behavior in check. In the last (nearly) four weeks, I’ve eaten mass quantities of some very strange things just to distract myself from any and all dessert-ish deliciousness:

• Tic Tacs (orange-flavored)
• Mentholated cough drops (cherry-flavored)
• Fistful after fistful of Life cereal (cinnamon-flavored)
• Salad and salad and salad (balsamic-vinaigrette flavored)
• Wheat crackers…so many wheat crackers (salt- and bread-flavored)

Please note that I’ve only resorted to these desperate measures in times of extreme stress. Otherwise, mostly I’m fine. Mostly, I’m doin’ ok, even as the freezer remains fully loaded with ice cream, and GB tells long and lovely tales of the Girl Scout Cookies he’s keeping at work, and the boys eat chocolate pudding after the dinners they barely touch, and I fall to pieces in the pantry.

Here’s the thing, though, about not cracking under pressure: I can’t explain this—maybe you can—but I’ve found a sick, sordid and darkly satisfying new past time: placing myself in the enemy’s way.

Here’s what I mean:

• Day 3: I made batch after batch of iced sugar cookies for the boys’ in-class birthday parties. I creamed the dairy-free butter and sugar. I whipped tall peaks of French vanilla frosting. I spread soft, rippled waves of said icing across the tops of said freshly baked cookies. And when I was finished, I dropped icing-coated whisks untouched into a full sink of water.
• Day 8: I handed 36 dairy/egg-free cupcakes to a room full of already over-sugared little boys who sang “Happy Birthday” to my fellows as they blew out the candles at their out-of-school birthday party. We had relatives at home, so of course there were bowls full of plain and peanut M&Ms that lingered for days…because I was not eating them.
• Day 16: I walked into a candy shop with this in the window:

Inside there were trays and trays of truffles and caramel clusters and chocolate-dipped pretzels and the like. I’m not sure how long I stared at the peanut butter fudge in the display case, but let’s just say it was a long, long time.

• Day 20: I handed a sample of chocolate caramel cake to O just to watch how much he enjoyed eating it. And he did enjoy it. A lot. I wish I’d thought to take a photo, because that sort of happiness needs to be captured and shared.
• Day 24: I began to daydream about the enormous Graeter’s ice cream cake (it’s ice cream! It’s cake!) I’m going to request the day I turn 37—just 27 days from today—and this whole dessert-free nightmare is finally over.

There’s only one way I can think of to end this update: Twenty-four days in, I also rediscovered Kettle Corn.

I finally know how I’m going to make it through the rest of the season.

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#31: The Family-that-Nearly-Wasn’t Leaves Chicago

I should explain that we didn’t just drive to Chicago for the St. Patrick’s Day parade. We came to the city for much more than that—or at least I did. Last weekend’s visit marked our first Chicago stay in almost a decade. But more importantly, it’s the first Chicago visit we’ve made with our boys.

“Really? You call that a first?” you ask. “Isn’t that a stretch? Aren’t you cheating a little?”

On the surface, maybe. Maybe I am. But read more. You can decide for yourself.

~*~

It’s Sunday, March 13, and we’re closing out my tenth Chicago visit with a trip to the Children’s Museum at the Navy Pier. Already, I’m feeling a sense of disconcerted awareness: It’s time to go; we really, really want to stay.

I’ll get into all of that in a minute. But first, I need to explain how my obsession with this city was born.

• Trips 1 and 2: Fresh from graduate school, I took a job with a three-person firm that raised sponsorships for some of the larger events in Columbus. My boss also held part-ownership in a few running magazines, so in the summers we flew to Chicago for an annual sporting goods convention. I got a lot of free stuff from Nike on those trips, but never saw much of the city. I vowed to go back and explore the place on my own.
• Trip 3: My mom, cousin and I decided to hit the town with no purpose other than to shop, eat marvelous food and check out the night life. My quest for adventure was a little different back then; I remember taking a taxi back to the hotel while my companions stayed out to the wee-est hours. I shake my head at this now, for obvious reasons.
• Trips 4, 5 and 6: When a friend announced she was engaged, we hopped a plane to Chicago to “field study” her bachelorette party. We spent our first two trips scouting out ideas for a girls’ weekend, and spent the sixth trip absorbing whatever the town had to offer with all the women in her wedding party. On those trips, I dug into the city to see as much of it as I could. Until then, I’d never been brave enough to seek out new experiences. In fact, I’d never really been game for anything much at all. But those weekends, I got a taste of opportunity. The city and I just clicked. I felt like I’d slipped into a skin I could mold into whatever I wanted, so I could learn to not be afraid of so much. It was a really good fit, and I liked it, and suddenly, everything was different.

