At last! Many thanks (all thanks) to Geoff for saving my 2GB of memory on the laptop and getting all of it to transfer to our dear iMac. Now I can relive all the joys of our week of relaxation and fun, new adventures.

On any road trip I love anticipating and discovering bizarre, absurd and novel sights. Sadly, as the country grows more and more uniform, with a Walmart and Dennys every 17 miles down the road, it gets harder to find something truly different. I know it's best to get off the main highways in order to find local color or original specimens. So, when we got off the 99, then travelled the 4 and made our way along the 49 everything got more and more interesting. We found ourselves in the western foothills of the Sierras, gold mining country. Oaks, creeks, rolling hills, ghost towns, wineries, distant snowcapped mountain peaks and expansive blue skies were bountiful. We were truly seeing places we have never seen before, like Angels Camp, Lake New Melones, Mike's Pizza, Murphys, Calabasa's Big Tree State Park and these...


These were in the breakfast place Bill suggested, Rodz Grill. I call it "Bacon and Eggs." I call it weird. I kind of like it. I like it at Rodz, in my memory, where I can reflect on the peculiar things we get to discover when we go to new places.

Bill and Alison, with baby Dominic, met us in Angels Camp, a short drive from a family cabin, so we could follow them to the Lake. I have long heard about "The Lake." Alison's family have been coming to the Lake forever and now it's part of my brother's life too. Now we were going to have our first introduction to water sports. Confession: I was doubtful, concerned, anxious, ignorant and hesitant. Unlike Alison, I am not inclined to be athletic and the thought of combining athleticism with a high speed boat was, frankly, scary. Naturally I extended my fear to my children, but only in my thoughts; I did not want to deprive my boys of an opportunity that they found quite intriguing. All three boys were willing and eager to see what you can do with a fast boat, wake boards, tubes and life vests.


All new ventures should begin with some training, so, some miles from the docks, we found a quiet bay, where Bill and Alison began teaching us the finer points and safety rules of wake boarding. Basically, I was agreeing to let the boys be strapped to a fiberglass board and then towed behind a speeding boat in a very cold and deep lake. I don't know that the depth of the lake matters, excepting it isn't shallow, but a "deep lake" sounds vaguely ominous.


The boots fit snugly and like a wetsuit, it takes some coaxing to get them on. Alison uses Joy.


This is Alison waking up the Lake with her first ride of the season. Water temp? High 50s.... brrrrrrr. She's very good, and the boys were encouraged and excited as ever to give it a try.


Next up was Alex. The board is awkward and difficult to maneuver in the water. It sounds a little harsh to say that Alex and Max were not successful. Technically they did not get a good ride, but they made many attempts, which was challenging in the frigid water, learning to manage the new gear. I was thoroughly impressed, and could not imagine getting in the water, let alone subjecting myself to the added challenge of standing up on a boot bolted board... it looked really tough!


Max was not discouraged, even when Alex climbed aboard sore and shivering. Once they fall, and everyone falls, they are left floating all alone, until the boat comes around to reel them back in. It's not easy looking back and seeing your little boy dropped off in the middle of the deep lake. Okay. So, I was a little anxious, but I was careful not to be a panicky mom. I loved seeing my guys embrace adventure and discovery.


It helps to try new things under the watchful eyes of cautious and caring family, like Bill and Alison. They are experienced and diligent. Once we established that wake boarding was best taken in small doses, Alison proposed "tubing." I've heard Bill talk about tubing, about wild rides, flying through the air, crashing in to a rock hard lake surface. Hmmmm....


Want to ride in a tube Max?


Tubing is awesome! I could have built up some suspense, and told you I was really doubtful, but it would be a waste. I have found my water-sport and it is sitting in an inflated donut and being hauled around a lake at crazy speeds. We all loved tubing. We were screaming, crying, eating, drinking, soaking-up tubing! We crashed and splashed and bumped all over Lake New Melones. William and Alex went first and the looks on their faces were priceless. I could feel their joy.


I could not resist, even though the water was painfully cold and I still had fast=scary fears. It was entirely worth overcoming my fears, because it was so much fun. Excuse me a moment while I abuse the adjective "fun." Going fast is fun. Splashing is fun. Bumping up and down on the wake of the boat is fun. Sliding out, as the boat turns, and feeling like your body is being flung from a rubber band is fun. Swinging back toward center and colliding with the other tube is fun. Fun. Fun. Fun. I had fun.


Normally, I am not a screamer. Tubing forced out a primal scream of exhilaration from the very ends of my toes.


And what's with my legs? Total bounce action. Max advised me, "Don't let your butt sink in to the water, because when we start moving it will feel as hard as a sidewalk." His advice was good. Though tubing is mostly about sitting back and taking a ride, there is some muscle action involved... holding on tight, keeping your booty elevated and your head back. I'm just trying to make it sound like it's an actual athlete's sport. Grin.


My brother likes to make it look totally mellow. He showed us how to take it easy.


Of course, if you take it too easy,


you may not be able to hang on when the ride gets wild!


Even after the tubing, William, Alex and Max were so taken with the lake, they stayed in the water, swimming and reveling in the thrills and spills.


Dominic is casual, relaxed. No worries. No hurries. He's having an awesome life! He spent the day kicking back and taking it all in. He's just waiting for his turn in the tube.


We definitely kept our promise to ourselves: We went someplace new and did things we've never done before. It's great seeing new places, and obviously I liked the day at the Lake. When can we go back? New sights are a treat, but meeting family there made it special. I miss my brothers, their families... family. For the rest of the trip my thoughts and heart wandered and wondered, "How can we be closer? When can we be together again? What's our destiny?" The rolling hills and old oak trees of the western Sierra, the history of fortunes found and lost, the ascending road with twists and vistas, inspire reflection and yearning.

Do you ever wake-up feeling homesick?

This may not be a good time to scratch around for deep thoughts, because Maria pulled an all nighter, crying, and frustrated by mystery ailments. Now my eyes are achy and my thoughts are muddled. I don't think she could take a nap long enough that I can recover. Sigh.

