The Digital Dilemma

Since we got our first digital camera over two years ago, we've been amazed at the clarity and brilliance of the photos, especially when it comes to shooting nature/outdoor scenes. These cameras capture the lighting so accurately, the crispness of every detail, that you almost feel like you're right in the scene that was photographed.

What's that? You say you'd love to see some of them? Okay, that can be arranged. If you've got some time. And I DO mean a lot of time. Because you'll have to come down to my basement and pull up a chair in front of the computer and wait while I find the folder they're in, click on it to open it, view the thumbnails, and finally, get a slide show going for you. How come you keep looking at your watch? You say you've been sitting here with me for more than five minutes, and you still haven't seen a single photo?

Does that scenario sound familiar to you?

Ah, whatever happened to the days when you'd have actual hard copies of your photos to put in an actual, not virtual, photo album? When someone would ask to see your photos, you could easily and quickly oblige. All you'd have to do is pull out an envelope or a photo album. The only obstacle might be trying to remember which drawer you'd stashed them away in. But now that I've switched to a digital camera, I always seem to be saying, "Well, I haven't made prints of any of them yet."

I was quite the holdout when it came to getting a digital camera. When friends would expound on the virtues of "going digital," I'd counter with arguments about how I like having actual hard copies of my photos. Well, you can just print out the ones you like anytime, they'd suggest. And you can just delete the bad ones. And look at all the cool things you can do with them. You can send photos of the kids to their grandparents right there in an e-mail. You can make your own cards with them, put them on calendars or coffee mugs or mousepads. You can crop them, enhance them, brighten them, turn them into cartoons, turn them upside down. (Now why am I hearing Tom Waits voice in my head rasping, "It dices! It slices!")

Yeah, they were right about all that. And another one they didn't mention: you can insert your photos into your blog, like this:


Morning's light in the Ottawa National Forest, Michigan

And this:


Loon on a lake in the Ottawa National Forest, Michigan

And this:


Sunrise north of Madison, Wisconsin

Yeah, you sure can do all kinds of fun, really artistic stuff with your digital photos...once you've uploaded them to your computer, that is. That's another one of those little steps you have to take before you can even look at them.

But what I really want is just an actual photo on nice glossy stock, one I can hold in my hand or put in an album.

My closest friend and I had a long-standing ritual until I went digital. We both have our own busy lives, and we don't exactly live down the block from one another. But we still manage to get together every couple of months or so. And when we do, one of the questions we always ask each other is: "Do have any new pictures?" And then we invariably pull out the envelopes and catch up on the photo chronicles of many of the events that have taken place in the interim since our last visit. "Here we are at the museum. And this was on M's birthday." etc., etc. I call it a ritual because it really has become a sacred part of our 30-year-friendship over the years, especially since we both started having kids. Besides my mother, my dear friend is just about the only person who actually wants to look at my family photos. So much so that she doesn't just wait until I thrust them in her face; she asks to see them!

But recently I've sadly realized that whenever that part of our visit rolls around now, I just don't have the photos to show her any more. As we sit at my kitchen counter sipping our coffee, I apologetically tell her that I still haven't loaded them onto the computer. Or that they're in there, but I still haven't had any of them printed out. I promise her I'll have some new ones to show her next time I see her. And now that she's gone digital too, I've noticed she's begun making the same apologies to me. So please allow me a moment of silence as this sad thought sinks into my consciousness for the first time: our sacred little photo-sharing ritual seems to be fading away...

...while the virtual folders--labeled neatly by date--pile up in my "My Pictures" file. I just never seem to find the large chunk of time needed to bring them all up on the screen, peruse the thousands of digital photos I've taken, and then spend another eternity waiting for the ones I've selected to upload to a photo site, then place my order. So I just don't.

I can remember spending so many happy hours sitting on the couch with one or both of my older sons beside me, a photo album open on our laps, reliving vacations, birthday parties, and other happy memories while poring over the photos in those albums. It was always a wonderful way to spend time with them in front of a fire on a winter afternoon. But the other day I realized with a stab of guilt that my youngest has rarely spent time with me this way. Once you have your third child, you tend to fall behind on these kinds of things anyway. He was born in 1997; I kept up a valiant effort at keeping the photo albums up to date until around the year 2000. And now that we've gone digital, the backlog is that much worse. So he rarely gets the chance to look at family photos, to revisit his past, to see what he looked like as a baby or sweet little toddler. Rarely have I sat on the couch perusing photo albums with him.

