I'm not going home...

Guster and the Mountain Goats were playing in Western Mass. We have seen Guster pretty much since they left Tufts, and we've wanted to see the Mountain Goats; plus, it's summer, so who cares it was a 5 hour drive to get there?

... sometimes you're already there... 

We met up with my high school friend and her husband for dinner. They live in NW Mass, and we hadn't seen them in forever... but it was like we'd just seen them last month. That alone was worth the drive over.

The concert was at Mass MoCA, outdoors between buildings. We didn't get there in time to view the museum, but we will need to go back to do so. The stage is set up on tar, so it's not as comfortable as Thompson's Point or the Shelburne Museum, but it also feels more intimate because you're surrounded by buildings. 

The Mountain Goats were awesome, and Guster is one of my favorites to see live. On The Ocean wasn't in the cards this year, but this will do quite nicely. We had a really great time dancing around an singing and just generally being free. I highly recommend communal enjoyment as a coping strategy.

As a nod to our age, we got a hotel room. 15 years ago we'd have gone over and back but... that was 15 years ago. Besides, I wanted to swing into the King Arthur Bakery on our way up 91. I have some real Vermont loves: Long Trail Brewing, King Arthur, Cabot cheese, and Ben and Jerry's. Some trip I'm going to combine all 4 stops and just live my best 802 life. This wasn't the day for it though-- I actually think we need to start in Burlington and head south to make the timing right, but that's another post for another day.

... sometimes you can't go home...

We headed out from Bennington (fun fact: the 1950s hotel we stayed at had an old HoJo's orange roofed building used as storage) towards King Arthur. VT has quite a few roads closed these days; 91S was shut down for an exit yesterday, and we got detoured on 5E today. We got to the bakery at 11:45 AM-- not a recommended time on a Sunday, as everyone else was also there-- and decided adding 4 hours of driving to get to Cabot and Ben and Jerry's wasn't a wise move at this juncture. But, we could head to Danville and have lunch at the Red Barn Brewery. And, Dave thinks, we might be able to follow the Bayley Hazen Road...

... And I look at you, I'm there... 

We've been driving across VT since 2015 when we took Ben to visit Clarkson, and then to attend... Ben also raced up and down the state, and we made it to as many of those races as we could. Driving in VT feels safe. It often means we're going to see him... or it means we're remembering those past trips. We have our standard stop at the bridge (VT side, because NE > NY), favorite convenience stores, and favorite restaurants. We watched The Red Barn get built... and open in early 2020 (IYKYK). The beer is good, the food made from fresh local ingredients and spent grains, and the vibe quiet and honest.  As Dave said today, it's our spot.

But this tale is also about finding the Old Road. If you don't know, I am fascinated by old roads. I watch houses to see if they're facing the "right" way, and look for old road beds and misplaced electric poles. This old road has major history to it. The Bayley-Hazen is a Military Rd built during the Revolutionary War as part of the plans to get into/out of Canada. Dave found it after researching Hazen's Notch that the GPS wanted us to take on that first trip over and the locals had told us "Your GPS is lying to you. Turn around" which, begrudgingly we did, and went over that way when there wasn't any snow on the ground. We found a section off of Rt 15, and have kept looking since.

... when I look at you, I'm there...

Today, we found it. Dave accurately surmised that if we got off 91 in Barnet and headed for Peacham we might find it. Myrtle kept nudging us back towards 91, and we kept making her reroute us... until we landed on the North Bayley Hazen, a dirt road that wound through the back woods and rolling hills, eventually putting us on Rt 2 at the light in Danville. We swung into Marty's for a Long Trail pack and some Cabot cheese, got some lunch...

...and headed home.

Are you there, Universe? It's me, Rachel.

 I don't exactly know why I stopped writing. I'm sure I could blame it on being busy, but it's more than that. Somehow, I forgot that part of how I cope with all that is going on in the world is through words: finding the right words for the perfectly crafted sentence. It is through this process of typing, deleting, revising that helps me figure out how I fit into the current puzzle. When I don't write, I don't consciously miss it, but it means I lose access to the deepest parts of me that are there to help.

I didn't grow up using a journal or a diary. I mean, I went through some phases, but nothing really stuck until blogs came about... and then when the internet changed and blogs were less common, well, I wrote less. There is a magic in the publishing for me--knowing someone might read what I write gives it more of a purpose, I guess. Because it's never been about me figuring it out (whatever 'it' we're talking about) but about me figuring it out and then sharing that with someone else. As a Capitol E extrovert, I am energized by sharing my inner thoughts with others. Keeping a journal feels helpful...but sharing one feels right.