I do feel homesick. I miss my family, the rest of it, the faces, the jokes, the voices and common threads we share. Shared. Maybe it's missing family and feeling homesick that prompts me to daydream about taking a road trip. Alex suggested we go to the mountains, and that might alleviate some of my longing for home and familiar touchstones. We went to the mountains so often as children, to that mining town with the apple orchards and general store, that just being there can sometimes make me feel grounded.


Old pictures can take me home a bit. There are moments in my life that resurface, complete with sounds, scents, warmth and flavors, when I see a picture, touch a careworn object. A ceramic figure standing on a garden shelf... it belongs to my Grandmother and it holds dinners at her kitchen table, and watering potted geraniums on her porch. Whittier, La Mirada, Westminster, San Antonio, Neptune, El Rancho. Homes and places.


A picture can be a lantern, holding light to a time and place, perhaps forgotten and yet still dear. Perhaps feeling homesick is a longing to meet the eyes of someone else that remembers too; someone that can confirm your stories and beliefs, and bring up more memories, like snapshots and mementos.


Maybe, because I am sleepy and a bit too worn, I wonder if time stands still in some places. Could we ever go back and find our old beliefs and stories and feel the same way, the same hunger, confidence or wonder? Do you have a place you can be and feel at home, grounded, connected?


I wonder if I collect things, hauling them from place to place, to serve as evidence, proof of my past, my pleasures and dreams. When people and places are gone, can a figurine, bracelet, or polished river stone keep the connection alive?


I went through this door and knew the faces of my family that graced its home. I miss them. I miss the cool adobe walls, the dark corner where maiz and caña stood, the wooden chairs, the soft and gentle hand that touched my own.


Houses, places, cabins and tents, apartments, backyards, kitchen tables, a corner in any place, a path to the ocean and dunes and driftwood, I feel a longing to go, to meet friends and family and share the past, enjoy the present and anticipate tomorrow.

It's dark as night outside. Maria and I are the only ones up. She's awake. I am just on auto pilot. Some people don't click-on until coffee has saturated their guts and senses. Since I can't handle the caffiene scene, I turn to the news, either on TV or the internet, and I look for email and comments, then I slowly start to become coherent, sort of. No one in our family ever truly sleeps late, unless he or she is sick. Being sick of school sometimes causes Alex or Max to linger in bed a bit later. I wish I could sleep late, the way I could as a teen. William is our resident teen and even he gets up reasonably early. Geoff is the most cat-like in his sleep habits. Sometimes he falls asleep early in the evening, then wakes in the middle of the night. He gets naps, more than a goodnight's sleep. Then he is up and on his way back to work. His long hours are horrible for maintaining regular sleep patterns.

We are expecting company in April. Ruth and Jim are coming for an explore of the Mainland. We've heard a most distressing rumor that they are thinking of relocating. They've been Big Island regulars for close to twenty years. It's difficult to imagine them any where else. They have so completely adapted to Island living; sometimes I forget they were midwesterners and even dabbled in So Cal-ese. I wouldn't say they have island fever, a commonly cited complaint of some island dwellers. I think they have grand-baby fever, that is a burning desire to hang out with the next generation. The ocean between us is an awfully wide, and deep barrier to impromptu visits.

The rumor of their relocating is distressing because we have seen them spend happy, fulfilling time in Hawaii. Our family has been on a long quest to move to Hawaii and join them in the Island Style, warm days, tropical breezes, fresh fruit, exquisite views, and aloha. There is a perceptible change of attitude, mood and thinking that takes hold when one is in Hawaii, and we hate to think that Ruth and Jim could lose the pleasure of that, by selling their beautiful home and farm.

On the other hand... who are we to question the wisdom of charting new courses and making new plans, of following your instincts? We would mourn the loss of our tropical getaway, true, but we stand to gain more time with Ruth and Jim. We stand to gain opportunities for spontaneous visits and more holidays together. Holly and I make the most of our proximity for family togetherness, but other than that, regular time spent with extended family is hard to come by around here.

When they arrive, Ruth and Jim will spend a few days in the area, visiting all of us and getting familiar with some of the more rural neighborhoods of So Cal. Then they will motor east to Arizona and New Mexico, leaving a little time for more grand-baby bonding before they fly home. I am starting to really wake-up now and three ideas are coming to mind, rising like the sun: #1. Mom and Corm, if you want an easy driving range for frequent visits, keep the distance well under 20 hours. My mom can attest to this. A 20 hour drive is long, long, long and intimidates most visitors. #2. Anyone thinking of seeing Ruth and Jim should think about coming to town in April. #3 Family that ever thought "We'll have plenty of time to go to Hawaii and be treated to Island Style splendor," had better get busy. I know we are feeling anxious to ensure we have at least one last stay with Ruth and Jim, in their amazing home.

It's light out now. Time to find socks, eat whole grains, pack lunches, find books, comb hair and get out the door.

It may be time to step in to my alternate universe.
Yesterday I was open to the possibility of healing and balance, to magic and a turn of the tide. I didn't stay in bed waiting for the UPS truck to drop off a package of "All Better." I cleaned house and fed children. I unpacked the big box that was labeled 100% Easter, so that for once my children could hope to live in an appropriately and festively decorated house for Easter. I did affirmative things, and made daring steps toward my future, and I wrote letters, made phone calls, I hung some art on the bare walls, and bought groceries...


I continued to monitor the children,

to be sure they were keeping

healthy habits.

While I cleaned and organized I made the mistake of letting Maria explore in the Easter box and now it looks like spring and bunnies vomited all over the family room. I remained calm and philosophical, reasoning that the activity kept her happy and distracted. Maria woke from her nap with an eye sealed in gunk. She woke from her nap with the same congested cough Max has, Alex has, Geoff has. She woke from her nap sad and tender. Max threw-up, again. Alex sleeps or coughs, or coughs in his sleep. All the phone calls and letters, the daring steps? So far, I've got 'no reply,' and 'no comment.' The two boys are falling behind at school, and they'll be missing the school field trip tomorrow. I've been missing out too, like Yanina's surprise lunch and birthday walk, and seeing Anne's new yard and plants. And remember the "Easy Knitting" book by Klutz? I pretty much suck.


