All Hallows' Eve

Today, we returned to Philadelphia primarily by way of New York. The trees of the Adirondacks that just a week prior had been engulfed in a panoply of autumnal fire now had leaves only of a dimming dark red, if any at all. Those already naked exposed their bony knees and elbows, standing silently intertwined against a low, gray sky.

Here in the Delaware Valley, we found an unseasonable warmth, although accompanied by a persistent southerly wind. I took advantage of the nice weather to prepare my garden for winter, removing the last of the tomato vines, an overgrowth of parsley and my remaining nasturtiums. I took down my rabbit-proof fence and turned over the good, dark brown soil one final time.

Just as a trickle of trick-or-treaters begins to make their way through the damp streets below, our senescent television gets into the spirit as well, choosing Halloween night to give up its long-awaited ghost. The old girl sparked and sputtered, taking her final breath as I warily watched Clarice meet Dr. Lecter for the first time. Not to worry, as a set the size of a postage stamp was unearthed from the attic, dusted and tested to be ready in time for tonight's game.

Happy Halloween!

Page Turner

I'm at that point in our vacation where there is more time spent than in what lies ahead. Still to enjoy is the remainder of a quiet afternoon, then a 7 o'clock dinner reservation at Au Pied du Cochon, a restaurant we return to fondly having celebrated our wedding anniversary there in 2007. Tomorrow, a quick stop at Fairmount Bagel before we make our way south toward all that awaits us at home.

And so, resigned to an inevitable return to reality, my mind looks again at the life I left behind. I peek in the window and peer around the corner at the responsibilities and requirements that await. A glance at my calendar. A look at my inbox. I find this reentry process is the same every time I go away. It starts with a desire to be completely removed from reality, both physically and mentally. As the vacation days progress, unconsciously the fluff and nonsense cluttering life is swept aside so when I look again, as I do today, it's so much easier to see my real priorities. Things I want to do differently and where to focus my attention. What I've been doing right and areas I've gone astray. I always return from vacation feeling so inspired to live my best life!

In this way, I think vacations serve as a lovely bookmark in life. Just as we start to lose focus, reading and rereading a paragraph without retaining so much as a word, we mark our place and set the book aside. After a spell, we return to this page with a clear mind and renewed attention, to not only finish the chapter at hand but to enjoy the sentences along the way.

In Our Time

Just now, I'm sitting up in bed, surrounded by a cozy mess of soft cottons and down. A wall clock insists the precious seconds as they pass. Our rented studio is warm and shadowed in the early dusk of a brisk Montreal. Outside, a scooter crescendos by, momentarily drowning out the lilting French of two young women as they crunch through the yellowed fallen leaves on rue Laurier. Having just awoken from a long autumn's nap, I finally feel the urge to write, to begin to record our time away.


Up until now I've been reticent to do so, afraid I might break the spell that has encapsulated this time so far. Thinking if I turned to these pages, rejoining the world, that our purported night at the ball might become a Cinderellian jack-o'-lantern, past its prime with moldy eyes and blackened underbite.



But wait! Listen! This hasn't happened at all. Indeed, the magic of the last four days still lingers and the crackle of the next four still beckons. The clock keeps its rhythm and only the cold wind shifts the street's leaves. Long walks and good food remain, shopping, sleeping and exploring yet to do. Still uninterrupted time to talk clear to the end, without duties and responsibilities rudely interrupting. To wake with the sun and sleep when tired.

Tonight, dinner at O'Thym followed by a dry, windy walk back to our temporary home. Tomorrow? As of yet, who knows. A clean slate and open calendar -- the beauty and freedom of time owned.

**All photos taken in Westmount, Montreal, Quebec.

On The Eve Of

And today, the end of yet another countdown; one we have, for the most part, clutched closely and quietly until the moment was to arrive. Tomorrow, we'll rise before dawn and steal out into the darkness toward an eight day sabbatical in Montreal, Quebec.