Later, I tried to convince GB that we should scrap our jobs and move somewhere other than Columbus, where the opportunities were better and we could plot a new course together. I think he was tempted—there’s always something tempting about starting fresh—but in the end, we never set the wheels in motion. We agreed to be satisfied with frequent visits. That’s how trips eight and nine came about:

• (Trip 7: This stop almost doesn’t count; it was a business trip, and I didn’t even stay the night. Why? Why, exactly? Help me make sense of this, current employer!)
• Trips 8 and 9: Eventually, GB and I decided to pursue MBAs at a local university that allowed us to work full time and attend classes at night. One of our finance professors offered a course that involved killing time most of the semester until we could fly to Chicago and tour the financial exchanges. I took the class and brought GB as my guest. A year later, GB returned the favor.

I think it’s trip nine that I remember the most.

It was almost eight years ago. After months of considering a childless future (not because we didn’t want kids, but because I thought I’d be a horrible parent), GB and I had a collective change of heart and decided to start a family. On Father’s Day, we told our parents they’d be grandparents by mid-February. We ate homemade sour cream coffee cake on a bright summer morning to celebrate. The next day, I lost the baby.

A few days after that, we hopped a plane to tour the Fed, the Merc, and the floors of the Chicago Stock Exchange. I remember walking along Michigan Avenue and stopping at FAO Schwarz®. I watched other parents watch their children as they gaped at all the marvelous toys. Then I grieved for a family I was sure would never be.

It took two years to finally prove myself wrong.

~*~

Well, you know and I know this story has a happy ending. Although there isn’t an FAO Schwarz in Chicago anymore, there is one H and one O. I never would have foreseen this eight years ago.

It’s strange how hard it is to see forward through the face of loss. No matter what the ugly circumstance may be, well-meaning people will insist it will all work out for you in the end. Back then, I wanted to clutch those people by the shoulders, shake them and beg them not to make false promises. Because how could they possibly know what rights and wrongs could come out of this. And how could they not know how much not knowing could hurt.

That’s what faith and patience are for, though. Not every story has a rose-colored conclusion. But some stories do.

That’s why standing here in Chicago with my three best guys for the first time feels like a very big deal. GB and I went from wondering if we wanted this, to wanting it more than anything. We couldn’t grasp hold of it, and then suddenly we could, like a brightly wrapped box had been handed to us in a quiet flourish.

Now, we walk out of the Chicago Children’s Museum and pile into the car. As GB drives down Lakeshore Drive, I ask the boys what they’ve liked best about the trip.

“All of it, I fink,” H answers.

“That’s what I’ll say, too, Mama,” O agrees.

“Me, too,” I say. “All of it, for sure.”

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#30: Erin Go Bragh, Chicago Style

 

(google image via gallagher.com)

It’s late on Friday night. When we check into the Fairmont Hotel at Millennium Park, I tell the guy behind the desk we’re in town for the St. Patrick’s Day festivities. His hair is black and his eyes are bright blue; I think he looks a bit Irish himself. I assume he’ll know the rundown of tomorrow’s events, and apparently he does: Chicago River turns green at 10:45 am, parade starts on Columbus Drive at noon, and then, all the drunken crazies come out. I thank him, grab the keys and steer my fellas to our room.

Our view is quite nice. We can see the river. I wonder aloud if we’ll be able to watch the greening of the water from the comfort of the 22^nd floor. This turns out to be the case, because when I happen by the window at 9:45 am on Saturday, I see a pool of green dye flowing downstream in a rush.

“Wait! We’re missing the greening!” I exclaim. At once, the guys run to the windows to see for themselves. They start throwing on shoes and coats, and in five minutes, we rush out onto the street.

It’s 40 degrees and overcast. It’s not frigid, thankfully, but let’s face it, it could be warmer. After making that basic observation, we remember we left our hats and gloves in our car, which is parked a long city block away in the dregs of public parking, and in the opposite direction of our path to the river.

We press on, and at the end of the stretch, we see this.

It really that green.

The mobile cameras of the city are working overtime. Couples smooch before the green water hoping a little luck will rub off on their relationships. My boys are equal parts grossed out and stealthily curious. We decide to keep moving, but not without first buying hats. (Geebus. The wind in this town.)

~*~

We walk for an hour, killing time before the parade. O is in full complain mode, uttering under his breath that he’s cold and hates parades and wants to go to the toy store. I feel for him and his four-year-old legs walking all over this windy, cold snap of town. I suspect I’m asking too much from him, so I pick him up and together we shuffle through the crowd. I get happy, unlimited hugs for the next 10 minutes until he grows drowsy and his little arms go slack. At first, I think he’s asleep. Then he mutters that the city has too many people and his fingers are cold and he’s tired.