This is all very tired, random and pathetic and I'm not even disclosing all of our lows and burdens, but it serves to illustrate just why I am ready to visit my alternate universe. I am not going to bother describing it in any detail. I am going to close my eyes and think of all the ways things could be better, cleaner, nicer. After 20 minutes or so, I will open my eyes and start all over again; washing hands, cleaning, folding, unpacking, making calls, hoping, praying, mothering.

I got one email today, from "A Year in Bread. I want to play along and be a baker too. Later, after baking, I want to print this alphabet and hang it in our own school room. I love my alternate universe.

In the last 3 years real estate agents, well meaning strangers, and countless others have let me know in every conceivable manner that this day would never come. I've been laughed at, corrected, admonished, lectured, snubbed and pitied, because I dared to speculate that the *Hot Housing Market* was a hot air bubble and not an irreversible trend. I wasn’t making a lucky guess. I countered every attempt to convert me with irrefutable evidence: There have been housing bubbles before and when people over pay and over-finance, then the cycle is doomed to repeat itself. And still people scoffed, and said, “This is different,” and “This is unprecedented,” and “You must be joking, housing will never go down in California.”

Geoff and I have withstood the jeers and pressures of a crazed market, rabid realtors and loan wielding sharks. It has been humbling, frustrating, depressing and scary. Now it’s their turn. And I am not happily pronouncing any kind of Victory for our side, because I don’t think it’s going to be at all pleasant in the next year, or longer, to see more and more people struggle and even fail to make their mortgage payments and to see homes in foreclosure. Houses were being bought and traded like commodities and for many they were unaffordable as homes, safe havens to raise families. And maybe we are wrong. Maybe our government will rescue the system again, refute that there is real inflation, and manipulate interest rates to protect the status quo, an economy that is based less and less on productivity. It would be a sad and dangerous course.

I like looking for my own economic indicators, little signs that realtors are ready to be nice to me. For instance, I was invited to a housewarming party for a new neighbor. His selling agent gave invitations to everyone in a 30 block radius to come meet “Larry,” followed by lots of personal details about how great Larry is and how great Century 21 is. Oh, and it also said, “There will be pizza, soda, beer and juice for children who need it.”

Panda eats, shoots, and leaves.

Maria is sitting on top of the clean clothes. Actually she is stuck, sitting in the basket of clean and folded clothes. She sneezed on the hangers, then said, “I wovee you mom. Night-night.”

Last night she helped me prepare dinner. While I worked on the spaghetti sauce, Maria measured teaspoons of salt and separated cloves of garlic. Max was appalled to see the salt poured out over the kitchen counter, and he only seemed mildly convinced when I explained to him that she was cooking.

“Cooking? How is this cooking?” he asked incredulously.
“Well, she learned how to say garlic, and she learned how to separate the cloves, and now she is practicing pouring and measuring,” was my happy reply.
“But what about the mess?” Max countered.
“Messes get cleaned.”

I think I am realizing that for me, writing is a compulsion. I am keenly aware that I am publishing a lot of stuff that will litter the Internet like dust motes in a sitting room; meaning my thoughts go largely unnoticed. Yet, in spite of my humiliation and self-conscious embarrassment, I cannot seem to keep from writing. Everyday I send my thoughts and reflections, the daily rituals and details of our family life out in to the ether. At least for our household and me it serves as a family time capsule, or large scrapbook, so that we can revisit happy times, silly moments, rough patches and memories that might have drifted away. And I cannot explain why blogging is the method, the tool, the page for my journal. I cannot justify my choice, except that I do want to connect with other family, friends, so I keep on writing.

I am not a particularly skilled writer and I do not have the most innovative or engaging website, and knowing this sometimes troubles me. I feel inadequate, small. And I also feel reminded of a trend that I recognize in our society. I don’t know if I can describe it clearly, but the trend I see has to do with a lot of people wanting to be Special, Famous, Recognized and Rich, and not necessarily for any particular reason. In other words, there are a lot of Paris Hiltons. Naming one celebrating is a weak way to make my point, and yet it is still somehow effective. Paris Hilton is rich by way of inheritance and she is famous by way of doing nothing of genuine value for society. Is she special? Well, you would think she is, if taking magazine covers and news’ headlines in to account. I see far fewer acknowledgments for the people who actually work, sacrifice, plan, endeavor, strive, dedicate, apply, sweat, create, fail and try again, innovate, and go back to do it again everyday, without the hope of a severance package, awards show or free home-makeover. Our society keeps widening this tremendous gap between wage earners and individuals like the ex Home Depot CEO whose severance payout was 210 million dollars. 210 million dollars for a job poorly done, or how good a job could anyone do to merit that amount of money? Or how about Spend it Like Beckham? Yes, it’s a business move and he is a franchise that generates interest and more money, but I feel for his teammates; are they worth so much less? And what about the children aspiring to be professional soccer players? Will they fully understand that success can be found without millions of dollars and product endorsements?

We cannot all be famous, not even for 15 minutes. We won’t all get rich fast and easy. Very few of us will get tickets to Oprah’s Favorite Things giveaway show. I don’t think it is good for so many people to cling to the hope of fame and prosperity, to wait for their lottery ticket to save them, to idealize the lives and faces of a lucky few. I think that as we find more and more people without the nicest cars, the shiniest homes and the newest handbag, we will face a crisis. The widening gap between the 1% with everything and the rest of us will cause a great deal of anger, resentment and bitterness.

I used to really enjoy watching Martha Stewart’s television show, the old one, before she was famous for going to jail. Her half hour program featured tips for home keeping, cooking, crafts and hobbies. She shared her skills and she invited skilled professionals to teach their crafts. She went out in to the community to find craftsmen, farmers, fishermen, jewelers, hobbyists and cooks, many different people with talents and interests. The show was not about promoting celebrities or making product endorsements. The program was about regular people that knew how to do something useful or simply beautiful and it was about giving the viewer an opportunity to learn something new and interesting. I miss the unique experience of hearing from a person that knows and loves her work and is content to go on working for the sake of the process and the product and not for fame or huge sums of cash. There is something genuine and endearing about that kind of person.