At a difficult point last summer, we decided to set this time aside for ourselves, instead of visiting family and friends, instead of doing nothing at all. To press pause, to jam a stick in the wheel, to turn off the lights, close up shop and leave it all behind for one precious week.

Over the years, our time away has been like a balm for fresh wounds, a warm bath and clean pajamas after a rotten day, a deep, dreamless sleep after a good cry. Time away, whether long or short, has given Gus and me the chance to exist outside of the present and to be in control of our days. To reconnect and renew, and to strengthen ourselves and one another for the next leg of the journey.

I can't promise what these pages will look like over the next week. I don't know how far away I need to be or how much I need to leave behind.

"To get away from one's working environment is, in a sense, to get away from one's self; and this is often the chief advantage of travel and change." --Charles Horton Cooley

Tabac

Every year on this day I take in a deep breath, fill my lungs to capacity, and offer myself a hearty congratulations. On October 21, 2001, I quit smoking, making today the completion of my eighth cigarette-free year.

Today, I cannot imagine lighting up, but in a former life I was hooked, line and sinker. It started the day my parents moved me into my college dormitory room. My roommate hadn't arrived yet and, feeling both shy and bold, I scurried past the sprinkling of students in the common area to set out alone across campus. In the cool September dusk I walked to the Gyro-cery, a Lebanese mini mart, and bought a pack of Camel Lights, choosing these over Marlboros as I wasn't entirely sure how to pronounce this Philip Morris offering. This nod to the freedoms of adulthood progressed over the following seven years, culminating in an expensive and reckless pack-a-day habit.

Quitting "cold turkey" has been one of my best choices and greatest accomplishments. The decision to stop this self-destructive behavior significantly changed the tenor of my life, and, although I didn't know it at the time, was the first step toward putting myself first on my priority list. This experience increased my awareness of self-preservation - learning to say no, staying true to my ideals and giving my health the attention it deserves.

I'm not going to lie -- there are moments, on cool, clear nights or summer at dusk that a long, languid drag sounds heavenly. Occasionally I catch a sweet waft of smoke that tickles my nose and I breathe it in and arch an eyebrow in interest. But, those days are long gone, just hazy memories of a truly bygone era.

When at first I learned to speak/

I used all my words to fight/

With him and her and you and me/

Ah, but it's just a waste of time/

Yeah, it’s such a waste of time/

...

What you were then I am today/

Look at the things I do/

...

Three words that became hard to say/

I and Love and You.

                                  --The Avvett Brothers, "I and Love and You"

Sorry, Love

I feel at times I've fostered the impression that I hate Philadelphia, but honestly, it's not true. I have already copped to a certain amount of fear and loathing when we first arrived, but that was to be expected. Pond hopping brings with it great growing pains, a fact to which anyone who has swapped cities can attest. But that was eons ago, and nowadays any harsh words I utter have less to do with my actual environs and everything to do with impatience at our current situation. Unfortunately, Philadelphia turned a raw deal in the circumstances that brought us to its gates. I truly believe even if we had moved to the veritable gardens of Eden, I would have faced the same feelings and frustrations I've encountered here.

Indeed, as recent as yesterday, I thought how nice it would be to live here as regular, non-matriculating adults. Don't worry, mom, just a thought, but there is a small part of me that is wary of the return to Seattle post-graduation. In many ways, it would be so much easier to stay here and transition to the next chapter without another uprooting and replanting. To accept one of the job offers Gus has here and start house hunting in zip codes that begin with 1 rather than 9.

Because despite my initial intentions otherwise, I've put down roots here. As hard as I may have tried, it's impossible to hold a place at arm's length for three years; I now truly consider this distant place my home. I have friends here that I cannot imagine life without, plenty of favorites and familiars and I've grown genuinely fond and proud of this place, this pace, this east coast way of life.