It's kind of sad to think that whenever my family and I want to catch up on the photographic record of our life right now, we have to sit down in front of a computer screen together to do it.

Another example of a technological innovation that was supposed to make life easier and better and save us time really making it more complicated and robbing us of time. And taking something sacred away.

My Swingin' Neighbors

No, this isn't what you think. I don't mean THAT kind of swinging. I mean the musical kind of swinging, as in gypsy swing jazz music. No, make that as in exquisite, exuberant, expertly wrought, totally killer gypsy swing music...not to mention a little bluegrass, country, Parisian cabaret, and even a few tenderly rendered Beatles tunes like "Here, There and Everywhere" thrown in for good measure.

What I'm talkin' about is a band of highly accomplished, highly likeable musicians and singers who go by the name of Harmonious Wail. (And isn't that a great name?) And yes, as the title of this post suggests, two of them happen to be my neighbors. (At least, when we're all camping in our little patches of woods in the beautiful U.P., a.k.a. Michigan's Upper Peninsula.)

That would be Sims Delaney-Potthoff, the group's leader and mandolinist extraordinaire, and his lovely wife Maggie Delaney-Potthoff, whose beautiful, versatile voice is The Wail's "secret ingredient," that extra something they've got that makes them stand out from the ranks of other excellent gypsy swing bands who are mainly instrumental. And in the best tradition of "old-timey," back-porch musicians, Maggie also plays a mean cardboard box. She wields her brushes to paint a unique percussive backdrop for the mandolin, acoustic guitar and stand-up bass that her fellow band members play. And man, can these guys play!

If you're a fan of any of the following musicians--Django Reinhardt, Stephane Grappelli, Jethro Burns, Lester Young, Charlie Parker, Bireli Lagrene, Duane Allman, David Grisman, and Louis Armstrong, Ray Brown, Dave Holland, Oscar Pettiford and Edgar Meyer--who The Wail cite as their main musical influences, then I'd recommend you go to their MySpace page http://www.myspace.com/harmoniouswail ASAP and give them a listen. Or you can visit their official website here: http://www.wail.com/index.htm to learn more about them.

The band makes their home base in Madison, Wisconsin. They've earned a dedicated following through their 4 CDs and frequent touring around the Midwest and all over the U.S., not to mention many gigs at music festivals in Europe.

Besides Sims and Maggie, there's Tom Waselchuk on guitar and vocals, and John Christensen on stand-up bass. All of these guys (and gal) are world-class musicians and/or singers. Sims trained in Chicago under the legendary Jethro Burns.

But words can only go so far to describe the sound of music. To fully appreciate their talent and the bouncy, swingin' joy their music brings, you really have to hear it.

We didn't realize we had such musical neighbors until one evening my husband and I were sitting on the eastern shore of the lake right beside the boat dock, having one of those Corona moments.

Literally.

We were, in fact, sipping our Coronas with a twist of lime while watching the sunset over the lake. Suddenly a small motorboat came idling toward us from across the lake. Two pleasant-looking fishermen docked their boat, got out and said hello. We had a nice chat, during which we compared notes and realized we're right down the road from each other, at least when we're staying up in the beautiful U.P.

And then the more talkative one with the shock of slightly wild gray hair and wire-rim specs handed us his card and said, "I'll leave you alone with your sunset now. I know that for some of us, it's like church."

Ah, a true fellow nature worshipper. That's when I knew I really liked this guy. Even though he looked in many ways like your typical Northwoods weekend fisherman--complete with flannel shirt, baseball cap, tackle box, etc.--there had been something about his gracefully aging hippie look, his calm, cool bearing, the goatee and the slightly hepcat way he talked that had made me sense he might just be a musician. Even his name, Sims, sounded artistically unique.

After they'd hooked their boat up to their trailer and drove away, I happened to glance at the card he'd given me. When I saw that it said "Harmonious Wail.com," I didn't know just what that meant, but it was pretty obvious that his business was somehow music-related. When we returned home from our camping trip, I went online and checked out their website. And only then did I fully realize what swingin' neighbors I had.