Do I want fame and riches? Well… hmmm… well kind of, but … hey, it’s infectious! I could enjoy a little recognition. I would like to hear that I am worthy of a trophy, some swag and a write up in TIME, and money is very useful. I would love to test my skills in philanthropy, to build the house of my dreams. I don’t want fame, not for what I do, not for the cost of privacy and freedom. I don’t want to make winning the Lottery my goal or plan, or to pine away for a windfall that will make my life perfect. I do want to continue writing and posting pictures on Chickenblog and maybe making someone laugh or feel connected a bit. And I will remind myself periodically that this is for the sake of the process, for the product, for the pleasure of it…

I miss my chickens. I miss the sun being bright enough to wear a cowboy hat without self consciously feeling like I am trying to make a statement. I miss growing tomatoes, cilantro, figs, flowers, peppers and carrots. I miss the feeling that with practice and play I might grow up to be a real farm girl, baking, writing, quilting, herding hens, chasing children and being a little bit different from the rest of the pack. I didn’t know anyone else that traded a beach house for a bit of the wide-open spaces and a tractor. And even when we gave all that up, it was with the hope and promise that we were just moving to another farm, an Island farm with taller grass.

Chickenblog was going to be “Kai Kokoke Moa”… Chicken by the Sea. We had plans. Now we are here in Garage Mahal; not suffering by any means, but there’s no plan. There are no chickens.

I like the records and memories that Chickenblog has kept. I like that a friend can follow our ups and downs, stay in touch, share too. But if you came here looking for chicken talk and farm fare, homespun adventures, art and vegetables, well then please mosey on over to “The Pioneer Woman” and then consider visiting the woman that “…Lives On A Farm,” followed by a trip to “Farmgirl Fare.” I just found a “Kona Farmgirl.” Even Melissa Etheridge's girlfriend has her own farm girl blog. In fact, there are 4,670,000 farm girl blogs. (That may just prove that the Internet is bad place to feel unique or special.)

Archives are useful tools for remembering the past and learning that we sometimes repeat ourselves, or that we can perhaps avoid making the same mistakes again. Organizing Chickenblog archives has been fun and bittersweet. It's not an easy experience to remember what we built and what we left behind. Life is so full of opportunities, risks, chances, fortune and folly, and when can we know that we are following a right path, a safe way? We can't. But there is some likelihood that we can find patterns, see signs, recognize indicators and learn a thing or two. I know where my blessings are, and for other dreams my crystal ball this evening is made of Ben Stein's archives.

I found an interesting piece of mail this morning from Allison. She has a site about chickens: "Chicken Video..." another kind of Chicken Blog Some of you may recall that Chickenblog began when we were Jolly Green Ranchers, living in the country with our chickens and a tractor. I write about many subjects, but those 3 chicas and Sunshine, the surprise rooster, were always a source of happiness. Life takes many turns, the chicas are long gone, but some day I hope Chickenblog will return to the farm or to some rooftop city garden with free ranging city hens. The timing of Allison's email is interesting, because the chicas have been on my mind quite a bit. Going through the archives, I've had plenty of opportunity to remember how much joy and wonder those chicas gave me. This is a reflective time of year for me, when I am wondering about my life and how I am living it, and yesterday I was daring myself to go buy some chicks. We can't have hens now, not here. Sigh. Allison sells a bumper sticker that reads: "Wherever chickens are outlawed, only outlaws will have chickens." Tempting.

Renting is depressing. A huge mortgage is depressing too, I know, but renting is depressing and degrading, so it beats out the stress of home ownership by a lot. I could elaborate and explain my humiliation and despondance, but I'd rather throw around colorful language and other sentence enhancers like F-this! and F-that! And F-it all! Our new landlord doesn't want to admit the plumbing here is shoddy, instead he tries to tell us "how to flush a toilet." The garbage disposal has clogged twice and he asks, "Did you put anything in it?" F-ing A! And we are still answering to Bob, the Treehouse landlord, because he wants us to pay for the replacement of the very F-upped carpeting that we put up with for three years and will be torn out when he rebuilds in 6 months...

You know, this isn't a half bad house and I like it better than an apartment or a trailer or a mud hut with a cardboard door, but I can't help feeling very unhappy. I feel a constant weight knowing that I may ruin something that isn't mine, simply by existing. At any moment the kids may stain the carpet or put a hole in a wall, or the landlord may be at the front door, again, asking to come in to adjust the sprinkler timer. It puts me in a state of constantly facing the fact that I am not good... not good at maintaining an orderly "drop by anytime" house... not good at flushing toilets... not good at accepting my lot in life and bucking-up... not good.

Can you picture me unpacking more boxes, decorating for Christmas and settling in to our new home?

For all the concerned people still asking us why we are renting, here's the song we won't have dedicated to us: YouTube - Real financial heros part 3 of 3

3 hours and forty minutes from now we are going to take a walk-through with the new landlord. We get to see that everything is clean and working and he gets a big fat check, then we get keys... then we get to move, then we get to clean the Treehouse and settle in to the New House... etc, etc... I feel very nervous. I hope the boys like their new home. I hope it's big enough to contain us and our worldly treasures. I hope the neighbors are nice. I hope the new landlord doesn't intend to drop by often. I hope our move does not coincide with natural disasters or acts of terror...

There is a lot to be done between now and our last day at the Treehouse. The hard part is clearing, sorting, packing, organizing, and the other hard part is accepting that this won't be our last move, that we have to answer to the landlord when it comes to paint on the wall and pets in the yard. No chickens for me. No garden beds either. I've been thinking a lot about what makes a house a home, and what it is about our personal things that contributes to our identities. For three years I have felt like I a temp; here for a while, about to move on. The boys are looking forward to not sleeping 2 feet from the dining table and 3 feet from the kitchen, and I harbor fantasies of decorating their rooms and setting them up in spaces that reflect their interests and my affection for them... I just feel so incapable, like this is just another holding pattern. I know this is my life, not a dress rehearsal, but I haven't felt at home in a very long time, and I don't know how to get there.