My body has also let me know that I'm not as 'ok' as I think. Some of it is due to aging, certainly, but I have developed some specific pain over the last 3 months that tells me my self care game needs more. It took me awhile to notice that I am having multiple ocular migraines per day because I don't get headaches and I've had floaters since I had a blood vessel burst in my left eye when I was 10. It also turns out that people don't see light halos quite as often as I do (who knew)? The neck pain was more immediately recognizable for what it was; the TMJ issue, however, drove the point home. Ok. Got it. Could you please stop screaming at me now?

It took a friend writing to remind me that this modality is helpful for me to process things and get them out of my body so I don't hold onto the stress anymore. And so, dear Universe, here I am, writing again. I don't know if you're still listening (Bueller? Anyone?) but I hope you are. I don't like living in pain, and I don't like feeling lost. So, back to the blog we go.

Wish you were here.

 There's something about nordic races. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you owe it to yourself to go.

When Ben fell in love with the activity in 5th grade, it was fun to ski around the backyard with him, watching him figure it out. When 3 other parents pushed admin to create a MS team (and Dave to coach them all), he was thrilled. His first race was a 1K loop in blustering winds that knocked an alpine ski lift of the rails and his little patootie back down the hill.... and he couldn't wait to race again. In for a penny.

The thing about nordic is you get to know the competitors. All of them, across the league. We transitioned from middle school races to high school. We watched them cut minutes off their times. We watched them grow up. 

USCSA races followed, requiring us to travel across NNE to continue snowbanking. There was the girl from Cornell, who asked me to hold her glasses when they kept fogging up. The boy from West Point who had never been on skis and gutted out 4 laps. Ben's teammates, who were continually surprised by us showing up as often as we did. And we showed up as often as we could, because we love to watch. We went to NH on Saturday to watch Clarkson race, knowing the coach and 2 skiers. Bonus--Army was there, too.

Last year, we got to watch him coach/wax for Estonia at the World University Games, and then again at NCAA Nationals. Since then, we've watched (remotely, of course) 4 of his kids ski in World Cup races. We may have only spent about 8 hours with each of these kids, but being there for their success is just as gratifying as it was watching our MVC skiers make gains.

Being a mom has changed my life, but being a nordic mom has enhanced it in ways I never envisioned (although having the Winter Olympics on during labor should have been a clue). That we came to love this sport as parents has infused it with all the memories of all the past events. The Maranacook course reminds me of when Cate gave it a try in 6th grade. Telsar Relays bring back memories of the Dirigo and Telstar teams in a line cheering Ben's friend Isaac as he came out of the woods. Titcomb is where we celebrated many of Ben's birthdays... and on one very cold day Cate confirmed this wasn't the sport for her. I can't think of a trip to Presque Isle without remembering the blizzards they skied in at States. Twice.

Today was MVC Day 2 and I got permission to leave school early to be there. All of Dave's skiers had personal best times on Day 1. This team is not in contention for winning in the traditional sense, nor was anyone looking at a top 10 finish. But when our last girl had not come across the line after all the boys had finished (girls race first this year) I was concerned. A senior and I found some of the boys, who confirmed she was upright, just side-stepping down the hills. I went back to the bridge to see her finish... and when she came down the hill, 2 of her teammates were behind her, coaching her towards the end. 

The announcer called out her determination and embodiment of the sport as she crossed the line. I don't think there was anyone left watching but us, but we might as well been with Chad Salmela screaming as Jessie crossed the line for the Gold medal. 

Because she did win, and so did this team.

And if we're being honest... so have I.

Guest Blogger

I'm a Guest blogger on Make Teaching Joyful. Check it out over on her site.

Rock n Roll Lifestyle?

 Last night, we went to a show. This is not unusual for us--our relationship is based on music and seeing bands live. This show was a relatively impulsive one: when dates were first announced, I thought we'd be in Alaska in July. Turns out, we weren't but the show was already sold out. Dave found some tix being sold by purchasers who couldn't attend (this is the only part of Ticketmaster I like-- no scalping, just a way to get reimbursed when life gets in the way) and off we headed to Thompson's Point in the hazy afternoon heat (an actual upgrade from the scheduled night's downpours and flooding that caused a rare reschedule.) I digress: we went to a show last night, having only decided to go about 4 days ago. For this planner, that's pretty darned impulsive.

Dave loves CAKE (the band, not the dessert-- he's more of an ice cream guy). He knows all the deep cuts. I like them-- they're quirky and unique, but sometimes a bit too extra for me. I know the hits, and some of the B sides. Either way, there we were, grovin' along and following their request to not take pics or videos of the show. (I like to use band photos as my ticket stub in these modern, digital times, but our selfie will have to do. It's their show and they get to choose.)

                                                  

As the sun set (and it was an incredible sunset because of the wildfire smoke headed our way) and it got darker, it became more obvious that the couple near us had used something stronger than alcohol or pot. As Dude collapsed to the ground, almost sliding down Dudette's torso, I was no longer just at at a show. About 10 minutes prior, another woman had offered us a Starburst: no Gen Xer in her right mind would take candy from a stranger, and at a concert no less? Thanks, but I'm good. She rushes over to the Dude and gets him to eat one and have her water; Dave hears something about K. And then, without intending to do so, Mom mode kicks in.