Sometimes I worry I won't like it in Seattle. Have I been away too long, seen too much, outgrown my hometown? Has my eye been caught by something bigger, brighter and shinier? What if she and I don't get along after all this time apart? Unlike with Seattle, I don't know the sordid details of Philadelphia's past and it doesn't know mine. This city doesn't haunt me with who I was or what I did so many years ago; it takes me as who I am today and I return this gift in kind. Philadelphia holds the possibility for anonymity and reinvention without tattling over my shoulder tales of contradiction and contempt.

Tonight, as I walked home from running errands under a brisk black and blue sky, every pub, deli and pizza joint along the way was brightly lit with a television tuned to tonight's game. Townies gathered together in their red and white garb to cheer on our reigning World Series Champs as they face off against the LA Dodgers. If nothing else, it is so refreshing to be associated with an abundance of half-priced wings and the Philadelphia Phillies instead of all-you-can-eat gluten-free dog biscuits and the Seattle Mariners. Go Phils!

And Counting

I've always had a thing for countdowns. So many weeks left here, this many days to go there. With so much to get through - days, weeks, quarters, semesters, years, degrees, it's encouraging to look towards a date and eventually pass it by. I've written before about our monthly calendar, and it continues to serve us well. But lately, other countdowns have made significant gains and, inspired by their progress, I feel myself chomping at the bit for more. Tonight I can physically feel my neck straining forward of my body in a vain attempt to pull time itself ahead toward the next milestone.

The first marker is directly to the left of this post - we are at sub-400 and counting until Graduation Day. Our Philadelphia experience began at day 920 and we have bitten off, chewed and swallowed 525 bitter, sweet and everything-in-between days. At this point, we are closer to the end of this endless chapter than the beginning.

On Friday, we met up with some of Gus' classmates. It feels good to be around these people, folks in the same boat who get what we're experiencing. The other spouses and I always compare and commiserate on countdowns, and we all dream about life post-anesthesia program. This time, though, something new! A "One Year To Go" party has been planned for next month, to celebrate and mark the passing of this important moment.

And finally, a new date to train an eye on. Today, Gus spoke with the chief CRNA at his top hospital choice, and she encouraged him to apply six months prior to graduation, which means May of next year. With the final year laid out before us, this allows for a goal halfway through, with the strong potential of having the reward for our labor in place for the final half year stretch.

How do you eat an elephant?

                                             One bite at a time.

Dark, Stormy Night

A early Nor'easter has descended upon us in a fury. Icy cold rain falls steadily, accompanied by a wind that whips and weaves its way through layers to settle deep within my bones. Snow and sleet have been reported in and around the area as temperatures continue to drop below normal. It's dark when I wake, and behind the heavy clouds the sun never seems to rise before we descend again into the damp darkness of evening.

The Arctic air seems to have pushed the trees into autumnal color and loosened leaves from their perches above to coat the sidewalks underfoot. The guilty pleasure of woodsmoke is caught on the air. The unseasonable chill sent me crawling into the recesses of the attic to unearth hats, scarves and gloves, all tucked away with the bloom of the first crocus last spring.

As night and rain fell on Thursday, Gus and I bundled up and made our way to an old warehouse among the wharfs at the southern edge of the city. There we saw Haunted Poe, an interactive production of the works of Edgar Allen Poe, put on by an avant garde theater company. The suspenseful recitations and spooky sets stirred the spirits of Halloween, and the Philadelphia we drove home through harkened back to the city of the Gothic poet himself -- wind howling down deserted, rain swept streets, choked gutters and inky shadows catching the yellowed lamppost light.

"A sombre yet beautiful and peaceful gloom here pervaded all things...the shade of the trees fell heavily upon the water, and seemed to bury itself therein, impregnating the depths of the element with darkness."

                                                  --Edgar Allen Poe, "The Island of the Fay"

Judgment Day

At my day job, I work in and amongst many Highly Educated People, folks who tack various combinations of letters after their names and, apparently acrimoniously, spend some time putting up with The Rest of Us.