Rental open house. Beautiful place, bit pricey... well, ya, very pricey, but it beats the d-u-m-p I saw yesterday by light-years... The woman showing the pricey and stunning house turns out to be a way long time ago friend of my mom's. Mom must remember Lin C. ...? Anyway, Lin C. is not only the renting agent she is also the next door neighbor. The big bummer (you knew there had to be a *big bummer*) is the size... tight squeeze. And that is today's housing update. How was your day?

I guess the answer is: I should quit the diet coke. Yea, I am feeling deep and moody.

Personal dreams are not as important as daily responsibilities. I think dreams can be the inspiration for facing and meeting our responsibilities. For instance, I want a home of our own. I could get a house by signing a 50 year mortgage, but that only jeopardizes our security and compromises our peace of mind. I can't deny the sensibility of waiting, and while I wait, saving, planning and anticipating. My responsibilities successfully fulfilled will, hopefully, hasten a dream coming true.

Freedom is not a right, it is a privilege and a gift. There is no inherent, cosmic promise for freedom, though I wish it could be so. I wish we could all take off and see the world from a bicycle, or glide along tranquil rivers in green canoes. I wish there were no hunger, disease or war. By fortune or by effort I enjoy a great deal of freedom, and it's a daily struggle to balance in my heart and mind what freedom I am entitled to and what freedom I am accepting at the expense of others. I have worked for an hourly wage, and paid my own way. I have traded my skills for food and shelter, and I have been dependent on my parents, and friends. When we are dependent I think we must be aware that our freedom is compromised and that we are infringing on the freedom of those who support us, so in exchange we must nurture and support, show interest and care for our benefactors. It's not enough to expect our needs to be fulfilled, to insist on freedom and to demand of others what we are not willing to earn for ourselves. When we are able we must share our skills, our hearts and our time, so that all can enjoy the prospect of freedom.

Some people thought that our housing situation was resolved because of the house down the street coming up for rent... I guess I didn't make it very clear: The house across the street is for rent, but it became available After I agreed to stay here for 3 months. Also, the other house is small and has no yard... well, it has small and rubble rattled patio on the edge of a high bluff. That is the deal, or it was the deal.

Here is the new deal: Bob the landlord and I talked again yesterday, and he has decided that this gem of a house is not worth remodeling after all, so he is resubmitting plans to the city. They will completely tear down this house and build new. The new plans and permitting process allow us to stay in the Tree House for 6-8 months, if we'd like. Obviously there are pros and cons, so let's consider...

pros:

we live here already
the rent is low
we live here already
the rent is low
nice neighbors
we live here already

cons:
I packed all the good stuff
the utility closet has this *smell*
we need to change a lot of light bulbs (What?! It's a factor, trust me.)
upstairs it's 85 degrees in summer
downstairs it's 58 degrees in winter
the laundry room has a mystery leak
the kitchen faucet is broken, so are the blinds and the stove exhaust
the boys sleep in the dining room
I am plagued with suburban regret, because I never got to decorate a nursery

Well I think it's clear: We should stay.

And for all my friends that still can't find my address or phone number, I am going to send out fancy "We are here for now cards" with all the relevant information.

Everyday I check three different sources for available homes. Everyday I make phone calls, leave messages, send emails and wait for replies from prospective landlords. Because I am an emotional person all of this involves anticipation, anxiety, tension, a sense of hope, followed by disappointment. I mentally move in to every house that seems remotely like our future home; I calculate all the pluses and minuses and sum up our projected contentedness. It is too consuming, and try as I might I can’t seem to do it any other way.

But there is a new way… I mustered the nerve to call Bob and ask about yesterday’s mystery guest, the guy I assumed was an architect. I was reluctant to talk to Bob, because I was not prepared to hear that he was ready for us to move out a.s.a.p.

1. The mystery guy is an electrician
2. Bob was meeting him to check the power panel on the back of the house
3. Bob was delayed
4. They are meeting here tomorrow; it shouldn’t require coming in to the house
5. Everything is going v e r y s l o w l y with the plans and the city
6. Bob can’t believe it’s almost July
7. I can’t believe it’s almost July
8. We agree we would all be relieved to extend the lease through September!
9. After September we may stay month to month

Here I will insert a quote that Janece shared today; it’s fitting:

“Make it a rule of life never to regret and never to look back. Regret is an appalling waste of energy, you can’t build on it, it’s only good for wallowing in.” Katherine Mansfield.

So never mind I thought we would be out of here by now. Never mind that I wasted a lot of time and energy on house hunting. Let’s look forward with our new circumstances in mind:

1. We like it here
2. We can enjoy another summer of apricots, then plums and finally apples
3. I can shift my energy from searching to everything else (cleaning, packing, teaching, nursing, reading The Hobbit aloud in the tent in the yard…)
4. We can replace light bulbs (we’ve been such short-timers we haven’t been replacing difficult to access recessed light bulbs; it’s been getting quite dark in some rooms)
5. We can make the most of our proximity to Tamsyn, Adam, Jacob, MNO, this, that and the other
6. Enough time may pass that the universe will smile on us and direct us to an ideal home

Thank you Janece… things are opening up for us in unexpected ways.

Welcome... please come in... I was just meditating...

Did you hear knocking? We all heard knocking, from downstairs. The doorbell went out ages ago, so you have to knock and hard to be heard over our daily din.
Our front door is all glass, and there are large sidelights on either side, so going downstairs is a risk and commitment. You will not get even half way down the stairs unseen by anyone at the front door. Cleaning up breakfast in pigtails, pajama bottoms and a freshly tie-dyed sports bra, I was in no state to be greeting whoever it was. It was too late to sit quietly as though no one were home. All the windows are open to breeze the early heat, so the knocker surely heard dishes clattering, laughter and "Is someone knocking?" I stood mouth agape: "O-h my Gawd," I scrambled around looking for jeans, a blouse, a hairbrush. Nothing. My jeans are downstairs in the basket of clean laundry. The hairbrush must be in the car. I pulled on a T-shirt and went to the window, just as the gentleman knocked even harder.