Give 'em a listen and see if you don't agree.

(Photo by Kate Whitson. I hope she won't mind that I've reprinted it here.)

Autumn's Bounty

I suppose today might not be the best day to sing the praises of autumn in the Midwest. After all, the temperature in the Chicago area is a pretty humid 88 degrees Fahrenheit right now, not exactly a day to make you think of pulling out the cozy sweaters and firing up the fireplace.

According to the newspaper's weather page, we're as hot as Miami and New Orleans today, nearly as hot as Houston and Dallas.

But one of the nice things about living where I do is that the weather is always changing. So even as I'm sweltering, I can rest assured that this hot, humid September we've been having will soon segue into those refreshingly cool, crisp, colorful days of October.

There are many perfectly good scientific explanations for this sometimes welcome, sometimes vexing unpredictability of midwestern weather. But since this isn't a weather blog, I'll try to keep the meteorological explanations short but sweet.

Suffice to say that this area of the U.S. gets buffeted by just about every jet stream known to North America, so that the weather can change on a dime, depending on the prevailing winds.

Often during the winter, one of those fierce Canadian cold fronts will swoop down from the arctic regions of our fair northern neighbor. So on those days, we often find ourselves in the icy grip of waaaay-below-zero temperatures (I'm talking the kind of cold that can make a basketball cease to bounce, and nearly shatter it, or freeze the beer in the bottle before it touches your lips...trust me, I've tried both of these things when it was 25-below-zero Fahrenheit, just for the heck of it, so these are firsthand observations).

Then just when we've grown weary of this Inuit lifestyle, the winds might shift to the northwest and it can get quite balmy, if some of that milder Pacific air survives its trek across the Great Plains and gets to us. Or a southerly wind might bring us some of that wet, warm air from the Gulf of Mexico and turn the snow to fog, giving us temporary relief from frostbitten fingers and toes. Then there's the fact that we're in a temperate climate zone anyway, which means we're guaranteed four seasons a year.

Okay, sorry. That was more technical jargon than I'd planned to foist on you. So let me translate it all into practical terms. What it means is that--just when you can't bear the thought of trudging out covered from head to toe to shovel yet another five inches of heavy,wet, heart-attack snow off your driveway; just when your mood has become as gray and dreary as the dirty, tired mounds of snow that flank every road you drive on, as prickly as those dagger-like icicles hanging precariously from your gutters and looming over your front stairs, along come the first signs of the spring thaw.

You open the shades on a gloomy, bone-chilling winter morning and catch a blur of red-orange against the white backdrop; your heart gladdens as you mentally mark the date--usually sometime in March--of your first robin sighting. Or you spot the first tender green shoots of the crocuses poking their way through the snow, and you know that any day now, they'll be adding a dash of vivid purple to the dull winter palette.



And now back to autumn. After having sweltered through some of June, most of July and August, and now September, I've come to take the panoply of lush green, growing things around me for granted.

Unfortunately, this can sometimes happen when you've had too much of a good thing. For instance, after vacationing in the Florida Keys several times, my husband and I briefly entertained the notion of living down there year round...until we realized just how much we'd miss the winter, spring and fall if we lived in the land of eternal summer. I need that contrast that only the change of seasons can provide to help me truly appreciate the beauty of what's just passed and what's about to unfold. There's just nothing like surviving a long, cold winter to make you appreciate the arrival of spring and summer.

By the same reasoning, after a long Midwest summer, dare I say it? I'm suffering from green overload. Away with those verdant hues which I found so welcome and lovely in springtime and early summer! Bring on the warm rusts, oranges, golds, browns and maroons of autumn! I am eagerly awaiting that burst of physical and psychic energy known as autumn, or just plain "fall" as lots of us Midwesterners are wont to call it.

School seems to be starting earlier and earlier every year. But to me, no child should have to go back to school in the depths of summer, when the pools are still open, the mind is still in summer vacation mode, and we're still in those lazy, dog days of August.