When I first was first hired at my current position, I traipsed down hallowed halls naively saying hello to anyone that passed me in the hallway, not knowing who was whom or who did what and where. Some of my coworkers responded in kind with a smile and a cheery "Good morning!" but many, to my surprise, upon seeing me, became intensely interested in the worn linoleum, their stained coffee cups or a yellowing poster of Heinrich Hertz tacked haphazardly to the wall. Anything, anywhere to avoid making eye contact with me, let alone say hello.

It took me a couple of months, a few curious conversations and some pretty painful one-on-ones to realize that there are actually people that I work with that consider themselves superior to me because of the differences in our educational backgrounds and what we each do for a living, and therefore refuse to acknowledge my existence in this world.  During my tenure in higher education, I have attended meetings where, because I can't include PhD after my name, I have been completely ignored, as if I do not physically exist in the room. A non-entity. Without feelings or an opinion or anything of any worth to say.

So then, really, of what can I speak? It is almost 11:00 PM and I've struggled since I left work with how to put into writing my feelings on this subject. I wish I could say that I just laugh it off, call the group a bunch of assholes and move on, but honestly, it's painful and it hurts. To interact (or not) with people who find you a second class citizen is unlike anything I've experienced before. It's a raw experience to find yourself sub-par in another person's eyes. Call it an overabundance of self-confidence, but I've never fashioned myself someone others should feel particularly superior to.

I think the take away message in all this has to be that you just never know. You really can't judge a book by its cover; you never know why people are the way and the where that they are. Indeed, every time I've made an assumption about someone based on an initial perception, I have been completely wrong. We don't know what lies beneath and beyond and we never get the full answer from a simple "What do you do for a living?"

I'm not out to dismiss anyone, especially those that have invested much time and effort into their names, numbers and careers, as these can be admirable and laudable accomplishments.  All I am suggesting is that before one scrambles to the top of a mountain to admire the view, consider what you are resting your laurels on and your proximity to the sun.

Hair Brained

I've never quite known what to do with my hair. In an ideal world, my scalp would sprout an inky mane that tucks neatly into a chignon and when let down, swirls around my shoulders like a fine mink stole. Instead, I'm left with hair that requires maximum poking and prodding resulting in minimal effect. In terms of hair, I may indeed have been born in a barn as my head is covered in a drift of unruly cowlicks.

On the bright side, my hair is a nice color of brown, it's not falling out and despite the city's best effort, Philadelphia has given me only a sprinkling of wiry, white hairs. But beyond these few positive points, my hair fails to impress. It straddles not exactly straight and not entirely curly, not baby fine but far from thick. In some ways, it's a microcosm of me - moody, stubborn, prone to change, and with a serious mind of its own. I've worn it pixie short (Gus' favorite), down my back (mom's favorite) and everything in between (none of which are my favorite). More-often-than-not, I just give up and give in to the Perpetual Ponytail.

In terms of tools, you name it, I've tried it. Oils, sprays, mousses and gels from the drug store, salon and then some. I admit to an unhealthy addiction to hair spray and brushes. I have an exorbitantly priced hair dryer, fancy flat irons, multiple barreled curling irons and various and sundry clips, ties and claws.

My attempts to concoct something wonderful with my hair have made us late on more than one occasion. These desperate moments end with me throwing my hands up amidst a cloud of hairspray, doing up my makeup and spritzing on a little Chanel No. 5, hoping all this will distract attention from the top of my head, although being a foot shorter than many partygoers doesn't bode well for this bit of wisdom.

And so this morning, when I set out to tame the beast with my usual arsenal in tow, I was pleasantly surprised to find that, after all these years, I actually got it all right. I finally found the right combination of haircut, washing schedule, shampoo, volumizer, liquid gel, hairspray, hairdryer, hairbrushes, hair dryer, curling iron and more hairspray. My hair looked really good and, 15 hours later, it still looks good. It's taken me a good many years, but I think I've finally, miraculously, figured out what to do with my hair!