He's looking for Bob the landlord. They're supposed to meet. He has files or plans, something. He looks like an architect. He studied his watch, turned over his cell phone. He said Bob was going to meet him here...

Are you feeling my panic? Okay, I admit it: The house is a mess. I jack-up all trades and master none. Oh, let's be fair... I've been packing, teaching, cooking, nursing, and did I mention the tie-dye? Why is Bob meeting him here? Is it a mix-up? Are they coming back later? Should I leave town for a few days? Should I quit blogging and clean like crazy (That is crazy. I know futility when I meet it.) We all agree, don't we, Bob should have called 72 hours in advance? And what about the greater implications, not just of my immediate shame and domestic embarrassment, but does this visit mean that Bob's permits are granted? Does this mean our moving day is really and truly looming? Are you feeling my panic now?

And where are we on house hunting? Answer: Square 1. We may apply for a place north of here, which means a longer commute for Geoff. He went to Ikea and bought two beanbags, which he keeps under the desk in his cubicle, so he can work his 19 hour shift then pass out.

Let's sum up... I am in a state of simultaneous embarrassment, shock, despair, denial and reality overload. Our tie-dyed T-shirts came out really neat. I'm running low on moving boxes. Any questions, suggestions and/or prescriptions can be sent to our forwarding address... eventually.

Sing "Happy Birthday" to Alex. He's 12 today.
He likes Lego bricks, robots, frogs, drawing, cooking, body surfing, riding his bicycle, reading, playing Oblivion, guavas, gardening, and camping. He lost two teeth this week. He wants to go to Monterey Bay this summer, see the movies "Cars" and "Pirates," and read more books like, Eragon, by Christopher Paolini and The Golden Compass, by Philip Pullman. His favorite color is blue, like the ocean in Hawaii. His favorite food is still stuffed French toast, "It hasn't changed." He likes Legoland, building towers from blocks, and sleeping outside. He wants to take more cooking classes.

He's fun to be with; his attitude is bright and caring. He helps and inspires. He is dedicated, responsible and considerate. His humor is spontaneous and intelligent. We love this wonderful boy.

Here's the first Soquel baby... baby George lives with Bill and Alison, and I have the feeling he'll be in for a rude awakening when his baby brother is born in September.


He looks like a big honey of a cat. I look forward to meeting him someday.

June is a birthday month. 3 birthdays were being celebrated this weekend, when Bill, Alison, Gretchen and Hans went to Oregon and saw Delia and Ron. Looks as though they had a good time. Happy birthdays Mom, Hans and Bill!

This morning on the phone:
Dave (prospective landlord): What can I tell you?
Me: Can we bring pets?
Dave: What do you have?
Me (lying): We have a rabbit and a cat.
Dave: No. No. A rabbit will eat all of my flowers. The whole garden will be destroyed.
Me: Actually, he's in a cage.
Dave: What else?
Me: The cat.
Dave: Are you interested in getting rid of it?
Me: No... I think we'll look elsewhere... thanks...
Dave: How about more rent?
Me: Raise the rent month to month for 1 cat?!
Dave: Yes.
Me: No. We'll find something else. Thank you. Good-bye.
Dave: Well, I have to tell you: You are not what we are looking for. You are not a good fit.

Interpreting signs.

When Geoff was choosing a job, and I was his closest advisor, we agonized over every possible option. We thought about housing, schools, atmosphere, lifestyles, and commutes, air quality and beach access, friends, family... we tried to project our dreams and hopes onto each circumstance and to devine the most ideal future for all. Sometimes when a job offer, like LucasArts', was a little too challenging to accomodate, when housing or relocating seemed too daunting, I assumed that this was a sign that we needed to consider something else. The Santa Monica job seemed impossible from a housing/commute stand too. By "impossible" I mean expensive and difficult to decipher in one weekend. I decided to believe that difficult meant we had an opportunity to realize that we should simplify our lives by staying on familiar ground and accepting our seemingly least stressful option.

Or did *difficult* actually mean *rise to the occasion, challenge yourselves, think outside the box, be adventurous, take the path less well trod, strike forth brave souls?* We went for less stressful, or so we thought. I would quit whining, boring all with our tale of woe, but there are new chapters and I can't help but spill. At this point I think we may as well have gone to San Francisco, set up in our Presidio apartment and slaved away at the Yoda altar...

Geoff has been working 6 days a week. The darkest, predawn hours he spends in the RV, so that he can devote all of his strength and soul to the company. But the property manager has made a firm decision that no RVs can park in the company lot, ever. Crap. So. Well, now we have to reduce our search area for housing to eliminate Geoff's commute as much as possible, so that when he's worked 18 hours and has to be back to do it again he won't flog his brain and car driving half way across the county. If we can't find a rental in 12 areas, what are the odds we'll find something looking in 4 areas? The RV solution was also helpful, because of gas savings (he drove it only twice a week) and because it's a safe and dependable ride. The Chevy on the other hand is a gas snorting heap with many faults and failings, and would have to be driven 12 times per week.

I was crumbling under the strain before. Now I am just stunned and confused.

Glitchy. Whenever I post a comment, the comment publishes twice. It's like I'm repeating myself. It's like I'm repeating myself.

Went to see the only hopeful on the short list of house rentals; too small. Tell me not to despair. Too late.

Maria and I cleaned bathroom drawers and under the sink. I threw away about 42 old toothbrushes, expired Cipro, tubes of stuff that looked suspicious, and a couple of completely squeezed-out toothpaste tubes. I sorted bobby pins, nail clippers and eyeliners. Maria passed me bottles and buttons, and countless little things. None of my work seems sufficient, in terms of getting us out of here. Chipper me smiles and says, "It will all pay-off on moving day. Every bit counts!" And sober, bitter me says very little, but sneers and moans a lot.