But come September, I'm quite ready to have them (and me) back to the school routine. There's an inverse relationship between my ability to think and the temperature. As the latter climbs, the former tends to plunge. Like the pansy that I am, I tend to bloom profusely in the spring and fall, but wilt and lose my luster in the scorching heat of midsummer. But as the humidity and heat indexes drop, I feel a fog lifting from my mind and spirit. Suddenly I have a fresh outlook on life. I feel a renewal of mental and physical energy, meaning I can think and move again.



So I've managed to think of some of the many things I love about autumn here in the Midwest.

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Apple pickin' time at the local apple orchard.

The warm, brilliant earth-tones of leaves at the peak of their turning, so that everywhere you go you're surrounded by a palette of rusty-browns, luminous golds, oranges, reds, maroons and even eggplant purples.

The potted mums in similar rustic, earthy hues, lending that special autumn feel to so many front porches and yards.

Many of your neighbors become artists, creating lovely autumnal still lifes in their front yards out of artfully placed mums, corn-husk bundles and bales of hay.

The gourds in so many twisted, primitive shapes and harvest colors.

The sky a deep, more brilliant blue than at any other time of year.

Walking under a canopy of turning maples, aspen or birches and being bathed in a golden, glowing light.

Weekend trips to pumpkin farms with their corn mazes, homemade haunted houses, homebaked goods like apple-cider/cinnamon donuts, homemade jams and salsas in fancy jars, apple crisp, apple or pumpkin pie topped with a dollop of whipped cream, and oh, just about apple anything. Hayrides out to the pumpkin-dotted fields and through the rust-colored oak trees. Watching the kids search for the "perfect pumpkin."

The formerly yearly appearance of "Injun Summer" (http://www.tuxjunction.net/injunsummer.html)

in the Chicago Tribune magazine. Some of the phrases and terms the author uses--"cigar-store Injuns," "redskins," etc.--are by today's standards in very poor taste and understandably offensive to many Native Americans. Still...I've included a link to it just because it's so durn evocative of autumn, and I really DO think its heart was in the right place when it was written in the early 1900s. (Note the sad, almost mournful acknowledgement that the "Injuns" have all "gone away.")

Backyard bonfires with hot chocolate, apple cider and s'mores.

Big yellow or orange harvest moons.

Time to dig out the cozy, bulky sweaters, fall jackets and long-sleeved shirts again.

No more sweaty face and frizzy hair.

Trick-or-treaters crunching through the dead leaves as they make their way to your door.

A fire crackling in the fireplace.

Hot coffee tastes good again, something to savor rather than just endure for a caffeine buzz.

Raking the leaves with my husband, the kids and the dog, then jumping into the piles with all of 'em.

The gnarly, twisty, slightly spooky look of bare oak tree branches silhouetted against the sky at twilight.

Cooking hearty, savory stews and soups in the crockpot.

Getting the urge to bake again.

Warming up the kitchen by firing up the oven to bake cookies and brownies again.

And on that note, I'll sign off for now by wishing you all a colorful, spirit-rejuvenating, magical autumn.

The Most Dangerous Game?

My ten-year-old son came home from school the other day and informed me that tag has been banned from the playground.

I asked him why, and he said the new principal made this rule, because he thought tag was too dangerous and worried that some kids would get hurt. After doing some googling on this subject, it's apparent that our school is not alone in banning this "most dangerous game" from the playground.

Now I'm all for playground safety. This same son broke his arm badly two years ago after falling from a brand-new piece of playground equipment that was dangerously high, and landing on a way-too-thin layer of woodchips. And we cared enough about the safety of our son and the other kids to raise a bit of a fuss about it--enough of a fuss so that the very next day, there was a dump truck parked beside the school playground, dropping off a small mountain of protective mulch to add to the meager amount that was already there; enough of a fuss so that this gizmo was declared off-limits to the kids until it got lowered considerably.

But no more tag? Come on! According to my son, the kids are still allowed to play running games (now isn't that nice of them, granting the kids permission to run...at recess...on a playground?), as long as they don't involve chasing anyone. Call me a cynical mother of only boys, but when I suggest "peaceful" games like that to my kids, they call me a "hippie."

Yes, I strongly discourage my kids from being aggressive or violent towards others in their play. But even I would draw the line at tag. Usually it's all about the running, or pursuing friends who want to be chased.