Unfortunately, in my excitement over my fabulous hair, I forgot to put on deodorant before I left for work. Oh well, can't having everything, right?

Din Din

Along with ten other ambitious ladies, I'm participating in a "Julie and Julia"-esque experiment. Every two weeks, one chef selects a recipe from Mastering the Art of French Cooking, tries it out and emails it to the group along with any additional suggestions. We have two weeks to make the chosen recipe before the next selection arrives in our inbox. Obviously the Julia Child cooking blog has already happened to critical acclaim and I won't attempt to repeat what's been done already, but I would like to make a short record of this evening.

The first choice was Poulet Rôti and, after an initial flurry, the chicken is roasting in the oven and the brown stock to make the sauce is on the stove top. Haricot verts and a simple green salad wait in the wings as its accompaniments. With basting required every ten minutes, the chicken is labor intensive, but as Julia herself said, "Nothing is too much trouble if it turns out the way it should."

As the sky darkens, I sit at my tiny kitchen table eyeing my even tinier oven, its eyes alive with bubbling pots and its mouth exhaling a heady combination of chicken, bubbling fats, carrots and onions. My glass of Pouilly-Fuisse sweats from the heat of the kitchen and The Swing Years and Beyond streams from our laptop's tinny speakers. In many ways, this evening could just as easily be Julia's Paris of the 1950s as it is the Philly 'burbs in 2009. Classic food, good wine, timeless music.

Bon appétit!

Hot Date

Since the moment I heard of its existence, I have been anxiously awaiting the release of Coco Avant Chanel, and tonight marks the film's long-awaited arrival in a town near me. I adore period films, Audrey Tatou, fashion and France (if you hadn't heard), and this film appears to serve up such a delicious concoction of all four that I am anticipating two hours of complete rapture, with the cherry on top of a small popcorn and a medium beverage.

Before the movie, Gus and I plan to tuck in to a Vietnamese dinner, which for me is a real taste of home. Quite a few years ago, my extended family had a habit of meeting for dinner at a now-closed Vietnamese restaurant; I have fond memories of arriving at the restaurant and seeing everyone seated inside, chatting with the restaurant's owners. When I worked off Eastlake Avenue in Seattle, Gus would often pick me up from work with two Vietnamese sandwiches and two sodas and we would drive to a little known park under the freeway to eat and chat for an hour.

For years I shared an office with a delightful young woman from Vietnam who, in addition to introducing me to the prolific and annoying world of Vietnamese pop music, did me right by giving me my first taste of pho. She and her sister would take the bus to Seattle's International District and return to work laden with styrofoam containers of foreign wonderment. Unfortunately, these were the days before I was an offal lover, so I struggled with what to do with the chicken hearts and kidneys floating in my soup.  No matter, though, as they eventually sank, no one was the wiser, and I was able to go about enjoying the wonderful broth and its then more palatable ingredients.

Looking forward to a lovely evening out. Happy Friday!

Red Letter Day

Recently, Gus took a very difficult exam that he is required to pass in order to graduate from his program, and he has been anxiously checking the mail (of the snail variety) ever since to find out his results. Students take the test once in their first year and once in their second, and it's a pretest to measure how students will perform on the actual board examinations following graduation.

Today the highly anticipated letter finally arrived and my dear husband, who was worried he would fail the whole thing outright, did far more than just pass the test, he scored in the 97.5 percentile of all CRNA students nationally!

For me, the fact that he not only passed but, in fact, did so incredibly well is concrete proof of just how hard I know he has worked. The exhausting amount of time and energy he has put into his studies and clinical work shows in his score. Every single class from the very humble beginnings up to the sophisticated and independent anesthesia work he doing now has brought him to this watershed moment.

I am truly in awe of Gus and what he has accomplished, and today, even more than usual, I'm as proud as a peacock!