Sober-bitter me paid a visit to the boy's playroom today, and I had plenty to say about that. After threatning to withold all joys, including TV, allowance, food and shelter until the room is clean, the boys came through and returned their playroom to a state of cleanliness.

Before Geoff started working again, he read me an article by an anonymous and disgruntled wife of a game programmer. She lamented the hours and the expectations of employees and their families, she decried the conditions and held her fist high, angry for all the injustice. Her husband was working 50-60 hours a week, then 80 and at times more. Hah! She'll get no sympathy here. I'd defend her and give her my shoulder to cry on, because she does have a point, but my only reward is bragging about how much worse I've got it. Besides, who wants to complain now? The time to get really freaked-out will be when the remaining programming jobs go to Shanghai and Bangalore.

I guess I'll clear out the pantry tomorrow. Every bit counts. Grumble, grumble.

Grand Prize in our home...

The Dragonfly Knight
by Alex, age 11

Alex designed and drew this knight as an entry in a Lego Magazine contest for original concepts for their Knight's Kingdom series. This was not his first draft. He first spent days carefully considering all the possible themes and color schemes. The new knight could not be like any of the other Lego knights. Other crests on the knights' shields include a bear, lion, monkey, hawk, bull, snake, scorpion, and dragon. Once Alex decided that a dragonfly would be the most unique and noble crest, and he chose a new color, different from the other knights', he began sketching his concept for the plastic action figure. He challenged himself to draw several drafts, until he felt certain he had drawn the best knight he could.

Hard work is good, and the reward comes from the passion and the love of the job... but sometimes you hope for a bit more, like recognition, appreciation. We all love Alex's knight. We were certain Lego would recognize his effort, his sincerity, and his thoughtful design.

(Dang it; I am trying to show him a mature, brave face, 'cause we can't expect to *win* everytime, but how can I show him the 'brave face' when I feel totally disappointed too! Those bums don't know a good thing when they see it, and I'm hopping mad. They didn't even print the winners' art in their magazine, and what would it have hurt them to print winners and honorable mentions? )

Lego may have missed something, but around here, Alex wins my heart everyday. He works with love and caring. He applies his skills, patience and interest wherever he can, and it reflects in all of his accomplishmnets. I have no doubt that good things and plenty of prizes await my talented son.






Should I...

1. Take the train to Union Station and go touring around Little Tokyo?
2. Take the train to Union Station, explore and then take the Gold Line east and spend the night?
3. Stay home, teach, clean, pack, organize, find a house and serve the children 3 healthy meals?

Scud. I cannot honestly call my life "depressing," but it is definitely aggravating.

Since missing out on the *Poo-poo* house we have found maybe two other houses that were decent, but
they too have fallen through for one reason or another. Bob, the landlord, has indicated that his building plans are with the
city and we may have more time to stay in the Tree-House. But... this means more time in limbo, and of course I have started packing, so we are living in the dreaded mode of being In-yet-Out. A lot of our favorite junk is packed, and a lot of our cluttering junk is piled about us like grim reminders that we are not living at our optimal best... so to speak. My Mom's visit was good for improving morale, but now I need to get over my aggravation and throw away clutter junk, sell unnecessary junk, and finish packing priceless junk.

One last rant (for today): Renters have to be small and apologetic, compliant and groveling, and it is a demeaning, demoralizing way to live. We have things like toys and clothes and furniture. We have six people's worth of stuff, but when it's moving time I feel like we are a warehouse of materialism and accumulation, and I feel embarrassed, ashamed and ridiculous. We have pets, we have vehicles, we have a hammock, but no trees to hang it from, and we have to find a place that will accept all of us, so we have to conform to 2 line ads that advertise '3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms and no garage, or no yard, or no pets, or no place to hang a hammock.' Property managers don't know that I make a friendly neighbor, that I garden, that our children are really sweet-natured. Landlords are looking for the dents and dings that tenants leave when they are busy living, and my mind is always calculating the damage we are doing to someone else's home. Owning a home is tough; it takes responsibility and sweat equity, I know. But if you are in your own home take stock of the sweet pleasure of answering only to your own schemes and designs, and never dreading the landlord's knock. In another year or three, check back with me when I *itch and moan about replacing the plumbing or making the mortgage on our own house; trust me, it'll still be way mo' betta than this.

I was visiting the images posted on Small Farms, thinking about Texas Ranch House, and enjoying the new CD, "The Round-Up," I ordered, and so of course I got to feeling my inner cowgirl stir. My inner cowgirl can ride a bit, but she doesn't rope or brand. My inner cowgirl longs to round-up a herd of fat, sassy hens and lead them to green pastures. I miss my chicas. I tried guided meditation and it was Gracie who came to lead me to serenity and inner peace. I miss sitting on the lawn with her; she would fall asleep like a baby in my arms.

My inner cowgirl wants a compost pile and seed catalogs and empty half barrels that still smell of whiskey or Merlot. I want to fill the barrels with beets and carrots, zinnias, cilantro, oregano and sage. Wearing my boots and hat, a pretty blouse and a flowered skirt, I want to gather eggs and flowers and veggies and children, drop a cloth on the ground and have a shaded picnic.

It's wonderful to watch things grow. From blossom to fruit, from chicks to hens, from drowsy babes to restless youth, I want to watch and record, embrace and rejoice. I want to nurture the ground that nurtures our soles. I like that thought: happy soles make happy souls. I find a true connection with the garden, the warmth of the sun, the coolness of water, the richness of soil and the hands and feet that work them; it gives deep satisfaction and comfort.

Here, at the Tree House, the apricot tree is full of slowly ripening fruit. The plum tree has lost all but a few fading blossoms and is beginning to show hard, green fruit. The apple tree is full of fragrant, snowy flowers, promising many crisp, late summer apples. We may be here long enough to pick apricots, but I think we'll be gone before apples and plums ripen and fall.


Max would like to share some pictures he took of the fort he constructed.



Mom: How many entrances did the fort have?

Max: One. And it had an entrance and an exit.



