I took a hot air balloon ride in Albuquerque. Here's how you can, too.

 

When I signed up for a writing workshop at Ghost Ranch, I figured my flying would be limited to the air space between Iowa and New Mexico.  I didn’t expect to end up hovering several thousand feet above the firmament in Albuquerque. But over the summer, as I started researching fun places to revisit after ten years away from this orangey-green promised land -- New Mexico is my second favorite state after Massachusetts -- I realized the workshop ending overlapped with ABQ’s International Balloon Fiesta, and behold, a seed was planted. Within a few days, my head went from why on earth would any sane human being want to fly in a balloon to “Why not?” 

That’s the back-of-the-matchbook version of how last week I ended up in a wicker basket three thousand feet above the Rio Grande.  

Back on flat, much lower land now, and still in process of trying to put all the beauty into words. Not sure those words will come in a manner that fully expresses all I experienced. For me, untangling this knot of thoughts isn’t easy. Consider this nuts-and-bolts how-to a start.

The Albuquerque Internation Balloon Festival is a week and a half celebration that takes place every October. Next year’s event is scheduled for October 2-10, 2027. If you get a chance, you should go. New Mexico is magic -- truly a land of enchantment, and a balloon ride through the famous Albuquerque box, above a breezy, verdant valley of farms and neighborhoods hugged by the sun-kissed Sandia Peaks, is the proverbial icing on the cake, the cherry on the sundae, the salt on the marguerita glass, the guac on the enchilada.  

Here are some suggestions to help you defy gravity and have fun while doing it. 

Make travel plans early. We started planning in July. This is too late if you hope to fly during the Fiesta. Every Fiesta balloon flight was already booked. Lucky for us, even though we were unable to book a flight during the Fiesta, there were plenty of openings right after it ended.  We had no problem booking a flight for the day after. 

By July, hotels were packed. We lucked out, getting the last available room in one of the hotels close to the park.  

Why choose a hotel close to the festival park? Online forums agreed that traffic near the festival is a hassle, and the festival website, which did offer paid parking, recommended taking shuttles. Our hotel was a mile from the park and offered a paid festival shuttle. This seemed like a great way to avoid parking and travel hassles.  We took the shuttle to the Fiesta on the last day. The next day, the day we flew, we had no problem driving to the balloon site and finding parking. 

Prepare to overpay. Airplane tickets, car rentals, hotels, and balloon flight prices are jacked up during the festival. I was in the mood for a road trip anyhow,  so once I saw how high the prices were, I arranged to fly into Denver five hours north, which had great deals on air travel and car rentals, and drove down through Taos, a favorite. This made sense for me, given I was headed to Ghost Ranch first for several days. 

Though we each paid about $50 less for our balloon flight because we went up the day after the festival ended, our purchase prices were still a bit inflated -- ha ha,  compared to costs a week or so after the Fiesta. 

Rainbow Ryders is the official balloon ride company. You can book on their website or over the phone. They were great about answering questions and communicating info on what to expect. 

Despite your best planning, your flight might not happen. We attended the balloon festival on the final day, arriving at dawn, expecting to take lots of pictures while we reveled in the awesome sight of hundreds of multi-colored balloons filling Albuquerque’s brilliant azure sky. Unfortunately, officials had to cancel that last mass ascension.  Though the weather on the ground was fine and the light breeze quite refreshing, that final, humongous celebration of flight that visitors from multitudes of states and from countries all over the world had been looking forward to all week was shut down due to unsafe cross currents far above our heads that most of us weren’t even aware of. 

I expected our flight the following morning to be canceled because it was breezier than the day before. Nope. Our flight went off as scheduled, no problem. Those mysterious cross currents were fine that day. 

Check in started at 6 am. Rainbow Ryders sent detailed info on parking, so arrival was easy. We had to bring our confirmation – a screen shot was fine – and had to sign paperwork releasing the company from any liability for injury. Standard stuff. Once that paperwork was complete – it took five minutes at most, we were given a code and told to find the sign in the field across the lane that matched. A few minutes later, we were in line with about ten other people, our balloon partners, our ride or dies for the morning. 

The air was cool – in the 50s or so. We’d been advised to dress in layers and bring water if we wanted. There was no other water available. We were allowed to bring small bags, but I opted not to carry anything.  I wore clothing with lots of pockets: jeans, a fleece top, and an anorak over that. I had plenty of room for a water bottle, car keys, cell phone. I wanted my hands free for taking pictures or for grabbing onto my fellow travelers as we plunged to our deaths. Only partly kidding there. I had no idea what to expect. 

Once we were all gathered, around 6:45, we followed Matt, a police officer in a local town who worked part-time for Rainbow Ryders. Matt and another young gent were the set-up guys. It was still dark as we followed them from the brightly lit field next to the RR kiosk and headed to the ascension area, an expansive field abuzz with the sounds of talk, laughter, engines. Though the official Fiesta was over, there were 25 to 30 balloons going up that morning, which meant about 300 people in total were meandering around the field. While Matt and the others commenced the grunt work involved in getting our balloons inflated, we had time to wander, talk to our fellow travel mates, take pictures. 

By 7:45, the sun was rising and so were the balloons. The scenery was surreal and the atmosphere celebratory. We peanut-sized humans were surrounded on all sides by giant, puffy bags of air, in every color of the rainbow. Soon we started loading into the baskets – called gondolas, that would be our home for the next hour or so.  

