Dumpster Diving

flashback

I'm about 10. My two sisters and I have just finished helping my parents set up the tent, which means we're free to take the bikes off the rack and "stake out the territory." First stop, all bodies of water in the vicinity. Next stop, the camp store.

I spotted it near the back, leaning against the campfire pie molds. A child's bamboo fishing pole, complete with plastic bobber and fish gutter. No reel. Just a put-it-together-and-drop-in-the-creek sort of a pole. Three dollars and sixty cents, which was exactly three dollars and sixty cents more than I had.

On the bike ride back to the site, I plotted. Then I pitched. (Not the tent. That was already up, remember?)

Me: I found something I want at the camp store.
Dad: What is it?
Me: A fishing pole.
Dad: You can use mine.
Me: No. I want my own.
Dad: Need some money?
Me: No. Mind if I go for a bit?
Dad: That's fine. Can you be back in two hours?
Me: (Running the numbers. Thirty-six cans divided my three girls, only one of whom is wholly invested in seeing the stunt through.) Yes.
Dad: Go ahead.

Then I had to pitch it to my sisters. Lilu was almost thirteen (tricky). Jaime Lynn, almost eight (Like shooting fish in a barrel).

Me: (to Lilu) Wanna?
Her: (brushing hair or something of the kind) No.
Me: Did you see the guy working the counter at the camp store?
Her: (putting down brush) Yeah.
Me: It involves two trips to the camp store. And you can hand him the bottles. Some of them beer. You'll look way old.
Her: (dropping brush and hopping on bike) Coming?

Me: (to Jaime Lynn) Wanna?
Her: Yep.



(Cutting to the retelling, from my father's POV, the next day, and for years to come.)

Dad: Her mother and I were driving back into the campground and approaching the row of dumpsters. We saw a bike leaned up against the side of one of them, and two children hoisting another one over the edge, until everything disappeared but her flailing feet. Then her mother said to me, "What kind of parents . . . ?"
And that's all she got out of her mouth before she realized WE were the parents in question.

(Back at the campsite, slightly mussed and certainly not smelling my best, I prepared for my defense.)

Dad: Mind explaining?
Me: (unloading bag as I spoke—I've found that spectacle always helps the defense) I have exactly 36. In less than an hour and a half.
Dad: You climbed into dumpsters.
Me: Yes. Yes I did. But time was an obstacle. And you said less than two hours. But you never said NO dumpsters. So I erred on the side of efficiency.
Dad: (grinning)

Upon examining the cans closer, I realized that 24 of the cans were from Canada. No refund. I still remember how it hurt my pride to take that money. But the coffee grounds on my outstretched arm consoled me. I'd earned it.



I caught a bluegill about an hour later. On my very own rod. It's a bummer that I didn't know how to get it off the hook, though. Poor thing made the whole ride back to my site with me, still on the hook. And he was scrappy, like me.

And the Winners Are . . .

I know it's no Oscar, but I really want to thank everyone who played "Where's Miss Ive" over the weekend, and award them their bucket of M&M's. It made my adventure that much more fun, if you can imagine anything better than standing on a frozen lake, staring down a snowstorm. Perfect. I highly recommend a little head freeze for clearing the brain.

Two people, both from Peterman's Eye, guessed correctly.

I was in Petoskey. Or as I like to say, Peeeeeeetoskey.

Technically, Rings90 (also a Lark from the Chicago trip) guessed it first. But since, as I told her, I hadn't left my driveway yet, and her answer came in the form a of a list of all the cities in this hemisphere that had ever hosted Hemingway, her win is still being scrutinized by Miss Ive's board of scrutinizers. (We've got one eye on you, Rings.)

And then there's House Guest, also a fellow poster at Peterman's Eye. Though not very frequently, always amusingly and with my favorite form of whimsy. If you have a second, you must click the link and read some of his musings. And what makes his guess even better is that he sent it to me via, Stoney, the poster of all posters at The Eye. And he later scolded Sir Stoney, for adding a question mark to his one-word email. Apparently, he did not approve of the hesitation. Still giggling over that.

Also, the very shrewd J. Free, a regular reader, spotted the pic I sent out of my room, and guessed The Perry, as she knows me too well.


So now you all have to email me with two pieces of information if you want to collect your prize:

Address.
Favorite flavor of M&M's (Feel free to get fancy and demand Peanut Butter or even the seasonal Raspberry.)

Forgive my uncharacteristically prosaic post, sans mania. I believe my brain is still frozen.

Where's Miss Ive?

I know. Not quite as catchy as Where's Waldo, but Emerson is boring. And I'm not.

Okay, maybe he's not, either.

This morning, I'm packing the truck. Dropping boys at Papa's. Heading north into Hemingway Country. Finding first ridiculously-sized snowbank. Snowplowing into it. Lugging out snowshoes. And getting some real air into my head.

Will send a random twitpic via Twitter, so you'll all know I'm alive. If you're not on Twitter, you can still see my Tweets to the right of this page, and the links to the pics will be in them.

But here's the rub, I'll be watching the Stop the Silence page from my phone, held with frostbitten fingers. Every time the gap closes, I send a pic. So donate some money, people. You know how slack I am to take up a cause. This means something to me. And I'll thank you with ridiculous pictures of myself on yet another lark. So do it. Gawd, I'm bossy.