And with so many of our children overweight, don't we want to encourage them to run and move their bodies vigorously during those rare chances they get during their school day? With so much of it devoted to standing obediently and quietly in lines, or sitting obediently and quietly in desks filling out worksheets and being "taught to the tests," with gym time shrinking as their waistlines grow, don't we want to encourage them to make the most of their short recess breaks by running around freely?

Apparently a couple of kids in Colorado complained that they didn't want to play, but were somehow forced to anyway. But isn't forbidding everyone to play tag the easy way out of this little predicament? Wouldn't it be better to use this situation as one of those "teachable moments?" For instance, those students who don't want to play could be encouraged to find ways to speak out and stand up for themselves, and the tag players could be taught consideration and respect for the feelings and personal boundaries of others. Or couldn't they just allocate a certain part of the playground for games of tag?

I loved dodgeball as a kid too, but the banning of that one makes a lot more sense to me. Now that was a game where only the strong survived, where there was always a very real risk of injury. It could be quite terrifying for the timid or non-aggressive student, like facing a firing squad. It was often a way for the bigger, meaner kids to literally attack the weaker kids right under the watchful eyes of the gym teacher.

(But on the other hand, it was also a fun way for a boy to let a girl know he liked her. I can remember finding it kind of thrilling and exhilarating to get singled out, to get plastered repeatedly with that big rubber ball by a boy I thought was cute. It was usually one of those telltale signs that he had a bit of a crush on me too.)

But yes, it was quite an aggressive, forceful game, whose sole purpose was to literally knock others out of play.

Yet I can never remember getting harmed in any way by a game of schoolyard tag. True, whenever a game involves running, there's the risk of someone falling or tripping. But that can happen going down a crowded stairway in the school building, or jostling for a place in the cafeteria lunch line.

I think what's happening is a few of those overprotective, hovering parents who don't want their kids playing are complaining loudly and ruining it for ALL the kids, who will be denied the wonderful memory of playing tag on the playground with friends. Or maybe the schools are trying to protect their butts from lawsuits. Either way, it seems an overreaction to me, another fun childhood pastime falling by the wayside.

Hopefully some day our kids will get sensible again and reclaim tag for their own kids. But like so many of those playground games that just don't seem to get passed down any longer for various reasons--like foursquare or tether ball or red light/green light--they'll first have to look up the rules on some website.

Teenagers These Days....

This wasn't starting out well.

I had just parked the Jeep in the high school parking lot. My two boys (ages 10 and 5 at the time) and I had just gotten out of the car, eager to head to the gym for their older brother's basketball game.

Two male students walked by, absorbed in a conversation. One of the first words I heard as they got within earshot was the F-word. They just blurted it out as loudly and casually as you please when they were right next to us. My kids looked up at me with slightly shocked expressions. I stood there a little stunned myself, wondering why they couldn't have lowered the volume just a notch as they approached us, at least for the part of the conversation featuring that word.

It was almost as if they'd wanted us to hear them say it.

Immediately I went into my I'm-turning-into-my-parents mode: indignant and inwardly fuming. How could they use that word so loudly and carelessly around young kids, in front of somebody's mom, for goodness sake, and with no shame! I started thinking all those kids-these-days thoughts: they're so rude, self-centered, no respect for their elders, etc.

Now I'm no prude when it comes to swearing. Not that I do too much of it myself. I try to save those powerful words for those rare occasions when I really need them. But I grew up in a pretty hardscrabble, blue-collar area, so a lot of the people I hung out with in high school were chronic swearers. Many of them had probably learned it at home. Or just thought it leant to their street cred. It never bothered me too much to hear it. I was just used to it I guess; some of the kids in my crowd used (or I should say, overused) the F-word as just another adjective. But even the worst offenders among them would check the swear-words at the door when in the presence of little kids and adults, especially if those adults were--egads!--somebody's parents.

But not these 21st century teenagers. This wasn't the first time this has happened to me; I've encountered groups of profanity-hurling teens while grocery shopping with my kids, in movie theater lobbies, etc. Again, it's the nonchalance with which they do it--even within full earshot of children and older adults--that I find a little disturbing. Many of them use these words indiscriminately to express even the mildest annoyance at something.