I was surprised at the length and height of the gondolas. I was imagining that there’d be maybe four of us in each basket, but our basket easily held ten guests, five per side, plus the pilot. I expected that there’d be an entry gate on the basket but that was not the case. The sides were mostly solid. Matt guided us up a small step stool, instructed us to put our feet into ladder-like openings in one side of the basket, then supported us as we stepped over the padded railing onto the basket floor. Even for someone as short as I am, the process was simple.  

Our pilot Alfred, a quiet dude who joked that it was his first flight then admitted he’d been doing this for almost two decades, gave some very brief instructions on how to position our bodies for take-off and landing. Easy stuff. Then he turned his back on us, adjusted the propane flame, pulled on some cables, and before we knew it, we were several feet off the ground. It was that easy.  No swaying, no bumps, no scary screeching from me or from any machinery.  One minute we were on dirt and the next we were rising. 

By now it was 8 am. 

I thought I’d be afraid, but I wasn’t. I thought I wouldn’t want to look down. But I did. Everything was so calm, so peaceful. The sun rose gently and so did we. As the light shifted, so did our view. We saw every color. The grays of the distant peaks gave way to blues then pinks, oranges, reds, yellows and every combination in between. Cotton candy clouds scudded past. Around us, our fellow ballooners rose, dropped, danced, all of us in slow motion, guided by the shifting breezes and the quiet expertise of our pilots. 

We meandered north for the most part, sometimes following Route 25 or country roads, always with the Rio Grande either in perfect sight or peek-a-booing beneath scrubby sagebrush and creosote, golden-leafed cottonwoods, and the occasional piney glen. 

We crossed over neighborhoods where horses stared, dogs barked, people stopped, looked up, waved, and we waved back. We saw coyotes running through woods, and cows doing their cow thing in grassy fields. Our pilot Alfred occasionally pointed out white crosses painted on backyard lawns. Potential landing spots, he explained. This surprised me because I thought we’d be landing in some sort of official balloon landing area, replete with bleachers and loudspeakers. 

While we flew, Matt and his helper, both now acting as ground crew, tracked us below. Every single one of the 25 to 30 balloons that rose and fell with us also had a dedicated ground crew, each driving a dedicated van. Our pilot used a walkie talkie to communicate with them and other folks on the ground and in the sky.

Forty-five minutes into our trip, Alfred began looking for places to land. To decelerate in preparation, he let the balloon skim the tops of trees. While I couldn't feel a thing, I could hear the branches scrape the gondola bottom. For some reason, this made me laugh. Alfred had his pick of locales. There were plenty of fields available, and lots of friendly folks waved their arms, encouraging him to pick their property or road. 

We ended up landing softly and without any bumping or yelling whatsoever on a quiet neighborhood street in the town of Corrales, just northwest of Alburquerque. Matt and his van were already set up and waiting for us just a couple of feet away, along with a police officer who temporarily secured the area and redirected traffic which was minimal, two cars tops. 

We stayed in the gondola as the balloon deflated around us. Within seconds after, we were escorted out of the basket and onto the road. Again, this was easy and not awkward at all, even for a shorty like me. While Matt and company proceeded to pack up the balloon, Alfred set up a table, poured some orange juice and champagne and we raised a glass to the beautiful morning and our glorious adventure. Some of us, ahem, raised more than one glass. 

A few minutes later we were all in the van and too soon after, we were back at our car. It was so much fun. I hope one day I get to do this again. 

Here are some relevant websites, for anyone interested: 

www.balloonfiesta.com  Official Balloon Fiesta website

www.rainbowryders.com  Official Hot Air Balloon company website

www.cabq.gov  City of Albuquerque website

 

 

 

Do you know a predator? Probably.

 Last week I hit the Donald J.Trump and Jeffrey Epstein Memorial Bookmobile. Then a few days later I visited the Donald J. Trump and Jeffrey Epstein Memorial Reading Room. 

Both were awful. The overwhelming amounts of material linking Epstein to Trump, the raw emotion in the artwork of survivor Maria Farmer. . . it was all hard to take. But it’s important for me to bear witness. By doing so I'm doing my best to support and validate the survivors, demand justice for them, and do what I can to break the silence. Silence is the breeding ground of complicity. Silence minimizes/ normalizes/ ignores/enables sexual abuse.  

Half the nation elected a known sexual predator to the highest office in the land. You’d have to have been comatose the last thirty years to NOT know that this monster abused and violated women. Even before the internet put his despicable deeds on full, easily searchable display, his criminal actions – including multiple sexual assault  allegations, regularly made the front pages of national and local newspapers, magazines, tabloids. 

Yet, some of my neighbors, former friends, and co-workers – people I used to respect and now have as little to do with as possible, minimized/ normalized/ ignored all this, and voted for him not once, twice, but even three times, and by doing so chose to minimize, normalize, ignore, and enable sexual assault. 

One out of every five females experiences sex assault. I've known this stat forever and had it imprinted on my brain during multiple grad school classes while getting my master’s in education. Over the decades since, the stats haven’t changed. Don’t believe me? Then practice due diligence and do your own research. You won’t be able to tell me I’m wrong.

I’ve done the work and walked the walk. Thirty years as a teacher who worked with thousands of kids, and I can verify that the one out of five stat is maybe even a little low.  

Sex assault survivors are everywhere. Predators are too. 

As a new teacher back in the early ‘90s, I was mentored by a teacher deeply respected by students, peers, parents, administrators. I learned the nuts and bolts of working in a classroom from this guy. I moved on to a different school after one year and lost track of him.  I heard he eventually left the classroom and moved into admin posts in other districts.

A few years ago, he made the local papers. Nearing retirement age after a child-centered career spanning more than three decades, he was arrested on charges related to child pornography. Among the details of his arrest, newspaper reports at the time say police found over 200 images of child sexual abuse materials on a CD at his house. 

