The Burrow

Actually, it's going to be more of whine.  I apologize in advance.  It's a busy travel day for those I love. I'm happy for all of them. I'm sad for myself. Please, allow me to wallow in self-pity for a moment. Amster is taking the boys to Disneyland for a long weekend, end-of-Spring-Break, treat. Two other families are joining the fun. I was invited, but large public spaces and I have had an on-again/off-again relationship since I was perforated.  I ruefully refused the invitation and so, off they went, at noon today, in a mini-van caravan to The Most Wonderful Place on Earth.   Pictures have been promised, and I'll share their joy vicariously. Still, not having my favorite little boys around, missing my favorite spur of the moment lunch partner.... I'm a little bit sad. Big Cuter will be in Vienna when you read this post. I've worried aloud already ; his text that he's safely landed at Dulles in D.C., followed by the one telli...

Twenty-two years ago,  the blonde bride  refused to get out of the car. It was the first soccer practice of the year, two weeks before school started.  She was new to town and knew no one.  And so, there stood her mother, totally perplexed. If the kid didn't want to play, she didn't want to play.  That was fine.  She didn't have to participate if she didn't want to participate. The team had yet to meet; she hadn't made a commitment. She'd be disappointing no one.   Her mom could drive her home and that would be that. Except, the kid did want to play.  She just didn't want to get out of the car. She was good at the game and she liked running around and there was the uniform and the cheering and it was all to no avail.  On the field side of the car, looking down on the gathering eight year olds, her mom was out of ideas.  She sighed. It was a loud sigh, or maybe I just happened to look up, but we were friends from the moment our ey...

Big Cuter's work is taking him to Vienna tomorrow. Vienna is in Europe.  IS is bombing metro stations and airports and hotels catering to tourists in Europe. But those two sentences together, and you can see why I am worrying like a mommy.  My big boy is going to a continent that has fewer good guys with guns (as if I believed that would keep him safe) and fewer police concentrating on stopping random acts of terror (as if I believed that would keep him safe) and less sharing of information between the entities responsible for the safety of the general population (as if I believed that would keep him safe). He'll be surrounded by a group of young, well-groomed, American law stude nts who, I hope, will be smart enough not to advertise their country of origin by wearing logo t-shirts and caps as they compete and carouse.  During our involvement in  Viet Nam, I was encouraged to be Canadian  as I left JFK for Amsterdam.  I wish there were a similarly eas...

In a rant on Donald Trump and AIPAC , I referred to the frighteningly real candidate for President as Mr. I'm-My-Own-Advisor. At least, I tried. I typed it, and Lenore the Lenovo's grammar consultant went into a red ziggy frenzy.  The Grammarian In Charge looked at that last word and she wanted that o  to be an e.   She was brooking no resistance. I went to dictionaries, both on-line and on paper, and was told that the o  is less prevalent than the e  but that both are appropriate.  I am free to choose. I spent an inordinate amount of time wondering why advisor  looked more Presidential. Adviser  seems less important to my eye, for no reason that I can conjure.  An adviser can be your barber; an advisor sounds as if she's trained for the role. I gave in and used Adviser in that post; but it's been bothering me ever since.  This is my attempt to set things right. This is where my brain goes when all my teams are losing.

I wrote this last year and I am resurrecting it here. It's everything I love about The Burrow - family, deep thoughts, and a smile Happy Day Off From Work to those observing Good Friday (by choice or executive fiat). Happy Easter to those who believe, to those who like getting dressed in frilly finery, to those with great hats, and to those thinking deep thoughts. ***** wikiart.org At an early age, Big Cuter wanted to know why  that guy has a towel and nails through his hands  when we were confronted with Marc Chagall's White Crucifixion at the Art Institute of Chicago. His query highlighted the central problem I had with teaching the Cuters about Easter.  I was stuck between bunnies and lambs and a crucifixion.  Nannie was eager to help, but she, too, was flummoxed.The bookstores didn't offer much.  Their descriptions of the Last Supper and The Passion and The Resurrection were either glossed over or overly grotesque for a sensitive, ha...