Forestation

On mornings like today's, when the night rain has dampened all, with spider webs sparkling like tinsel and the plop of raindrops on fallen leaves, a flicker of magic comes alive inside of me. It’s a bit of my childhood that I’ve held onto, a mischief and a sparkle that I’ve continued to cultivate all these years. Let me attempt to explain:

I love the forest world. Acorns, nests, mushrooms and moss amidst fallen logs and ferns. Foxes, hedgehogs, raccoons and owls, enclosed in a damp world of perpetual dusk. Insects traveling under layers of leaves and pine needles, furry tails disappearing down holes, shadows and sounds filled with mystery and delight.

I grew up in a home where the possibility existed for an elaborate animal world that we humans were not a part of. Could it be that animals spoke to one another, had hopes and dreams, walked up on two legs and even donned a vest or hat from time to time? I was often under the impression that I might have "just missed" seeing something spectacular in the forest of the animal world. My imagination was further stoked by some pretty draconian No Television rules and a wild backyard, where tall evergreens and tiny ferns grew, large enough where I could sequester myself far away, pretending and creating within the natural world.

I spent a great amount of time outdoors -- gardening, camping, beach combing, hiking and building bonfires. I read until I memorized the Beatrix Potter books, Old Mother West Wind, Frog and Toad, Little Bear and the strange world of Finn Family Moomintroll. I played with Woodsies and the board game Forest Friends. I believed in tomtes that guard farmhouses at night and Reynard the fox eating porridge. Before dinner we were told to "Fold our paws" for grace, something I continue to say to this day. Even our pets had an extensive array of thoughts and feelings, and these members of the family often weighed in with their opinions, for example, when I had been naughty. Imagine my guilt knowing not only my mother’s disappointment, but now a green-eyed kitty shook her head and wagged her finger paw in my direction.The line between fantasy and reality was blurred enough that, mix in an overactive imagination, and the glimmer of mischief has yet to fade, even today.

I don't think I could have married a man that sees animals as either dinner or a mild annoyance. Somehow, I found someone who had the beauty and mystery of animals and nature nurtured in him as well. More than once I've been called to the window to watch birds flying south or see a squirrel burying nuts in our garden. I'm not the only one that leaves bits of string outside in the hopes that a bird will use it in building a nest. Someone who, like me, notices and briefly mourns every dead squirrel or raccoon along the side of the road. A guy who willingly helps me collect acorns and pinecones at the park, no questions asked.

The misty, moisty morning has metamorphosized into a warm and sunny day, that, although beautiful, isn't quite the same for conjuring up the possibilities of the forest. So, I put the enchantment in my back pocket for another day, but keep my eyes bright and on the lookout...just in case!

Prose All Stars

I'm completely enamored by the book I'm reading. It's the type of book that when you're not reading it, you're thinking about it and when you are reading it, you're completely lost in the story, to the point where you almost miss your train stop, both on the way to and from work (ahem...)!

The book is Savage Beauty by Nancy Milford, and it tells the life story of Edna St. Vincent Millay. The author was made famous by her bestseller Zelda, the biography of Zelda Fitzgerald, wife of F. Scott, for which she was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award. I hadn't read Zelda when I picked up her more recent offering, but now it's on my book list.

At over 500 pages, I can't offer a definitive review of the entire book, as I'm only 1/6 of the way through. But if this is any indication, last night I chose reading it over watching Law and Order: SVU, and I love me some Stabler and Benson!

P.S. I bought some sweet footwear that I am l-o-v-i-n-g, a pair of black Converse Chuck Taylors. I think they make my feet look long and thin, which is always a good thing, even if it's just feet, right? Hey, I'll take skinnyizing anytime I can get it!

rɪˈgrɛt

Many years ago, a co-worker of mine completed one of those emails where you answer 25 questions about yourself. One of the questions was "What do you fear?" and she answered "Regret." Most people had answered "spiders" or "clowns" and like them, an answer of some depth hadn't occurred to me. I was so struck by her answer that it has remained with me since then.