Last I read about him were reports that he claimed he was abused by priests as a child. 

I can’t make sense out of any of this. Confronting the facts and continuing to stand up for survivors helps. 

 

Fear and loathing in Des Moines: Visiting the Trump-Epstein Memorial Bookmobile

I first learned about the Trump-Epstein Memorial Bookmobile via a national news Facebook post on the recent Republican Midterm Convention in Dallas, TX. I clicked on the associated link and saw that the bookmobile was scheduled to hit the Midwest after Texas. This coincided with my travel to that area, so I put myself on the mailing list for tickets. 

Months earlier, I’d read an intriguing story about the Trump-Epstein Reading Room in New York City and had for a very few minutes considered driving down from Massachusetts, where I was staying. But I hate the MA-NYC traffic and am skeptical about media hype. What if I got all the way down there, and the Reading Room was a bust? 

I opted to play it safe, and sate my curiosity about the Reading Room via internet stories, rather than in-person, figuring that online would be almost like being in-person, so why waste time, energy, gas money. 

But visiting the bookmobile here in Iowa seemed like a cool idea. Because it was going to be set up in an area with lots of parking, little traffic, just a few miles from my house, I thought, “Why not?” I figured even if the trip turned out to be a big ball of nothing, I’d have wasted only an hour or so and would maybe leave with a half-decent story to tell about naivete, and lessons on caving in to internet hype.

A few days after the bookmobile left Dallas, I got an email inviting me to reserve free tickets, which were scheduled in 20-minute increments. The confirmation email was a bit sobering, because first and foremost were instructions forbidding weapons and saying that official government ID was required for entry. Until then, it hadn’t occurred to me that violence could potentially be an issue, but after reading the instructions, I did start wondering about safety. Then I saw the locale, and knew I’d likely be fine 

Like NYC, Des Moines’s streets are set up on a grid. There the similarities end. Finding the bookmobile was easy because it was set up in a parking spot right in front of one of my favorite Des Moines retailers, RAYGUN, a community-oriented business – it annually donates 15-30 percent of net profits to local causes, that bills itself as “The Greatest Store in the Universe.” Need a T-shirt, mug, sticker, poster, book with a positive or snarky message on just about any subject known to humankind? RAYGUN is the place to be. 

Their signature collections include: the Midwest, Feminist agenda, Snowflake agenda, Gay Agenda, Tree-hugging, Unions. They celebrate pets – “Wiscatsin” for example, NPR, The Onion, public education, immigrants, Caitlin Clark. This T-shirt is a big seller: “Iowa, the Women’s Basketball State”

At last year’s No Kings rally at the Iowa state capital, RAYGUN’s founder was one of the key speakers, and it seemed like every other protestor was dressed in RAYGUN wear. Yesterday, just feet away from the bookmobile’s location, in one of their windows hung a blue T-shirt with this message: “Dear World, Sorry our president is a bag of dicks. Sincerely, Half of USA.” 

Got a little off-track there but I do so because not only do I want to give credit to and plug one of the forces behind the local bookmobile event, I wanted to make clear that there was a positive community vibe present. This was important because for me otherwise, the bookmobile experience would have been depressingly, infuriatingly overwhelming.  

The bookmobile, a large van that in no way or shape was overwhelming, fit neatly into one parking spot. There were security guards present. Among a small crowd, the half-dozen of us readying to enter at our assigned time listened while our hosts, two young women in black, ran down what we could expect to find inside. We were invited to take all the pictures we wanted of the exterior and interior of the van but were asked to refrain from taking pictures of the two hosts for safety reasons. This constraint, along with the presence of the security guards, absolutely contributed to a feeling that we were less safe than we normally would be in this parking lot. 

While we waited to enter, we were free to wander around the outside of the van. Plastered on one side was a huge photo of Trump and Epstein. Next to that, the rest of the van was covered in a timeline detailing not only important points in the relationship of this despicable duo, it also displayed documented alleged sexual assaults and other crimes against Trump. 

For example, under 1992: 

Groped at the Plaza Hotel. Jill Harth, a makeup artist and business partner of promoter George Houraney , alleged that Trump groped her under the table at a 1992 Plaza Hotel dinner. She filed a federal lawsuit against Trump in 1997. Trump denied the allegations.

Like many other folks who were adults back in the 1980s and on who kept up on current events, most of the information on the timeline wasn’t new. I read about all of this in real time, was duly horrified, then saw the facts replayed time and again when Trump ran for office, and remained horrified. But seeing it all in one place on the side of that van, in stark black and white – and knowing that half the country also saw this in real time and replayed, like me,  and still put this creep in the highest office in the land not once but twice, was awful. 

We entered the van via a metal set of temporary stairs. There was little moving around room once the six of us were inside. On one wall were several original artworks by the first documented Epstein accuser, survivor Maria Farmer. She accused Epstein of sexual assault in 1996, the same year one of our two bookmobile hosts was born. 

Farmer’s art is her sexual assault testimony in graphic form, giant swaths of black, orange red, yellow, depicting rage, fear. Nothing else needed to be in that van. Her art more than created a picture of what she survived. 

Yet there was more. Against the opposite wall were shelves filled with white binders containing every page of the released Epstein files. The binders say, “The Partially Redacted Epstein Files Travel Edition.” The first binder is volume 1-9. The print is too tiny to read because each page represented nine pages worth of files. The binders on the shelves at the middle of the wall are red and contain all the files that mention Trump. The typeface is readable. It is astounding to witness the hefty proportion of red binders to white ones. There are 53 volumes, standard type size, in the “Trump Collection.” 