So with all these thoughts steaming inside of me at this point, I had worked myself into a bit of a stew, and was feeling pretty fed up with their whole generation. Definitely not the right sort of mood to be in when you're about to face a whole gymnasium full of 'em.

As we entered the school building, I tried to shake off all the negativity, to rid myself of those venomous thoughts. I didn't want those thoughts to poison my enjoyment of my son's game. Well, it didn't take long to stop thinking that way. What happened next helped me to change my mind about those teens and to hold out hope for them, lots of hope.

Coming from the stillness of the bleak, wintry outdoors, the loud, electric atmosphere in the gym was a total contrast. The place was positively buzzing! The bleachers were packed on both sides. What was unusual about this was the fact that this was a morning game, held while school was in session. Most of the students had come here rather than going to study hall. So they didn't have to be here. And that's a big point, which you'll see in a minute.

As the two teams walked out from the locker rooms to take their places on their respective benches, the crowd roared...for both teams, home and visitors. The players, in full uniform, beamed and waved up at the bleachers, feeling the love.

But this is where I need to mention that these weren't just any old high school basketball teams. Both teams consisted of all the TMH students from their respective high schools; in other words, these were the "teachable mentally handicapped" kids. (That's the official label the education system in Illinois gives to the more severely handicapped students, as opposed to the "educable mentally handicapped," who are higher functioning.)

But you wouldn't know that it wasn't Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippin out there from the way the crowd of their non-disabled peers whooped and hollered and cheered them on!

All these young, able, "normal" students were giving these kids the grand reception, making these two teams--filled with many clumsy, lumbering, often confused players--feel like graceful, revered NBA superstars.

Some of the players couldn't quite find their way to the basket without a friendly assist from their personal aides; and still the crowd cheered them on. Some of the players passed the ball into play by rolling it down a ramp from their wheelchairs; and still the crowed roared.

Still others (like my laid-back Daniel, who has Down syndrome) were more content to just stand in the middle of the court as the game moved back and forth around them, exchanging high-fives with another disabled friend. And still the crowd got to its feet and clapped even louder.

There was no smirking from those students in the bleachers, no pointing and laughing, no making fun. They just radiated so much genuine enthusiasm and affection out to both of those teams on the court. They really paid attention to the game, following the action closely, cheering or getting all hushed at all the right moments.

At one point I overheard a student sitting behind me in the bleachers ask his friend if he knew the name of the player in the #18 jersey, who was dribbling the ball down the court. "Oh, that's Mike," answered his friend. So the next thing I heard was shouts of "Go Mike!" and vigorous applause coming from behind me. Mike (who also has Down syndrome) stopped in mid-dribble and glanced up towards the bleachers, surprised to hear his name shouted out. Then he flashed a huge, proud grin that crinkled the corners of his sweet, slanted eyes.

And did I mention that the school's marching band was on the sidelines in full force, bleating out plenty of "We Will Rock You" riffs and other rabble-rousing numbers on their horns and drums to pump up the players and the crowd? And the cheerleaders cheered and clapped and did their flips and stacked themselves in their pyramids, putting just as much effort and skill into their routines as they would for the varsity team. From the energy in the gym that day, you'd think it was the biggest game of the year.

These weren't bored, miserable kids coerced into watching the game by their teachers after being admonished to be nice to the "retarded kids." They all seemed to be enjoying every minute of it, almost as much as the basketball players themselves.

It was all enough to bring tears to the eyes of a mom of a disabled son, and it did.

And it also made me feel really guilty for thinking those cynical thoughts I'd been thinking out in the parking lot. True, there are a lot of shallow, rude, disrespectful, self-obsessed teenagers out there. Always have been and probably always will be. But there are also so many like those teenagers in the gym that day, who gave those mentally challenged kids their chance to be recognized and to shine, and to feel very good about themselves.

And that makes me feel pretty good.

(Black & White photo borrowed from the Special Olympics Northern California website, color photo from the North Carolina Special Olympics website.)

"Two Roads Diverged...."

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

From Mountain Interval, 1920.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

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Greetings to anyone who's found their way here. Thanks for stopping in.

This is my third--and what I hope will be my most successful--attempt at maintaining a blog. I managed to keep one for several months back in 2005. Unfortunately, it was hosted by my former dial-up Internet provider, Earthlink. So when I finally graduated to DSL and dropped the dial-up, my blog got sucked into a black hole in cyberspace and disappeared forever.