A few years later, while working for a hospice program, I heard the stories of patients who, facing death, reflected on their lives, including their regrets. Time and again, these lists were nearly the same. I should have worked less and spent more time with my family. Traveled more. Spent less time in my counting house. Loved more, laughed more, worried less. Taken a risk. Thrown caution to the wind. Lived in the moment. Danced as if no one was watching.

Around this same time, someone gave me a card with a quotation from Mark Twain: Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

And so nine years ago, as Gus and I devised a ten-year plan for ourselves, these words rang in my ears. As we worked out a detailed timeline, sketched in a notebook, of what we wanted to accomplish in the coming decade, we talked about regret and what it meant to live life to its fullest. Our main goal was that Gus would become a CRNA, but we also made a pact to really live along the way and to regret little amidst what we knew would be a crazy, intense and drawn out dream.

Signing on this dotted line, in some ways, freed us from expectations that might have hindered us. We knew mortgages and babies and pets would have to wait, but we also knew our freedom was finite. We had ten years to just be a twosome, exploring, dreaming and discovering while we checked off countless semesters and jumped through endless hoops. And, assuming we made it to the end in one piece, no regrets. So we folded up that precious piece of paper for safekeeping, grabbed each other's hand and set out to make the best of it.

Looking back with almost a year to go, I think we stayed pretty true to our promise. We traveled abroad a whopping 313 days, 150 of those spent in our favorite lodgings, a tent. We visited all but 3 of the 22 regions of our beloved France. We ate and drank our way through countless babysitterless dinners, did stuff on the spur of the moment, went away for the weekend, slept in, stayed up late, splurged, purged, and called someone else to deal with the broken water heater. We took up new hobbies, read tons of books, started (and sometimes finished) countless projects, and bought beautiful things. Best of all, uninterrupted and unencumbered, we have grown to know and love one other in such a way I didn't know was possible.

Regret? How can I? Yes, absolutely, at times it has been unbearable and more than once we have wanted to throw in the towel and be done with it. But now that the end in sight, I can honestly see and say that it was all worth it. Every stinking, beautiful minute of it. 

Homebody

Today I feel every inch between me and my roots, the town of my birth and where my people are. The entire country is wedged between here and there, blocking my view of home. Thousands of miles, millions of people, across plains and forests, mountains, valleys, through countless towns and cities. Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, North Dakota, Montana, Idaho, Washington.

Recently, my mom sent me a few things I had left in Seattle, and when I opened the package I tried to catch the scent of home, burying my face in a forgotten blazer, searching for a breath of comfort, of that familiar Mom Smell, but it wasn't there. Somewhere along the way it had faded, unable to make the journey of 2,822 miles from her doorstep to mine.

I'm searching our apartment for something that connects me to home. We brought with so few non-essentials -- too few as I'm unable to find what I'm looking for. An object with the patina of childhood, timeworn and of no use to anyone but me, to bridge the chasm between. A string stretched across the country that I could tug on and there would be a tug back. To cry out "Hello!" and hear my family's voices answer back in unison. To stretch my hands to the west and feel fingertips touch mine. Something soft and threadbare, carried in on a breeze, to cool and dry my tears.

Little Things

I don't have anything of much importance to say today. We're hosting friends for dinner, so spent the morning cleaning and collecting ingredients. All our laundry but a set of sheets on the line is done, as is the ironing. I just took a plum galette out of the oven that smells heavenly. Gus is drying the last of the dishes as I steal a minute to write down a few thoughts.

Outside, comforting Saturday neighborhood sounds. Birds that decided to stick it out for the winter, a weed-eater, kids riding bikes down the street.  The late afternoon sun falling on the trees, some beginning to turn. A breeze through the window flutters the newspaper on the couch. This morning, I collected a few leaves that had fallen along with some acorns. Along with a tiny pumpkin, they add to the few fall decorations I put out.

Nothing much fancy, but I'm happy. Content and happy.