Here is a sample of what you'll find in the Trump Collection. 

Original Bates Range: EFTA00211168-EFTA00211180

Original Document Length: 13 pages

Pages Included Here: all 13 pages (entire document)

Archive Location: Volume 264, page 430-442

Curator’s note:

2016 federal civil complaint Jane Doe v. Donald J. Trump and Jeffrey E. Epstein plus supporting declarations; entire short document is directly about Trump. 

Case 1:16cv-04642 Document 1 Filed 06/20/16 Page 4 of 9

Trump had known Defendant Epstein for seven years (New York, 10/28/02) and knew that Plaintiff was then just 13 years old. Exhs. A and B. 

10. Defendant Trump initialed sexual contact with Plaintiff at four different parties. On the fourth and final sexual encounter with Defendant Trump, Defendant Trump tied Plaintiff to a bed, exposed himself to Plaintiff, and then proceeded to forcibly rape Plaintiff. During the course of this savage sexual attack, Plaintiff loudly pleaded with Defendant Trump to stop but with no effect. Defendant Trump responded to Plaintiff’s pleas by violently striking Plaintiff in the face with his open hand and screaming that he would do whatever he wanted. Exhs. A and B. 

11. Immediately following this Rape, Defendant Trump threatened Plaintiff that, were she ever to reveal any of the details of the sexual and physical abuse of her by Defendant Trump, Plaintiff and her family would be physically harmed if not killed. Exhs. A and B. 

 

I spent a total of maybe ten minutes inside the van. After reading the above excerpt, I had to get out of there. The walls started closing in and I felt like I was suffocating. 

Outside RAYGUN, the organizers had set up a table with markers, index cards, magnets. Like the other visitors there that day, I wrote a message to survivors on one index card, then attached it to the side of the van being used as a bulletin board of sorts. I was in one of the first groups that day and already it was hard to find an open spot to leave my card. 

Here are some of the messages I saw:

How can so many Congressmen love their jobs more than children?

Money and influence should never outweigh the truth. 

America, wake up. 

How??? Why do we allow women to be continuously silenced?

At this point I was dazed and dizzy. My car was only a few blocks away, but I knew I was in no condition to drive. I needed to recenter. I stopped into RAYGUN and walked up and down the aisles, reading funny messages on T-shirts and stickers. I took pictures and browsed through some books. When I felt calmer and was breathing normally, I walked back to my car. 

It’s dangerous going to rallies, keeping yourself informed, and being present amidst all this evil. You get angry, frustrated. You feel everything. But complacency is complicity. I’d rather know than not know. I was inside the van for no more than ten minutes. I couldn't handle any more than that. These survivors were subject to abuse -- that I could barely stomach spending minutes reading about --  for years. Being there in person really brought home for me the horror those victims faced and continue to face as our government ignores their pleas for justice. 

If you have the opportunity, please consider visiting the bookmobile in person. It's a vastly different experience than accessing this info remotely via computer screen. A traveling version of the Reading Room is also now making its way across the United States. I recommend that too. 

Sign up link: Trumpepsteinreadingroom.com 

Here’s RAYGUN’s link if you’d like to support a community-focused retailer that’s walking the walk: raygunsite.com

Forward. 

 

 

Seasonal change: Too much hurry hurry and not enough slow down

“The whispers no longer said hurry, hurry or rush, rush. They now said, slow down, slow down.” 

 (Walk Two Moons, Sharon Creech)

Last year I missed the New England change from summer to fall. I was already in the Midwest – where things move at a different pace, by the time the Cape Cod leaves started changing and the Atlantic-infused air filled with cold. A year ago this month, I was in Iowa, prepping to fly out to a western corner of the US that I’ve visited a couple of times already, I was looking forward to driving two hours south of Spokane, first through the fragrant Ponderosa pine forests of the Inland Northwest then wending along the two-lane highway – often the only vehicle for miles, past the picturesque farmlands of the Palouse Region, where weathered barns decorated in American flags and colorful barn quilts provide visual anchors for the saffron oceans of canola and wheat that overwhelm the eye, and always trick me into feeling like I’m putt-putting through a bejeweled, alien sea.

My destination was a quiet, narrow valley at the confluence of the Clearwater and Snake Rivers, where lie the small towns of Lewiston, Idaho and Clarkston, Washington, the sites of my 99^th and 100^th marathons. 

In this part of the world, the rivers run wild a couple of times a decade, so roadways are constructed with safety cutoffs and marked with flood signs. There are lots of one-way streets that never go my way, but the roundabout trips I end up taking are so interesting, such snapshots of a particular American time and place, that the detours are like little gifts rather than inconveniences. 

The two towns, knots of squirrely main roads that curve through business areas that in some sections still hold their own but in others seem decades past their economic prime – lots of boarded up and rundown buildings, are embraced all around by steep grassy hills through which the highway cuts. These hills devolve into craggy cliffs at points where weathering and erosion have succeeded in wearing away the topsoil. 

From the pull offs along the roadway that are designated viewing areas, you get to see not only the colorful farmlands on the horizon, and the spidery roadways and bridges connecting the two towns, you also get a clear view of the dangerously steep, corkscrew road below, now called the Old Spiral Highway, that was once the main entry to this area. 

During last year’s visit, I stopped to admire the view, as I’ve done at least two times before, at the historical marker highlighting various parts of the Nez Perce trade route, and read a little about Donald Mackenzie’s 1812 trading post. While traffic steadily passed by, the only other person also stopped to admire the view was a feeble, older gentleman, all bones, face as rutted and worn as the landscape. 

