Living Tribute

We just spent the last two weeks at the cottage.  It's still hard not to write "my grandma's cottage," but I'm getting closer to being able to say "our cottage."  It's finally starting to sink in after owning it for a year that it belongs to us now.

We signed the paperwork last summer on my grandmother's birthday, more than half a year after her death.  I think she probably pictured her summer cottage in the woods being shared by her children for a time rather than moving so soon into the hands of one of her grandchildren, but I think she'd just be pleased that it's stayed in the family.

When we are in Milwaukee living our busy lives and we get the bills from Michigan to maintain another house there, one with taxes and fees and things to fix, I wonder if it's worth the expense.  But when I'm there I know it is.  It's a home of my childhood that doesn't change.  When I'm at the cottage it's like being with my grandma again.  Like being with the family I grew up with while getting to share that with the family I have now.  It's magic.

My Two Cents on Guns

During the recent theater shootings in Aurora I was blissfully unplugged from the news.  I was visiting my parents and we did not have the TV or radio on.  The newspapers delivered to the door kept us about a day behind the current events.  At one point I went online to check email and discovered the horrible story after the president had already addressed the nation and the usual unpleasant squabbling had begun in the wake of such gun related tragedy.  I closed my computer and turned my focus to the puppet show my kids were putting on, and sitting with my dad, and finding the kids' goggles before going to the pool.  The nightmare in Aurora would be there after my vacation and I didn't see the point of letting it in early.

Now the mass shooting of the moment in the news isn't across the country.  It's the next zip code over, and just miles down on the road that runs by our home.  A Sikh temple in Oak Creek, WI, just south of Milwaukee, was attacked by at least one gunman, and although at this moment there aren't too many details available, we know six innocent people are dead.  I don't have the luxury of turning away because now the nightmare is in my own community.  It's horrifying.

I've been trying to process some of the rhetoric that's been flying around in the aftermath of so much pointless suffering, and I feel like working through my thoughts on guns.  I have no legislative power and threaten anybody's rights on this issue, so these opinions are just that and nothing more.  If I push someone's buttons try not to take it personally.

Looking for opinions on part of my first novel

I mentioned in the post I wrote about the movie Brave that I might need to amend or rewrite part of my first novel to accommodate it.  I can't decide because I kind of like it the way it is, but it could seem like an obvious omission since the novel has yet to be published.  Or maybe I should leave it as a reflection on when it was written, rather than update it?

I could use some opinions if anyone is willing to take a few minutes and read an excerpt.

The name of my novel is The Real Mom, although I'm considering changing the title to Pink Ponies.  It's about Maddie, an artist who is married and is the stay at home mom of two young girls.  This excerpt is from the middle of chapter four after she's found out she's pregnant again, and she's taking care of her girls while making dinner and waiting for her husband to come home.  (I look forward to the day when anyone who is interested can read the whole thing.  Which could be soon as I am about at my limit with rejections from agents and may just self-publish and be done with it.  If anyone has advice on any of that I'd love to hear it too!)

The Real Mom, by Korinthia Klein, pages 79-84:

Strung Out

Ah, string camp.  The Wisconsin Conservatory of Music has run a week long summer string camp for twelve years now.  I have been there since its inception, and in some ways it's changed, but the stress, challenges, and sweetness remain the same.  There are special classes each day (I usually do a talk about violin making where I lay out a bunch of wood and tools and answer lots of questions), small ensembles that get coached individually, orchestra, and an extra session (for those who are interested) to learn fiddle music.  It's a lot to cram into just a few days.  This weekend we had our concert, so for one more year it is officially done.

The stress is interesting, because it's not so much the actual work involved in teaching at string camp, it's having to put all of your trust and faith into the kids to do what they need to do.  I want them to perform well for their own sakes, but it's my name on the program too, and it's hard to put your own reputation on the line in a situation where, when the big moment arrives, you give up control.  I am far more nervous watching my students perform than I have ever been on stage myself.

"B1 Steak Sauce"--my string camp quartet on stage

But the miracle every year of string camp is that somehow, inexplicably, the kids manage to pull everything together over the course of just a few days and create a lovely concert.  I'm amazed every time.  I start out with a group of kids who are always charming and earnest, but who have obstacles to overcome that always seem to me to be insurmountable in the time allotted, and yet....