We find a spot among the green and teeming masses of Irish men and women who have dug in their heels along Columbus Drive. A stranger hands the boys a sleeve of shamrock stickers; they peel them off the backing and slap them against our lapels until all four of us are covered in clovers and saucy Irish sayings. My guys are rosy-cheeked and happy now; they stay that way until two of our party suddenly realize that nature is calling.

So what should one do? The parade is 10 minutes from starting, bathrooms are four blocks away, everyone is cold and none of us really likes a parade much anyway. We wait long enough for the Color Guard to pass, stay for the bag pipes then turn on our heels to go.

It sounds like a waste, but it’s not. Here’s why:

On the way back to the hotel, GB carries a sleeping O while H and I swing hands and lead through the crowd. Eventually we find the hotel, step into the elevators, troll through the hallways and burst into the still of our cozy room. O sacks out cold on the bed and stays there in a steady snooze for the next two hours. GB and H decide to watch a little March Madness, so I crawl under the covers to try to get warm. It doesn’t take long to find a little nap for myself, too.

See? Does that sound like a waste to you? We could have done all of this at home, but the point is, we wouldn’t have.

When I said we’d attend the St. Patrick’s Day parade, that’s what I meant, and so that’s what we did. I never said we’d have to stay for the whole thing. By my book, mission accomplished.

~*~

It occurred to me Friday that we stumbled upon another 36×37 assignment this weekend, which is nice, especially now that I’m so close to the April 17 cut-off date. I’ll write all about it tomorrow.

In the meantime, as promised, I’ll leave you with a wee Irish tune to gear you up for this Thursday’s official St. Patrick’s Day’s festivities. I’ve decided not to post a traditional Irish tune today. Instead, I think I’ll stick to something a little more contemporary—Van Morrison—not only because he’s great and hails from Northern Ireland, but also because I know the artist choice will make my friend Sunshine happy.

Van Morrison – Gloria

More tomorrow. Top o’ the mornin’ (or evenin’) to all ye Irish at heart, and to all the rest of ye, too.

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#30 is coming: Watching Chicago Go Irish

(via 2sistersblog.com)

Every year on March 1, my mother breaks out four things: 1) the Irish flag, 2) Irish decorations, 3) Irish accessories, and 4) a host of jaunty, traditional Irish tunes. There are four weeks of nothing but leprechaun socks and fiddles and tenors and bass drums, because even after St. Patrick’s Day has passed, she just keeps going, enjoying her heritage until April Fools Day shows its impish, pranking face.

If you don’t think this is an important element in shaping a family, look at it this way: I spent exactly 1/12 of my childhood celebrating a single day. There was a period where I tried to ignore all the Irishness, just to be rebellious, but these days, on the day, I’m the person who passes out clover stickers at work and wears buttons that say things like, “Top o’ the mornin’!” and “Pretend I’m the Blarney Stone.”

It also means that, should we ever walk into an Irish pub with a live band, I’ll make you learn to sing along to this:

The Dubliners & The Pogues – Whiskey in the Jar

That’s just how it is. When you have an Irish mother, you can’t help yourself. When my boys are grown, I hope they’ll know these songs by heart, too.

~*~

When I was young, we’d go so far as to travel three hours to celebrate appropriately. In my mother’s hometown of Pittsburgh, there’s a massive Irish population that puts on an equally massive St. Patrick’s Day parade. We didn’t go every year, but we went often enough. And when it was over, we walked around town in our Irishness to find other people who were Irish, too, even if just for the day.

Ah. Fun, Irish-y times were had by all.

We’re not going to Pittsburgh this weekend. Not at all. After 36 years of learning to celebrate the day, I’m finally ready for the biggest St. Patrick’s Day celebration there is this side of the Atlantic. And as my half-Irish/half-Sicilian luck would have it, the festivities just happen to be in my favorite American city.

Chicago.

(Oh, my heart just wept happy Irish tears.)

Because here’s what you must know: When I first put together my 36×37 list, St. Patrick’s Day in Chicago was the very first thing I thought of. And now we’re headed there tonight at 3:00 PM ET. Which just goes to show: once a lass sets her sights on something, nothing can tell her “no.”

I’ve packed my greens, complete with shamrock-dotted knee-high socks, so I can do this up right, 36×37 style. When my fellas and I get there, we’ll see a river dyed green and men in kilts and lots o’ bag pipes and Irish wolfhounds and Celtic dancers and people who are far drunker than I could ever hope to be.

I’ll take pictures. I’ll post them here. And as an added bonus, my posts shall greet thee with a wee Irish tune every day next week. You’ll either love them, or you’ll say what H said tonight when I popped in some live cuts from the Pogues: “How could anyone clap for this stuff?”

Céad míle fáilte! (One hundred thousand welcomes.)

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