In between deep inhales on his cigarette, the man said he was a retired school custodian whose forbears had settled in the area around the time fur trader Mackenzie was first getting established. Because he was so familiar with the area, I asked the man if he knew who Sharon Creech was, and if he was familiar with her award-winning novel, Walk Two Moons. I explained that the climax of the story, a horrific bus accident, takes place just below where we were standing, and said I liked visiting this spot because it reminded me of some important things. 

The man shook his head but said it made sense that someone would use this locale as the setting for a story about a tragic traffic event, because the old highway had taken many lives.

When I asked him more questions about the area, he talked about his ancestors who fought for the North during the Civil War, pointed to the boundaries that were once his family’s farmland, and explained how that immense nineteenth century family wealth quickly dissipated as farming technology modernized and big corporations bought up the land. 

He told me a little bit about his two sisters, both retired teachers, and how he lived in another town now but liked to stop here to visit and remember his childhood whenever errands took him driving through the area.

For a few minutes we were quiet, then I said something about how peaceful it was here. 

He shook his head, puffed a bit on his butt. 

“You’d think you should feel safe in a place like this,” he said, as we both gazed upon the idyllic scenery below. 

He must have seen the startled look in my eyes because he then explained that we were only a half hour drive from Moscow, Idaho, the town where he now lived, which was just a few years earlier the site of the University of Idaho murders. 

At that point, I told him I needed to get moving. 

In Walk Two Moons, “Hurry, hurry,” rushes through main character Salamanca’s head for most of the book, as she travels from Ohio with her grandparents to visit the crash site where her mother took her last breaths. We learn that it’s important that Sal arrive at the site on a particular day – her mother’s birthday, because a part of her believes that if she does so, she’ll find that her mother is still alive. The story depicts that childhood magical thinking process that every one of us experiences at one time or another in heart-rending perfection. 

The three travelers, Sal, and her elderly grandmother and grandfather, are on track to arrive on time, then tragedy hits. The day before they are scheduled to arrive in Lewiston, Sal’s grandmother becomes severely ill. Her grandad throws Sal the keys and tells her to drive carefully. Sal is only fourteen and terrified. The only time she’s ever been behind a wheel were a few tractor drives on her old gramps’s farm. The thoughts in Sal’s head turn from the urgent hurry hurry to slow down, slow down. 

Though Creech never outright has Sal say it, it’s implied that the big lesson for Sal is how important it is to embrace life in the present. Sal eventually finds her way to the Old Spiral Highway and in the pitch-black inches her grandfather’s car down it until she finds the crash site where her mother died. The story is sad and funny and loaded with life. It’s totally deserving of its Newbery Award status. 

Today I was going to write about a phenomenon I’ve been experiencing lately that I think has to do with the changing of the seasons. All summer, it felt like time stood still. Each day was as sunny and warm as the day before. One week seamlessly spilled into the next. But this last week or so everything has changed. The nights are colder, trees are moving differently, flowers once so vibrant are losing color and blooms. We’re entering a new season and it’s happening too fast, in my opinion. I feel this urgent need to hurry hurry/ experience everything, everywhere because it feels like time is running out. I wish time would slow down, slow down. I suspect this feeling has something to do with aging too. I guess this time of year, summer to fall, reminds me too much sometime of my own mortality and the truth that life is too darn short. 

 

 

 

 

Thoughts on goals and 'moving with intention'

Move with intention.

Ugh. Hate so many of the latest buzzwords/ phrases. First, because they’re lazy. Second, I'm a grumpy old lady. Third, when I use them, feels like I’m subverting my individuality and becoming one with the opiate-addicted-like masses of folks who think, speak, act in empty-headed hashtag phrases and Instagram texts. 

Plus. Move with intention? Isn’t that just repackaging the obvious? Isn’t moving with intention what we do every microsecond of our existence as humans/ animals? On a cellular level, aren’t our digestive, circulatory, nervous systems – basically everything that keeps us alive, moving with intention?

And what about our stupid, supposedly thoughtless rituals, like my nightly couch to kitchen to silverware drawer to soup spoon to freezer to ice cream to mouth and all the repeats. Sure, I can say to my doctor, “All I do is diet and exercise. There must be something wrong with my metabolism.” But I know what I’m doing every time I get up, open the fridge, indulge. 

Cooking, the rare house cleaning, the daily searching everywhere for car keys? All intentional. Maybe it’s not in my face intentional when I scratch an itch, randomly pat a cat, take that tenth spoonful of chocolate chip deliciousness, but on some level I’m aware. 

Bottom line (another buzz phrase I guess, lazy me): I cringe at phrases like “move with intention.” And yet last month I used that phrase to help myself.  

In late July, I was a week into working out every day and thought, “Hey! This seems easy. Let’s set a goal: Work out every day through August. That’s a cool goal.”

I had no plan. I didn’t define what “working out” would look like. 

The first two weeks of August looked like that last week of July: ellipting, run/walking, weight training. 

Then, about three weeks in (remember that I started sometime in July), I was ready to quit. I was burnt out. I was hungry all the time. I decided that if I was going to hit my goal of working out every day until August 31, I needed to change what I meant by working out, because if I continued, given the way I was feeling, I was going to stop. 

For a few days, while continuing to hit the gym and pavement, I let myself eat all the bad stuff that I usually avoid. This means for three days all I ate was ice cream. My fridge can be loaded up with wine, pizza, cake, brownies, and I’m just fine about meting out reasonable portions, choosing water over wine, broccoli instead of cookies.  But around ice cream my amygdala goes into hyperdrive, so I avoid buying it except occasionally. Once I got so sick of eating ice cream, I couldn’t stand the thought of taking another bite, I thought for sure that I’d rediscover my enthusiasm for the gym. Big nope there. 