And yet, they never worry.  I have to round them up to practice, and they saunter to their seats.  I freak out because they don't seem to have practiced, and they remain unconcerned.  I clap along desperately, explaining the importance of counting for playing in an ensemble, and they smile politely and can't believe I want them to run the piece again.  I do all the worrying for everyone, while they have a nice time.  It wears me out.

I almost didn't do it this year.  I had to leave the rest of my family vacationing in Michigan to come back to Milwaukee to teach, and it was hard doing string camp in the mornings and then rushing off to the violin store to work into the evenings, and finding any spare moments left in there to walk the dog.  I told Ian that I teach so little anymore that maybe this was the year I just resign.  Maybe my connection with the Conservatory had run its course and I should let it go.

But Ian reminded me that I always get stressed about string camp, but I always get something from it and am glad to have participated.  He didn't think I should give up the teaching part of my identity yet.

He was right.  I enjoy teaching and wish there were room in my schedule to do it regularly, but there just isn't.  So instead I do a whirlwind week of teaching at string camp and remind myself how exciting it is to help kids play music.  I have a chance to mingle with the other teachers and get inspired by what they do.  We get to have a concert in a room with plaster roses on the walls and ceiling so it looks like you're performing in a wedding cake.

When I was in high school I belonged to a chamber music organization for kids that was really wonderful, and some of my best musical memories are from its summer string camp.  I understand fully the kinds of memories and associations we are building for these young musicians as we guide them through an intense week of learning more about music. 

But one of the things I remember best from back then was my father suffering through many of the small ensembles at the concert, and then being floored by how good the whole orchestra sounded.  He didn't understand how such flawed individual players could coalesce into something quite beautiful.  He would say to me, "How does such perfection come from such imperfection?"

Now, the whole process of learning to make music interests me and I am much more forgiving of all that supposed imperfection than my dad was, but I understand asking him to sit through other people's kids botching great music that he loves is one of those crosses parents have to bear if you want to hear your own kid play on stage.  However, he's right, that there is a magic in the sound of a group that improves everyone.  The rough edges are less noticeable and the better parts somehow rise to the surface.  That's my favorite part of string camp, hearing the kids come together as a large group and create something bigger than themselves.  It's beautiful.

So my group, despite my usual fears, pulled themselves together and did not fall apart on stage.  Which amazes me since the first day I assessed how they played, the second day I had to painstakingly teach them the beginnings of several pieces so that we could pick one, the third day one player was absent, and the last day was the first time I got to hear them play the piece from the top of the page to the bottom.  Then they had their concert.  (I had to put polish on my nails every night to keep myself from biting them down to nothing.)  I can only imagine how much we would accomplish if I could work with them for two weeks in stead of one, but even one extra day would be nice. 

I will try to remember this for next year, when again I will wonder if it's worth the extra work and time to teach at string camp.  Because it is.  And actually, Aden is old enough that she might be ready to join in, if I can convince her to try it.  Just the thought of having her be part of that kind of experience makes me smile.

The latest chapter of be careful what you wish for

I recently got back from a nice trip to Michigan.  I went out to visit with my parents and see my brother and my niece, and I had an amazing but all too short dinner out with my friends.  I loved it all and wasn't ready to come home.

My kids and my husband are still out at my parents', but with a business to run and teaching obligations to fulfill I had to come back early.  So I have the house to myself.  And it's weird.  I don't think I've ever been alone in my own house overnight since we've had kids.  I've been away from them before, but I can't think of another time when everyone was away from me.

How many times have I wished wished wished that I could have a vacation in my own house?  Where everyone would leave for a while and not undo all the cleaning as I'm doing it?  Or that there was no one to cook for but myself and I'd be free from the tyranny of meals for other people?  To do what I please without interruption?  To have it be quiet?

Well, it's quiet.

I'm starting to see that there is such a thing as too quiet.  And too clean.  And too simple.  