Foodieland

Yesterday, Gus picked me up from work and we drove to the Italian Market, in South Philly, to pick up a few ingredients for a dinner we're hosting on Saturday. The Market, which runs primarily along Ninth Street, has many food specialty shops, some dating back to the market's origins in the 1880s, as well as produce vendors whose offerings line the streets outside. One of the blogs I follow, Philly Market Cafe, often includes great photos of the market through the seasons.

On this visit, we stopped first at The Spice Corner to pick up juniper berries and allspice, then we ducked into DiBruno Brothers for cornichons and stone-ground mustard. I was hoping they carried picholine olive oil but they did not (although they did offer to order it), but no matter, we still oohed and aahed over their incredible selection of pasta, cured meats, olives and other accoutrements in addition to an unsurpassed cheese selection.


Our final stop was Cannuli's Meats, otherwise known at the House of Pork. These are true butchers, men who know their product and the proof is in their blood-stained aprons. As our butcher weighed and calculated our order, another sauntered by, clapping two lamb legs together in front of him as if extensions of his own arms. A third sat on the edge of a barrel, reading the paper through large, round glasses, his feet planted firmly on the sawdust-sprinkled floor.

Last year we didn't visit the Market during the holidays, but this year, knowing that we will be here at that time, I'm looking forward to putting together a Christmas dinner from these stores. Before we moved here, I had a picture in my mind of shopping for special ingredients in a biting cold, snow blowing sideways in the dusk as I went from one ancient store to the next, door bells ringing as I entered and exited, collecting my packages. I think the Italian Market will come pretty close to making my imagination come to life. Not sure who to talk to about the weather though...

X Marks the Spot

When we first moved to Pennsylvania, our first few months were pretty darn ugly. We both had an incredibly hard time adjusting to our new surroundings. I was unemployed for a painful two months and Gus was on 16-week ICU nursing assignment that was way, way below par. We were lonely and staring down close to three years in a city that we, at that time, hated. Wrap that all up in the interminable heat and we were, in a word, miserable.

One day, as I waited in vain for either the phone to ring or a freak snowstorm to blow through, having had quite enough of Rocky reruns (seriously, must they?), I drew up a calendar. Nothing fancy, just a sheet with a box for each month we would be here. I made the calendar in June, but included May just so I could cross off a month, proof that time, however slowly, was indeed moving forward. The calendar originally included December, 2010, but when we found out Gus would actually graduate in November, we joyfully crossed off that month as well.

And so since then, on the last day of each month, we've had a mini celebration, just the two of us standing in front of the refrigerator as one of us selects a pen and carefully crosses out the completed month. We count up the months that have passed and the ones we still have to go, sometimes twice just to be sure of our math. Someone invariably sighs, "Ugh. Thank God!" When a whole row of months is completed, a fist-bump may even be in order. Some particularly difficult months, the pen lines have all but ripped through the paper,one of us bent on exing out the past four weeks with particular fervor. Granted, for some time now we've toned down the hate and have been genuinely enjoying ourselves here, but it's still a real milestone every month to see that we're that much closer to a goal we've been working towards since 2001.

Since Gus returned from being on-call Wednesday well after midnight, we didn't cross out September until just now. We started out with thirty-one and a half months; today we're down to thirteen and a half. 13.5. I would have killed to be at almost thirteen months a year ago. I remember saying last October, "Someday, it'll be a year from now. At some point, it will be October of 2009." And sure enough, it is. Just like now I'm looking ahead to October of next year and at some point, eventually, it will arrive. We'll be packing up our place, selling off our furniture and putting the finishing touches on our life here in Pennsylvania. At thirteen months we're getting to the place where I can almost allow myself the possibility that this might all be over someday. Twelve months may be the moment where I can actually see a pinpoint at the end of the tunnel, but at thirteen if I squint my eyes and the light is just so, I imagine I can see it. That glorious world that we have talked about and thought about and bragged about and dreamed about. It is coming, I know it is!

Criss cross!