“What else can I do to keep going?” I thought. 

There are some life coaches and trainers who say that writing down your goals and putting them out there for all to see increases your likelihood of staying true to your course. How I interpret this: Tell people I’m going to do something. Then if I don’t follow through and do it, I look stupid. While I’m not a huge fan of giving up, I hate public humiliation even more. 

Long story short, I wrote a blog announcing my August goal. That’s the first time I cringed then gave in and used the phrase “move with intention.”

How I interpreted that phrase? I counted as a workout almost anything that would get me to my goal. Vague, I know. Here’s some clarification. Using gym equipment counted. Using my phone to count steps I took while walking or running for exercise purposes counted. Using my phone to count steps I took during everyday actions, like for example walking to the car or up and down grocery store aisles, did not.

Note that in the blog post I didn’t give myself mileage or time goals. One reason for that: Originally, I was thinking that three miles, a half hour of weights or using gym equipment daily would be reasonable and attainable. Then reality set in. We had several continuous days of temps in the high 80s/ low 90s, with equally high humidity. I don’t have air conditioning in this place at the Cape. I wasn’t raised with air conditioning. It’s not something I ever got used to or ever really felt I needed except in extreme conditions, like teaching or treadmill running.  

But I was working outside on these particularly hot days, in full sun with little to no breeze. I would have gladly continued my streak by hitting my air-conditioned gym, but on those days it was closed during my off-work hours. Dying, I barely made it .75 miles one day of walking while at work. I was weak, shaking, gulping Gatorade. 

I know for a lot of folks, .75 miles is nothing. For me, on that day, under those circumstances, it was enough. Because I gave myself the leeway to cut back that day, I came back stronger a few days later. When I chose to count that .75, I chose to not give up. I knew that at the time. I did that intentionally. 

I finished the month of August with plenty of gym time in, plus I walked/ jogged 108-plus miles. If you count from when I started my streak, the last week in July, I logged in total almost 140 miles. I was surprised I did that much. 

I’m not someone who keeps track of things like workouts, race times, ribbons, medals. I’m thinking it might be time to start keeping track. Setting goals and reaching them is fun. Reminders that I got things done spur me on. When times get tough and resolve is nowhere to be found, looking back at where I’ve been – whether it’s reading my writing, reviewing mileage I jotted on my August calendar, or simply remembering past achievements, helps me keep moving forward. 

During my first and what I thought would be my one and only marathon, Boston 2001, bits and pieces of this quote from runner/ writer Joe Henderson kept running through my brain: 

You also need to look back, not just at the people who are running behind you, but especially at those who don't run and never will... those who run but don't race... those who started training for a race but didn't carry through... those who got to the starting line but didn't get to the finish line... those who once raced better than you but no longer run at all. You're still here. Take pride in wherever you finish. Look at all the people you've outlasted.

That quote is still with me all the time, even though it's been 25 years since I first read it. 

August 29 was the day I hit 100 miles for the month. I thought, “Only two more days this month. If you want to walk a mile each day, just to say you moved with intention every day in August, that’s fine. You’ve got this.” 

August 30, I covered 3.5 miles, most of it up and down a steep wooden staircase connecting to a hill where an American flag flew at half-mast for the great Dolly Parton. The next day, the last day, I walked back and forth a breezy five flat miles on a tarry, pot-holed parking lot aside a white-capped Nantucket Bay.  After, I treated myself to some ice cream, decided enough was enough, working out is stupid, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life sitting on the couch watching NCIS reruns.  

I took two days off. 

Yesterday I ran/walked four miles. My phone said 4.4, but I didn’t count that .4 because it was the total of all the walking I’d done while I made the bed, did the dishes, fed the cats, bought groceries. 

Mindset matters. 

Sometimes it’s good to look back. Other times, it can get in your way. "Don’t look back. You’re not going that way" is another quote that always hammers my head. 

I've got some weird days coming up this month that will involve lots of driving and no time for other things. The move every day goal won't work for September. Last month I didn't set out to get in 100 miles, so it was a nice surprise to reach that number. Thinking maybe I'll try for that again. It's a little out of grasp at this point. But I only have 96 miles to go and have a whole 26 days to do it. Nothing wrong with taking my best shot and seeing what I got. (After all these years, still love Bruce Springsteen's Wrecking Ball.) 

Onward. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What I did on my summer vacation

I finally got my teen summer dream job. Only took 65 years.  Proof that there’s always hope. Never give up. 

I thought retirement was the best gig ever until about ten weeks ago, when I started work as a beach parking lot attendant. I got paid to: talk to interesting vacationers from all over the states and most of the continents; occasionally make change; read all the books; walk a lot; tan a little; admire ocean, lake, harbor views; wave to tourists and fishermen/women; take photos of all the ages – from young families just starting out to elderly siblings who’d moved away and were revisiting their childhoods; give directions; recommend restaurants; conjure parking spots out of thin air on the busiest, most idyllic beach days for families that survived hours in traffic so they could bask in the heaven that I got to enjoy every day; pass out band aids and assurances; chat with police, artists, writers, the local homeless gents, scuba divers, ice cream truck vendors, teachers, life guards, Audubon volunteers, water quality inspectors, environmental workers measuring dune erosion,  singers, songwriters, horticulturalists, students, athletes.  Every day brought new experiences. I learned a lot and hopefully gave back as much as I got, but I’m not so sure about that because I got so much. 

There were a few tough days, but tough is relative. We had a couple of scorchers where the temps and humidity hit record highs, and even the clouds ran for cover. Had a few days that were exactly the opposite – total washouts, but were able to retreat under umbrellas or into vehicles. 