I straightened up the stray toys in the living room last night, and now the room looks less inviting.  There's no evidence of my kids' happy play and creative games.  I like things to be clean because it sets the stage for something fun.  But there is no one here to then step on that stage, and all that clean space just looks lifeless.

I'm being silly, right?  I'm being silly.  I'm probably just having trouble adjusting and by the time I'm used to it and it feels like a good thing it will be over.  But I miss the hugs and snuggles and the cute things my kids say and do.  I miss my family.  My days never feel complete when I don't have my husband to tell them all to, and any day that I don't see my kids I know I'm missing something.  All of that is worth more than a clean living room.  And it's lonely here.

Luckily, I have the dog.

Chipper on Aden, whom he misses very much

The dog, who was being cared for by a neighbor for a few days (that in dog time probably felt like weeks), and who greeted me upon my return by practically levitating with happiness.  It's nice to have somebody be glad when I get home from work, and I appreciate his company as he follows at my heels from room to room.

I think I'd be enjoying this more if I weren't stressed out about teaching at string camp (it's my twelfth year doing it and the first few days are always hard because it's impossible to imagine the kids will pull it together and be ready to perform in only a week's time, but they always do) and if I weren't drowning in work at the violin store.  It's harder for me to wind down when I have so much going on, so I'm not using this time the way I probably should.

Maybe tonight I'll do something insane, like read.  With the dog at my feet.  While blasting the soundtrack to The Book of Mormon, which I certainly can't do with the kids around.  (I am trying to think of anything wild I could be doing to add to this list, but I am duller than I realized.  I don't even drink so it's not like I can toss a glass of wine to this picture.  Sheesh.)

Anyway, I'm at least trying to file this away in my mind for the next time the house full of kids is driving me up a wall.  Because that wish for an empty house?  Emptied it of feeling like a home.

Personal Puzzle

I've written before about how Quinn loves map puzzles.  He's loved them since he was very small.

Quinn has also enjoyed making maps at school, and within hours of starting summer vacation seemed to be going through a bit of withdrawal.  He asked if he was allowed to make maps at home and I said of course.  So he got out his Asia puzzle and put India on a piece of paper and tried to figure out how he could trace it like he would the traceable wooden map parts at school without ruining the puzzle piece with a pen or pencil.  Quinn is careful with things, and couldn't figure out a way to make it work without damaging his puzzle.  He began to look dejected.

So I asked him if there was something else we could do that was different from what he did at school, some new kind of project.  He thought about it and decided what he really wanted was a map puzzle of Australia.  The map puzzles we have from GeoPuzzles include North America, South America, Africa, Europe, and Asia.  When he does them all at once he then lays them out on the floor together like one big map, and every time he points out to me that we are missing Australia and Antarctica.  He likes things to be complete, so this bothers him.

We agreed a map of Antarctica in the style of the other GeoPuzzles would be boring because the land mass would be one big piece.  (Although we can always just do that someday like a regular puzzle and cut up the continent into random shapes.)  But Australia has states (which Quinn could readily name and I could not) so it would make a good puzzle.  We set to work.

I'd never made a puzzle from scratch before, but it didn't look hard, so I thought I'd share what we did here in case anyone else wants ideas for making a personalized puzzle for their kid.  (Maybe with pictures of family pets or favorite toys.  Lots of possibilities!)

We started by finding a piece of cardboard (taken from the back of a big pad of drawing paper) about the thickness of our existing puzzles.  Since Quinn wanted the new puzzle to match the others I let him use a ruler and a pencil to mark off how big he wanted the finished puzzle to be.

(Lots of photos in this post, so maybe it's best to add a jump here....)

The Man Under the Bridge

The other day I didn't feel like getting organized enough to go for a swim, so instead for a bit of exercise before a full day of work I decided to take the dog on an extra long walk.  I headed up in a direction I never go on foot, by fields and buildings and parks that look different than they do at a glance from the road.

Bay View is an interesting area.  It has some beautiful sections along Lake Michigan, but much of it is grittier and working class with pockets of artistic aspiration.  We're still in the city of Milwaukee but south of downtown, residential but not suburban, green but dense.  When we were house hunting over a decade ago the realtors referred to Bay View as "the affordable East Side."  It doesn't feel cut off from the issues of the city they way suburbs do, but certain problems don't stare us in the face every day.  Like homelessness.