To the 7 people who saw this title and nothing more yesterday, here's the rest of the story: The Lady Lawyer said it at lunch, and I stopped chewing. "Say it again," I asked and she did and Amster tried to explain it further and we both turned and said " No is a complete sentence! " It's a powerful concept. Apply it to sexual power and it obviates the need for explanations.  No means No ; it is complete within itself.  Don't ask why  or what about; No  is a complete sentence. But it became more interesting the more I thought about it.  Narcissists can suck the life out of you; remembering that No  comes with its own period can be a tool to break the cycle.  Refusing to engage is the best strategy, but sometimes its just too hard to turn your back.   No  and nothing else might be a way to take care of all the pieces of yourself until you are ready to walk away. Being able to say No  to a restaurant which allows guns and alcoh...

There were twelve of us today, filling all three of the tables in Miss Margaret's large living space.  There's a fourth table in the formal living room, but we have yet to expand there.  The woman is prepared for every eventuality. The snacks are whatever we bring; today there were strawberries and cookies and homemade snicker doodles created by the birthday girl, herself.  We are always celebrating something or other. We sing, loudly and off-key, and make the celebrant blush, then pick up the cards and continue the games. It's Hand and Foot, a variation of Canasta, that keeps us out of trouble on Tuesday afternoons.  In partnerships at tables of 4 or as singles at tables of 3, we shuffle five or six or seven decks of cards over and over and over again, sharing health concerns and weather woes and grandchildrens' triumphs (okay, that's mostly me bragging about FlapJilly, but really, can you blame me?) Red threes are special in this game, and they accumulate in...

It's not that he sounded reasonable while reading from the teleprompter, although he did, in a creepy sort of look-at-me way. It's not that he blames Iran for everything except global warming. It's not the megalomania on display; Mr. I'm-My-Own-Adviser just can't help himself. His narcissism is fed by the media beast, and my worry for him is only that his head might actually explode. No, what's terrifying about Donald Trump's speech at AIPAC is the fact that people are applauding.  They are applauding loudly.  They are applauding after every sentence with a buzz word... and that's every sentence for the first ten minutes before we just had to turn it off. The man who wants to deport millions and targets ethnic differences with scurrilous, venomous attacks, the man who asked his minions to raise their right hands in solidarity ... Jews are applauding this man. It boggles the imagination.

Once again, Ashleigh Burroughs comes to the rescue of those who are sports deprived, who are untutored in the ways of the round orange ball, who are uninterested on their own but who would like to participate, even if only peripherally, in the conversation. These few bits of information should keep you comfortably in the conversation, without taxing your brain very much at all. ***** Out of the millions of humans who completed brackets on ESPN's website, none are perfect after the first round. None.  No one made all the right choices.  Warren Buffet's offer of $1,000,000 to any of his employees who had a perfect score sheet at the end of the tournament is moot. ***** Neither Arizona nor Michigan State nor West Virginia made it out of the first round. Was Wichita State really an 11 seed?  Where is Mid Tennessee State? Does anyone else know that Stephen F. Austin was a teacher's college when it was founded in Nagodoches, Texas in 1923?  Does anyone else care?...

Listening to  The Diane Rehm Show  this morning, I realized that my vacation from the real world must end.  Jorge Ramos, the Univision news anchor who was unceremoniously booted from a Trump press conference, was making a clear and compelling case for shouting from the rooftops.  He's right. There is no time left for complacency. Or, as Mr. Ramos wondered this morning, where were the outraged journalists nine months ago? Trump's remarks were reported ad nauseum, but without any condemnation from the talking heads. The time for outrage was then, and most of the media was silent.  Where are Edward R. Murrow and Walter Cronkite when we need them? When security not-so-gently escorted Mr. Ramos from Trump's Press Conference, no other journalists walked out with him.  The why's are an interesting melange of self-service and opportunism and reluctance to make a scene.  One less reporter means one less person looking for the story .  Trump has denied ...