Really inconsequential stuff compared to what I saw in my previous life. For example, no one threw punches, threats, or swears my way – a gutting, soul-destroying reality considered by some admin to be the norm now for many of my friends who still teach. 

Did have one instance where someone tried to gaslight the reason out of me, which for a few minutes brought back those crazy, head-spinning days when kids could say anything and certain admins would respond with: “What did you (meaning the teacher) do to cause this?” Good times. 

But this recent event occurred on a sunny July day and I wasn’t in a cramped, dusty school building with poor ventilation, mouse traps everywhere. I was walking in beauty – surrounded by velvety dunes and plush grasses, and overlooking an azure harbor glittered with sailboats, kayaks, ferries. Cawing seagulls swooped the brilliant sky, while on the beach horseshoe crabs skittered, toddlers splashed, adults napped under umbrellas of every hue imaginable, couples traversed the shore in search of the perfect scallop or oyster shell, teens played lazy games of catch.  I was surrounded by the best views you could ever ask for, and even more importantly, had supportive bosses who in a heartbeat will rescind beach patron’s rights if they disrespect staff. Given these conditions, one tends to focus more on the positives.  

Because so much went right this summer, I want to remember all of it. Here’s a quick list that I hope for me will trigger some warm memories when winter comes. 

1.  Number of times had to call 911. A tough memory but a good one too. The person ended up getting the care they needed, and I was grateful to be there to make the right call and know I can do it again if needed. 

 

2. Beach chairs stored in my trunk. The expensive one with the wooden arms and built in pillow was too low to the ground for all the rising up and sitting back down, but kept it as a back-up.  The higher, ten-buck spectator from the discount retailer more than got the job done. 

 

3.  Huge bottles of water and Gatorade consumed on the hottest day ever with no shade in sight. 

 

4. Books I got to finish. 

 

5. Crazed seagulls who chased me Hitchcock-style around a parking lot one overcast, quiet afternoon when, out of my mind bored, made the rookie error of throwing some bread crusts to one of them. Never ever feed seagulls unless you want to stress out a la Tippi Hedren. 

 

6. Times per minute I swore under my breath July 5 while picking up empty cans, charred bonfire wood, plastic bottles, sandwich wrappers, scores of cigarette butts, because some patriotic beachgoers just don’t get it. 

 

7.  As in miles. Longest deliberate walking distance while on duty: chair to lot entrance, beach to rest rooms, lifeguard chair to picnic tables, tree to rock, other tree to other rock, hill to dale, over, under, sideways, repeat, repeat, repeat. 

 

8. Times per hour that I answered, “I have the best job ever,” when patrons asked how my day was going.  

 

9. Number of times I should have reapplied sun screen each shift. Should have. 

 

10. New freckles on face per square inch. See number nine. My mother always said freckles are a sign of beauty. If that's true -- and why would my mother lie -- I am now the most beautiful I've ever been. 

 

The sun is high in the sky. I've spent all morning writing and remembering. It's time to get moving. While the weather is still warm, there's an unmistakeable fall chill moving in. All good things must come to an end. Circle of life and all that. 

I don’t know how to finish up this bit of writing.  I suspect it’s because I don’t want any of this – the sun, sand, beachiness, to stop. It’s been a great summer. Right now, that’s the best I’ve got. 

I made a little bit of cash these last few weeks, but that's not why I took this job. Retirement is great. But if you're not mindful, it's easy for your world to shrink. It's easy to mire yourself in routine. I wanted to meet new people and have new experiences.  Done and doner. There's truth to the maxim that the best things in life aren't things. Hoping next year I get to do this all over again, if the fates allow. Onward. 

I have a new car and she has a name

I’ve been thinking lately about a children’s story I used to read to the kiddos back in the teaching days, Cynthia Rylant’s The Old Woman Who Named Things. 

The titular character, whimsically bespectacled and charmingly decked out in cowboy boots, regularly bestows human names upon her inanimate possessions, like her chair, bed, car. Then one day a waggy-tailed stray pup cutes his way into her life. She cares for him, plays with him, but refuses to name him. 

You see, though quite spry, she’s a very OLD old lady, and as such has outlived all her friends and loved ones. Naming something made of wood, fabric, metal is one thing. It’s not like your favorite chair is going to keel over and leave you any time soon. But naming a living, breathing doggy? Yikes. That means being strong enough to survive if he passes before you do. 

As the story continues, their life together is all unicorns and rainbows until one day the no-named little guy goes missing. Old lady searches up and down, out of her mind with worry. When she finally finds him, it dawns on her that she adores this sweet little pup and so, even though she knows she could one day lose him, she fully lets him enter her heart, and she names him. It’s a heartwarming tale with a life lesson that will soften even the most jaded adult. Read it even if you don't care about what she names him. 

A few weeks ago, my trusty steed, a geriatric, high miles Honda CR-V that got me to and fro for fourteen years, finally gave up the fight. Brakes, calipers, various hoses, axles, almost in one fell swoop cried uncle. Given that the cost of repairs amounted to three times the vehicle’s worth, seemed like a good time to let my friend fade quietly into that good night, so I traded her in. She’s off to become someone else’s spare parts. Though she survived a lot longer than she should have, it was tough saying good-bye. 

Though I never named her -- yes, I considered my car a she, we had some times together. In addition to all the lengthy trips from Iowa to Massachusetts and back these last couple of years, we hit DC a half dozen times, drove every New England state, and visited lots of others too. 