The first person to reach me in the virtual void and guesses my destination city, wins a bucket of M&M's. Possibly hand-delivered. All depends on the shape of the vehicle, post snowplow ramming. Name the exact location of any pic, win two buckets. Sisters, you can't play. You already know my best hiding spots.

See ya on the other side of the moon.

My road trip music:



J

My Serve

(My post on Peterman's Eye, in response to the topic of whether or not parents should, or do, push sports too much on their children)

Nothing changed my life or taught me as much as tennis. Nothing. Not school. Honestly, not even church. I was a skinny dreamer who sat in trees reading books. I was awkward and shy. And then I found a racquet one day when I was bored, my thirteenth summer. And then I found a ball. And then I introduced them to the garage door about 1000 times that day. And then I fell in love with it.

When you stand by yourself on a court and take 200 consecutive serves and only nail two aces, you learn how integral failure is to success. The two aces wouldn't have happened without the 198 that went out or caught the net. Period. And books don't teach you that. And NOTHING in this world feels better than those aces. And without the failures, they wouldn't feel that good. They're inseparable—failure and success. And pondering things doesn't teach you that. And just think of how liberating that is concerning a child's fear to fail, if they learn early that it's a necessary component of an ace.

I imagine this is true of practicing anything physical. Music. Dance.

(and here's where I apply this theory to sports and kids—stay with me)

Some parents don't care enough. They don't go to the matches. Don't ask if you made the team.

Maybe their serves never quite make it over the net.

Some parents care a little too much. Maybe their heart's in the right spot. Maybe it's not.

Maybe their serves are always a little too long.

My tennis coach used to spit in my face when screaming at me between sets. When I made it to states and to the final round of the tournament, he screamed two inches from my face as the entire crowd looked on because I'd missed a volley after diving and landing on my chin. I passed out on his feet.

So maybe the chair umpire should have pulled him off the court a long time ago.

And now it's my serve. Now I'm the parent. My Number 8 heads into his second season of T-Ball in a few months. And the only thing I know how to do, the thing I learned from all my missed serves and all the missed serves of my parents and coaches, is to keep hitting the balls and aim for the box.

With my sons, I imagine they are a new sailboat. Yare, but green. And so I keep them in the harbor protected from big winds, with my hand guiding their rudder. And I like this because the key is that I am behind them, watching carefully to see how their unique shape handles in the water. I don't push. I don't tow them around by a rope. But I do steer. And it is my prayer for both of my sons, that someday when I guide them to the open water, a powerful wind will catch their sails, whatever, or whomever it may be. Just as long as they have passion, and a decent handle on their rudder, everything else will fall into place.

My lawn chair is ready.

And for those parents, like myself, who have difficulty harnessing their competitive spirit at their childrens' games, I highly recommend competing in the "best-snack-bringing-parent" competition. Otter pops, a cooler and scissors always bring home the gold.

Seriously. Just ask the other team moms whose arses I took DOWN last year! Sorry. It's just in me.

The Sound of Silence Stopping

I know I took down my shingle a while back and posted my sabbatical notice. But I'm stepping back in to say something important today.

(squinting and tapping the mic)

I almost forgot how bright it is in here. I'm going to crank the volume on this thing today, so brace yourselves. It's important that you all hear this. We need noise. I'm not gonna be silly, either. I gave MissIve the day off.

A Very Good Man invited me to write about the 12for12K Challenge . Every month, for 12 months, they aim to raise $12K for a worthwhile charity. February is dedicated to Stop the Silence, a nonprofit that works with others toward the prevention and treatment of child sexual abuse.

So I sat for some time thinking about what it means to stop the silence. And I thought about the sounds of childhood, and what they should be. And I thought of my own life and how, though it eventually became, well, life, my childhood was idyllic in many ways.


I remember the sound of water running from the hose as I drank from it, the blades on my ice skates cutting across the frozen pond, the pounding army of feet running underground as I pressed my wet ear against the beach sand. Do you know that sound? While the cicadas buzz in the trees overhead and the gulls cry over the crashing waves? But my warmest memories are of stolen sleep in hidden corners of our home, and the sounds that made my eyelids heavy. Fires cracking in the fireplace, my father reading Paddle to the Sea, a Simon & Garfunkel album playing in the background. Now, I watch my sons sleep. And I remember how nice it felt to rest, unburdened by life.

But today, I'm thinking about the children whose memories are built on different sounds, and the horrible silence that follows.

I'm thinking of the children who are afraid of sleep, and the sounds that keep their tired eyelids open, well into the night. The terror that stirs from the squeak of a floorboard. And I'm thinking of all the other things that are stolen from them during those hours, like the sweetness of unburdened sleep.

And I want very badly to tell those children, even if they're grown now, that I wish I had been there to make a sound for them.

And that's why I'm writing today about 12for12K and Stop the Silence.

I know people always say we need to stop the silence. But if you press your ear to those words, you'll hear them say, We are not an idea—We are an action. My fingers, as they type this, stop the silence. One-key-at-a-time, making noise.

Please Make a Noise by Clicking Here right now. Give $10. An action. Not a thought. And DO NOT be deterred if you don't have a PayPal account. I MEAN IT. You've signed up for a Target and an Amazon account. You can push through. DO IT. An action. Not a thought.

It matters that you do. You'll know that you DID something because you'll hear a sound. A click. The Sound of Silence Stopping.


This is one of the sounds I remember drifting off to as a child, on the rug in front of the fire.

Listen to the words. Listen to the sound. Hear how one 'click' can Stop the Silence.





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