She almost didn't make it, and that would have been unacceptable. Her 45 minute commute stretched on and on and on as Metra worked to clear the tracks after the train right in front of hers hit a pedestrian.  Hours passed.  There was no escape. She hustled off the platform and down the ramp and out of the station where she was bumped into with such force that she fell to the ground.  The offender just kept on moving.  She picked herself up, examined her now cracked phone, and found her car. Exiting the parking lot was a nightmare.  Everyone was tired.  Everyone was hungry.  Everyone had left work with plenty of time to get to the polls and now that time was running out.  To call her trip from the station to the polling place anything but torturous would be a misnomer. She walked through the doors of the elementary school at 6:56.  She had four minutes to spare. SIR, our perfect human, was holding her place in line.  FlapJilly w...

photo credit: jpetersenphotography.com I miss this face.

A free zoo. A zoo filled with rescued animals. A zoo with signs that are informative   and funny. That describes Phillips Park Zoo in Aurora, Illinois. The caged birds usually make me sad.   But these feathered friends had broken wings or detached retinas or other injuries which made it impossible for them to be returned safely to the wild.  Other rescue organizations sent them to Phillips Park, and FlapJilly and her minions  enjoyed them in the gloom. The zoo makes accommodations for its differently abled beasts. This bird's injuries made it impossible to fly. Falling off a high perch would be dangerous, so the branches are set low to the ground. The white wolves were fascinating and the peacocks preening were spectacular, though hard to photograph. At the end, we said good-bye to the mastodont and went home for lunch and a nap. It was a lovely Monday morning.

Naperville goes all out  for St. Patrick's Day.  The streets are filled with green clad humans  of all sizes and shapes.  The runners  were filling the bars at 10am and so were FlapJilly and SIR.  It was a good place to rest and visit with friends before setting out to create our own parade. We weren't the only ones who found the street more passable than the sidewalks but we were definitely the cutest. FlapJilly waved to her loyal subjects, and they, sitting comfortably and waiting for the floats and the dancers, smiled back. People came quite well prepared and dressed in appropriate fashion.  Nap time meant that we had to leave before the parade began, and FlapJilly's tears were loud and wet and ignored. It is so hard to be a toddler.

Not FlapJilly. Not when there's a whole hardware store to explore. Grandpa and I were shopping for switches and sliders and hooks and eyes. SIR will put them on a piece of scrap lumber ant the little one can flip and latch to her heart's content.  She was a very helpful shopper, wandering the aisles with a discerning eye. We, her minions, were happy to follow her around. There was no going inside after we returned home. She made her feelings known - loudly. So, dutiful as ever, we acquiesced to her desires. TBG collected Thomas the Wonder Dog and off we went on a long, long walk through the neighborhood. The sidewalk chalk I found near the check-out lane was good for decorating our path.  There was some gardening to be done by the front door,  and then it was time to nap. I fell asleep before she did.

The bike rack was a climbing gym,  followed by running The shadows were long, the sun was out, and the whole neighborhood was enjoying the weather. Midwesterners do appreciate the sunshine. We paused for a while, searching for the beavers who make a dam in the river below. Then someone needed a ride and Grandpa was happy to oblige.  Grandparenting is non-stop loving. We may never leave.

As promised , there is more love to share here in The Burrow.  FlapJilly took us to The DuPage Children's Museum  today, and Little Cuter took lots of pictures.  This was odd for me, I since the last time I was in a Children's Museum she was the child and I was taking pictures.  But, today, I got to play as she carried the wallet and keys and camera. It was a lot more fun. to sit and laugh and watch her watch all the FlapJilly's  and read quietly in the nook after she was blown in the wind tunnel. There was stacking and there were neon tubes  and as promised, there was lots of love.  The sun came out as we left; the pictures from the park will be posted soon. Ah.......  life is good.