I've been meaning to start up a new one ever since.

So today--with my kids on the verge of starting up school again--feels like a good day for me to try this again. I figure it might be easier for readers to find me here. I get the feeling this site is much more of a happenin' place for bloggers and blog readers than earthlink ever was. Put it this way: it wasn't a good sign when I realized that my blog was the only one I'd ever heard of whose address ended in "earthlink.net." So I concluded that it might not exactly be a blogging hotbed over there, might not be the place to be if you want someone to actually find you and read what you've written. And of course that's the whole point, isn't it?

Because my aim is clarity and not confusion, I'll start by explaining why I chose "The Long Way to Germany" as the title of my blog. Also why I've started it off with that famous Robert Frost poem.

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This particular poem describes the pivotal point my life was at in 1984--both figuratively and literally--more perfectly than any other piece of poetry I've ever encountered. (And my, isn't that a lot of alliteration?)

I had just completed a bachelor's degree in English Literature, and was working on my first semester of graduate school. The wheels were turning just as they were supposed to be, propelling me along smoothly on my career path, with the only bump in the road being a small one indeed: just the acute stagefright I experienced every time I stepped in front of my Freshman Comp. class. It didn't help that my students were all 18 or 19, and I was just 22. I just didn't feel like a "real" teacher yet. Didn't think anyone could possibly take me seriously in that role.

Yet I had enough common sense to realize that the minute I let them know that, the minute I let them smell my fear, they'd eat me alive. So I tried hard to pretend I was as stern, mature and confident as Miss Jean Brodie. (Remember, this was 1984. I didn't yet have Maggie Smith's portrayal of that other stern, confident, experienced teacher, Minerva McGonagall, to be inspired by, or I would've conjured her too--and a few of her spells--every time I walked into that classroom.)

So yes, everything was going along well...until the day I found out I was "with child." (That, you see, hadn't been a part of my plan, which up until that point had involved an eventual Ph.D. and professorship.) While I was still trying to deal with this little crimp in my plans, the very next day I got news of a different sort. I found out that I'd been accepted into a study-abroad program I'd applied for...in Germany. Talk about a double whammy! Talk about a roller-coaster ride of wildly conflicting emotions!

My English professor (who was not actually English at all, but an ascot-wearing, graying-at-the-temples German gentleman) had a smile on his face as he asked me to step into his office to break the good news to me. (At this point he had no idea about my other "news.") He didn't seem to notice my mixed reaction to his excited, happy announcement that I'd been accepted. As he looked over the brochure with me, he pointed to a photo of the "dorm" I'd be staying in at the University of Regensburg. I put that in quotes, because the 500-year-old building was more like a castle, a picturesque stone building complete with a large turret, right next to an ancient stone bridge arching over a tranquil river. Like an illustration out of a storybook.

My heart sank as I realized all I'd be missing. I knew he'd be very disappointed too when I told him that this dream that he'd help make come true for me just wasn't going to happen, that instead of heading to Regensburg the following fall, I'd be moving back to the suburbs and setting up house with my high school sweetheart.

For after standing at that crossroads for a few days, imagining where each road might take me, talking it all over with my boyfriend back home, I decided that was the only "road" I could travel.

Perhaps it isn't exactly accurate to refer to the path I chose--the one that lead to domestic life in the suburbs--as the one "less traveled by." After all, there are many more women who become suburban mothers and housewives than get paid to spend a year studying in magical, medieval Regensburg, Germany. But otherwise, just about every line of that Frost poem perfectly describes the way I felt for those few days in the spring of 1984, when I had to decide which path to travel.

But that other road turned out to be a lovely, fulfilling journey in its own way. It's been a good, happy life for the most part since that fateful day. And I WILL get to Germany someday, maybe when the kids are just a little older and there's more "luxury money" in our coffers. But for now, I try to keep my German skills up to par by speaking German whenever I get the chance, just so I don't forget it. And I continue to enjoy the journey along the road I've chosen. And that's what I plan to write about here in this space. Of course, if I ever do get to take that long-awaited trip to Germany, you'll hear all about that, too.