My dad grew up in New York and we used to visit relatives there every few years.  I've taken my kids to New York several times, but it's not the same place I remember as a kid in the 1970s and 80s.  It was grimier, a bit scarier, and my brothers and I found the beggars on the sidewalks confusing and upsetting.  One of my brother's clearest memories of one of those early trips was of a man in a suit rushing along and gingerly stepping over the cane of a blind beggar without a glance back.  It seemed heartless to ignore people in need, but there were so many.  You couldn't blame the man who needed to just be on his way for not stopping because he would never get anywhere if he stopped for them all, but still....

It's a complicated question for people in areas like NewYork where they are confronted with that problem on a daily basis.  They have to be wary of scams in the subways and concerned that maybe handing someone money on the sidewalk is exacerbating problems instead of helping.  They have to decide all the time how much attention they want to pay to the blind beggar with the cane.  I don't know if my heart could take it.  It was the hardest part for me about visiting India, feeling helpless in the face of so much need.

But the truth is such problems are everywhere.  In the suburbs where the environment is manicured and clean, addictions are masked by money and abuse and neglect are hidden behind neatly painted doors.  And in my neighborhood I may not see beggars when I step right outside my house or on my way to work, but desperation exists just past my gaze.  You simply have to know where to look.

And the other day I happened to look under a bridge.

My dog is small and cute, but noisy and loyal.  As easily as I know he could be kicked aside by anyone needing to get past him, he still lends me an air of protection when I walk with him at night or in unfamiliar places.  I'm more inclined to wander somewhere unusual with Chipper than I am all alone because lord help the strange man who thinks that cute little puppy-dog won't bite if someone gets too close to me.

So we walked along some areas with crumbling buildings and strange paths and torn fences near the river.  We explored a park I've never been to and checked out a softball field and a wooded area.  And then when we were back along the main road near our house I noticed for the first time from the bridge that on the bank on the north side of the river there seemed to be some concrete steps.  I was curious.  I crossed the bridge and circled down onto the grassy area to a fence at the top of the slope above the water.  Across the river was a wide set of steps leading to a space overgrown with trees.  I have no idea what it was once for.

But I didn't speculate for long because when I glanced back in the direction I'd come from I realized there were things tucked under the bridge.  It looked like a little makeshift sleeping area.  And there was a bike.  Someone lived under the bridge and he had a bike.  I had never considered a homeless person owning a bike and wondered where he went on it.  Then I saw movement and realized the man under the bridge was getting dressed and I didn't want to cause him any embarrassment so I nudged the dog and headed back up toward the street.

Not a day goes by now that I don't think of the man under the bridge.  My first instinct is to leave him something maybe he could use.  But what would that be?  Is that condescending?  Or dangerous?  Is it kinder to look the other way and pretend I don't know, or is that callous?  Is he happy under the bridge?  Is he suffering?  Is it even any of my business?

The main thing that kept going through my mind as I finished the walk home with my dog was that whoever the man under the bridge is, he was once someone's baby.  How would I feel if one of my babies ended up in a situation that necessitated sleeping on a blanket by a bike under a bridge?  It makes me cry.

I try to help individuals in need when I see an opportunity, but this is definitely an area where people who belong to a church or similar organization have an advantage over those of us who don't.  If you are ready and willing to do something, someone in your organization would likely be able to point you the right direction.  I do think the problems of the homeless are better addressed by groups that understand all the needs involved beyond my superficial concerns.  But I don't belong to such an organization.  I have to make the effort on my own.

For a long time now I've been meaning to investigate the food pantry I've seen signs for outside the jobs center by where I vote.  I finally went there and found a phone number to call and left a message.  My volunteering for the food pantry may not directly impact the specific man I saw, but then again it may.  It's a start.  I talked with my kids about helping out there if the food pantry can use us.  We have so much and want for nothing important and should find the time to help others in need.

I'm not sure where in my schedule I will find that time, but that's not an excuse.  Because how would I take such an excuse from someone else if my son were the man under the bridge?