Because I tend to hold on to my vehicles for a long time, I knew when I bought her that she would be the car that would literally drive me to retirement. But before that, she transported me for close to 1,800 days to and from school at breakneck speeds. The girl had giddy-up. Chauffeured me to dozens of races. Was a marathon medal, Gatorade, Gu, mylar blanket, empty water bottle, running shoes repository, and eventually got her backside plastered in hard-won race stickers. Always held at least two snow and ice brushes year-round -- because in New England, even in spring and early fall, the weather can change in a heartbeat, along with sand, kitty litter, extra change, a coat or two. 

As with all the other cars I’ve bought over the years, my dad accompanied me to the dealer for this one. He was convinced that without him along for the purchasing ride, I’d be cheated. Once I’d settle on a car, he’d haggle with the salesman. I never left with a lower bill, but my father would always get me freebies. Floor mats were his specialty. I always had free floor mats, courtesy of my dad. 

Back in 2012, the last time I went car shopping, my dad and I visited three dealers in total. Took a lot of test drives together and shared a lot of thoughts on how peculiar some sales folks could be. On all subjects, including cars and the people who sold them, my dad was a terrific sounding board. I bought a great, reliable car and of course loved my floor mats. 

As my parents got older and their health issues gradually took over all our lives, my Honda became one of the only constants. We made lots of trips to emergency rooms, hospitals, nursing homes. We followed ambulances and in at least one instance my Honda acted like an ambulance. 

There were weeks at a time when life looked like this: leave work, drive to one hospital to visit one of them, then drive to another hospital to visit the other, then go to their house to retrieve something each of them needed, then drive back to each hospital. 

Though lots of things were falling apart, I never once had to worry about my transportation. Through rainstorms, blizzards, and killer New England heat and humidity, some of the happiest and some of the most devastating times of my life, my Honda never let me down. 

When I drive distances, I always refill the gas tank when it hits the halfway mark. During normal, everyday driving times, I always keep the tank at least a quarter filled. But during those dark days, lots of things fell by the wayside. 

One day, after work, checking on my dad at home, and visiting my mother twice, I exited the hospital parking garage -  no fee because the attendant was a former student and wouldn’t take my money. 

I remember the front windshield was foggy. It was a wet fall day, and as always, the defroster was a little on the slow side. While idling and waiting for traffic to pass and the glass to clear, I glanced at the dash and nearly had a heart attack when I saw one mile’s worth of gas left. One. 

Cue a massive panic attack. The nearest gas station was at least a mile away maybe more and everyone knows you can’t count on anything when a readout is that low.  I put the car in drive, eased out onto the road, and coasted, one eye glued to the dash, all the way to the gas station, which thankfully was downhill. With the readout still saying one mile of gas left, I was able to pull up and refill without a problem. That’s a trusty vehicle. 

When it came time to say good-bye to my Honda, I couldn’t help thinking back to all these times. And for some reason the Rylant old lady story, which I haven't read or thought about in at least a decade started running through my brain. Maybe because I’m closer to old lady status these days than young ingenue?  A little regret started worming into my brain too.  My Honda had gotten me through hell and back and then some. She had pronouns – she and her, but I’d never given her a name. I felt bad about that. I know that’s silly. 

My new car arrived yesterday but when I went to pick it up at the appointed time,  I learned there’d be a little wait. Because I’d already turned in my rental and was already at the dealership -- located along a busy route with nothing nearby, when I learned that the car wasn’t ready, I was pretty much trapped. 

At first, I was okay. I could handle the half hour or so they’d said I’d need to wait. I scrolled through my phone, then walked a few laps around the dealership so I could keep my August move everyday streak intact, then played on my phone again. The half hour turned into one, two hours, then three. 

Sweaty, thirsty, and totally over everything, I asked to speak to the manager. I was not happy, but I was impressed by the guy’s courage. Given the tone of my voice, I didn’t even want to be around me. He kindly listened to my complaints, then apologized, and began offering me free things, which I declined, as his way of showing what he called “goodwill.” 

“I just want to be heard and I want my car,” I said. I was a bit more polite at this point. 

My car was ready twenty minutes later and as soon as I sat in the front seat, I got misty-eyed, because as an apology for the long wait time the manager had his mechanics install free floor mats. Suddenly memories of my dad who always haggled for free floor mats came flooding back. 

My new car is my favorite car color – red. Not stormy orange-red. Not cabernet. She is unapologetically, defiantly, aggressively, true race car red. Because she is going to be my constant companion the next decade or so if I’m lucky enough to hit my mid-70s, she will probably be my last vehicular fling before I go to something of a more sobering nature, more befitting a shrinking, elderly lady: smaller, lower to the ground, more economical, perhaps beige. 

My car has a name: Ruby. Makes sense, given her color. Her full name is Ruby RedSocks. Note the spelling. Redsocks is an homage to some things I hold dear. 

No matter where I live, I will always hold Massachusetts close to my heart. So Redsocks is a play on the name of that iconic Boston team that everyone thinks of when they think of my home state. There’s that. 

But the rest is my dad. The floor mats sunk it. 

As a school principal and on the golf course my dad was known region-wide for his signature look: bold color combinations – think lime green suitcoat, yellow pants, blue shirt, purple tie, red socks. Always with the red socks. Had nothing to do with the baseball team. Had everything to do with his love for red socks. 

I have a new car. And she has awesome floor mats and a great name. Over the next many weeks, months, years, Ruby and I will be chewing up some serious mileage. I’ve got places to go, sights to see, goals to reach. First, it’s time to get that 100x26.2 sticker and stick it on Ruby’s hind quarters. Next up after that, I'm thinking maybe a plus sign. But first I’ve got to earn it. 

Forward, always.