The weather was fine.  The plane was on time.  Our seats were reserved.  We brought delicious sandwiches for lunch in the terminal, and a snack for the plane. The crying 3 year old two rows ahead was dealt with by a swift removal of my hearing aids.  Sometimes infirmities can come in handy. ***** The college co-ed on Spring Break in the window seat drew the window shade as soon as she sat down. That would usually send me into a claustrophobic spiral, but today I just closed my eyes and went to sleep. Sometimes living with the end of bronchitis can come in handy. ***** Once, just once, I would like to arrive at someplace other than the gate furthest from the baggage claim.  Little Cuter's smiling face and herringbone pants at the bottom of the escalator almost made up for my exhaustion. I'm not limping.  I'm covering ground with alacrity.  A long walk is a good thing after 3 hours of sitting on a plane.... at least that's what I kept telling m...

Remember that bad, bad cold ? By Friday after noon, a week after it began, I was only marginally better.  I was still sleeping ten hours at night and napping every afternoon.  My appetite was minimal and I had no oomph to exercise. TBG, of course, noticed.  He fetched and carried and comforted but still, the bug remained.  Driving home from lunch, he wondered if he should drop me off at the Urgent Care clinic we were passing. He said that he'd come back and pick me up.  He thought I should consider the fact that we are flying on Monday, that flying while congested leads to all sorts of interesting complications (as his own medical history bears out), that I should take care of myself now so that I can take care of FlapJilly next week. "Drive me home,"  I said. What a mistake.  Having planted the seeds of infection in my brain, his comments loomed larger as the afternoon wore on.  I began to feel progressively worse. I charged my phone, took ...

The menu called it Mac is Back , but it wasn't exactly the veggie mac-and-cheese I'd envisioned. It's short for macro , the waiter informed us, which is like a calorie but isn't. It was delicious, even though I apparently missed the point of it all.

I am trying to avoid a Donald Trump post as fervently as I am trying to avoid a Donald Trump Presidency.  There's nothing I can say that hasn't been said before. I could link to Colbert or Romney or Trump himself, but why? ***** Daniel Hernandez, the one-week-on-the-job intern for Gabby Giffords, the man who literally held her head together in his hands while we waited for the first responders, the President of the Sunnyside School Board here in  Tucson, author, activist, and general all around great guy is running for the Arizona State Legislature. He'd have done it sooner, but he wasn't old enough. ***** Mitt Romney is being brought out to lead the Establishment Republican advance against Donald Trump. I'm not sure that this is anything more than a public announcement of the paucity of viable alternatives to the current front runner. ***** If Ted Cruz invokes God one more time I promise to scream. Loudly. ***** I've begun to inquire about Bernie ...

Prince Elementary School asked if I'd like to be a Guest Reader.  I couldn't say YES fast enough. And so,  early in the morning,  I found myself in the most well behaved third grade classroom in the universe. I'm not kidding, denizens.  These scholars were bent over their notebooks, concentrating on the problem sets, then seriously discussing the varieties of the graphs before them.  There was no fussing, no kibbitzing, no jostling.  There was only working. Math ended, books were replaced, and the students assembled on the carpet while I assumed the chair of honor.  While the rest of the class joined us, we looked at the pictures in Grandfather Twilight ,  a children's go-to-sleep book with the most beautiful illustrations. We talked about books and pictures telling the story as well as the words, or even, in this case, without the words at all. And then we read an excerpt from the D'Aulaire's Book of Greek Myths , stories these children had...

She died doing what she loved, where she loved. I can't get past she died. She was my first Mom Friend in Marin.  Big Cuter and her son bonded over fat fantasy novels and Magic Cards.  Smart boys in a culture that valued sports over the life of the mind, they had feet firmly planted in both camps.  CYO rules precluded my son from joining his friend's team, but their rivalry played itself out on the courts at the middle school and the town park.  She convinced me, newly arrived from Chicago, that the boys would be perfectly safe if left alone while they played.   "You don't live in the city any more!" became a recurring reminder. I believed her because we parented similarly; her children were as polite as mine. Big Cuter and her son were tortured by the teacher from hell, and she and I stepped in to remedy the situation.  She took math and science, I took English and history, and we spent hours making that classroom resemble a place of learning, coun...