It's this inability to let Dude deal with the consequences of his actions to the detriment of my experience that ensured I'd grow up to be a helper of some sort. I kept my eye on him, watching for any movement, while also trying to (unsuccessfully) scope out a paramedic. He would move every so often, Dudette would circle back around (Dave heard her say something about being annoyed), and then, CAKE played the opening notes: "Reluctantly crouched on the starting line." Dude hears this, and as we get to "He's fighting and biting and riding on his horse" we watch him impersonating said horse--crawling on all fours through the standing water to get to the dance pit. Mom is no longer needed.

There have been a few events this year that highlight my Lawful Good personality. I don't like breaking the rules-- even when I know it is the objectively right thing to do, or at the very least not wrong. As a student, I used to find ways to avoid the whole class lectures, knowing it wasn't because of me but also knowing if I didn't disassociate a bit (ok, I didn't know that word, but I did know I needed to 'leave' the classroom to stay safe) I'd start crying. I have vague memories of being called to the principal's office in first grade because I had told my mom I didn't want to order school lunch because we'd been told if you didn't eat everything you'd be in trouble, and I didn't like canned veggies. So... yea. This streak runs deep.

How I taught alt ed for all those years even I don't really understand. I think it was an opposites attract situation: I knew there was a freedom in not caring about the rules, but that to survive in society you need to find a way to make peace with many of them. I could use a bit less rule following in my life--and to be honest, Sunshines did help me learn to let some things go--but I'm far from Neutral. 

I like being Lawful Good. I like knowing the outcome of the choices I make. I like knowing there's little chance I'll be falling down drunk on the way out of a concert--or miss the show because I've sailed off on a separate trip. I've made my peace with how boring the made for TV movie of my life will be--which is ok, because it probably won't even get picked up for production. And as much as it kicked me out of my experience, I'm glad we're both global citizens and make sure others are if not safe, at least not dying.

It'd been 4 years and 2 weeks...

 ... since you took my travel away. April, 2019, was my parents 50th anniversary and all 4 of their children went to their party. It was the first time the 6 of us had been together since 2011 when we were helping my parents clean the ME house so they could move to AZ full time. The 4 of us siblings hadn't all been together since somebody's wedding, and we were up in the barn looking through old boxes. We were each considering what we should keep when one of my sisters announced "whose retainer is this?" and my brother's face showed what we were all thinking. Good times, indeed.

We made plans, as you do, to get the whole family together. It was early April, so Dave was at work and the kids were in school; same for my sister's family. If I'd known, I'd have dragged us all out, but do you ever really know what's coming? 

The day after school got out, Dave and I flew to Alaska. Now, you need to know that this trip was a bucket list item for me. I have always wanted to go, and I had an Alaskan Cruise in mind as what we did with our bestfriends after all our kids graduated college. Life has a way of taking your plans and switching them up... and this big switcharoo was Ben getting hired at UAF as the assistant nordic ski coach. So, instead of cruising the coastline after our collective kids were settled, our first post-pandemic travel was going to see our kid in his adopted state. Like, wow.

My insta/FB has all the photos from the trip, which was incredible. What I couldn't get beyond, though, was the *act* of traveling. Security, airports, boarding. Seeing new places with people who know me better than most others. Seeing where our oldest has planted his flag, and being with him as he explores this place he now calls home. 

I am blessed to live the kind of life that affords such luxury. Seeing new places, exploring the environment and culture of place, with people who mean the most to me... yea. I missed it, more than I ever acknowledged during the Dark Times. Taking this epic trip with my husband and our oldest (our youngest was quite clear that she would sit this one out--and having experienced her motion sickness firsthand, I don't blame her) made it even more magical. 

If you are so lucky to be able to do so, travel. You'll learn so much about the world, sure, but you will experience things that you could never imagine possible.

It had been 4 years and 2 weeks, and now I can't wait to get back out there.

India Rubber Ball

My friend was younger than I am now when she died. Which is an impossible statement, but a true one nonetheless.

I was 32 when she died nearly twenty years ago, a wife and a mother of 2 young kids. She was married with 2 kids, one my age and one about decade younger. I knew their loss was unimaginable, beyond compare; the loss of her knowledge, experience, and perspective shifted all of our lives in directions that altered time and space. We grew, aware of the now empty space, as best we could. 

What I didn't know then, however, was how young she was, in a not old sort of way. I know I'm no longer the young one around, but I still have much that I want to do, to see, to become. And it strikes me, again, what a tragic loss of someone who still had so much life to live.

We live to dance another day, indeed.