Max: It's a too bad I had to take the fort down, especially the slide, 'cause I think Thunder really enjoyed the slide. Should I say it had a "Thunder door" or "a kitten door?" 'Cause it had a door which could only fit kittens.

Mom: What was your favorite part about your fort?

Max: The slide. I made it by taking a big yellow toy moon, flipping it over and making half of it holding up the fort and the other half being the slide. Let's talk about the lookout tower...

Mom: Which part was the lookout tower?

Max: I put a pillow on the chair to make it more comforatble and to disguise the chair, and I put a blanket on the pilow to be the roof and spread out on the other part of the fort, and it made a lookout tower.

Mom: Do you want to say anything else?

Max: Not that I know of. Actually, I do want ot say something else: It had lots of holes and I kind of want to make a better one.

Henceforth the pretty house with gossamer drapes, oak tree and country porch will be known as "The Poo-poo house that we didn't really like anyway." Max wanted to tell his brothers that the master bath had a built-in TV that could be watched from the bathtub: "We could have watched Finding Nemo in the bath!" But William begged him to stop, saying "We don't want to hear about the nice house. From now on it's the poo-poo house." I want to tell you more too, because it had rooms for all and clever corners and niches, and a finished attic where children could let their imaginations loose. It had a welcoming entry and an ample kitchen with... poo-poo. It was poo-poo.

We had a little visitor on Saturday: Bella-Bella!
She looks like a beautiful, little, blue eyed baby doll.
Holly, Rich, Nicholas and Isabella, along with friend Jack, came by after a day at Legoland. Fortunately, our house makes an ideal rest stop between the park and their home, because Bella-Bella needed fuel and hugs. Holly and I 'exchanged' babies; she got to meet and play with Benjamin Franklin Thunder Cat and I got some aunty time with Isabella. Maria was happy to just hold on to her daddy. Now that Geoff is home one day a week she makes the most of it. It won't be so very long before Maria and Isabella are playing together.

What else... Geoff met Cyrus for Sunday morning coffee. They're working in the same company again, which is good. There is comfort, and continuity in their paths crossing. I don't think corporations have the same 'family' feel they supposedly had a generation ago, but when Geoff can be with people like John, Mark, Cyrus... it's reassuring.

What else... I don't remember: Did I mention Bill and Alison and the baby? It bears repeating. Their baby is coming in September and their first baby will be a boy baby! My mom is on her way to visit them now and rumor has it her car trunk is laden with blue and green outfits and other goodies. I sent a blue puppy that plays music, which is evidently irritating... (what?! Maria likes her music bunny.) Being a far away aunt I will need some clues about their baby style and preferences.

Also...

Cristina and Spencer will be welcoming a healthy baby boy in October.
Tennessee cousin Kristin is graduating from high school! Awesome.
Betsy and Gabe are getting married in June. Congratulations.
Anne and I got to visit a bit on Sunday, and it was nice to have our relaxed chat.


And…

We found a beautiful house for rent. It’s big and lovely. It’s unique and special. Am I superstitious? I really, really want to live in this house, and I want to ask everyone to pray and meditate and send positive vibes for us to get this house, but I think that if I apply too much hope to something it will backfire. There were many people seeing the house and leaving applications, so I need to be realistic. Pets and kids probably don’t make us the favored candidates. Max came with us, and he was very good, polite and enthusiastic. We sat together on the fireplace hearth and in soft voices we talked about the yard, which needs work, and the many bedrooms and the fun bathroom. He said, “This is the second best house I’ve ever seen. Of course you know our house with the chickens and the play-set was the best, but this a really good one.” More people streamed in to see the rental and Max asked me why. When I explained he whispered apologetically, “I hate them for wanting this house too.”

Have you ever seen a toilet that works with a pump? Ours needs replacing, again.

Grinding through the minutes, days, week. I can't seem to find the joy and motivation to get over the funk. House hunting is going bad... there is so little out there. Even when we finally do find something suitable or adequate, I don't know how I will manage to get excited about another indefinite stay in someone else's house, with someone else's paint on the walls. I've moved a lot of times; it sucks. I know how to pack. I know how to unpack. I know how to kiss-up to a prospective landlord and hope they will accept our application... I wonder what stress experts have to say about the demoralizing effects of renting, moving frequently and feeling out of the mainstream?

I want to go camping again. Geoff and I were happily realizing that our RV is our home. We feel at home in it. I am so glad we have it, because it is our closest idea of a home base, a constant, physical representation of home. And the little county park where we camped... it's like going home too. I can remember the first time I went there. I think I was 4 or 5 years old and the park was just being completed. And we have played, celebrated, camped, fished, explored and grown there ever since. I know the trails and the old playground. I know the pond, the lilacs in spring, the acorns in fall, and the creek that appears in rainy years. The smell of sage on my jeans, the sight of scrub jays in the manzanita, the sound of children running around the trails, these familiar sensations are reassuring and comforting to me. Do we need a grandmother’s home, family reunions, Sunday dinners, familiar, and stable touchstones, like a place to call home, to feel safe, secure, comfortable? I know for some life is all about adventure and independence, and that striking out on your own is the ultimate expression of self and success. I find myself longing for roots and extended family gatherings, for places and people that I know, and which know me.

There is only one new listing for rentals today. I left a message with the owner.


Forward.


I just downloaded images from the camera...
Maria. We have so much fun with this child. She runs around the house singing, and dancing. I would like to capture in pictures the special connections she makes with each of her brothers. She goes to them for fun, for comfort, to play... and she is learning, every day, new ways to express her affection and love, her interests.

Quite possibly, perhaps even likely, on a subconscious level, yet less obtuse, I like going out east to our old neighborhood. By error or by design the rent never got in the mail, so I had to drive it over to Bob’s, out where we used to live. We were hungry, so we stopped first for sandwiches and lemonade, which put us on the path to the Country store, where they sell tack and feed, heirloom tomatoes, chicks, straw bales and Stetsons. It smells good there, like seedlings in the sun and sweet alfalfa. Our sandwiches were good. Mine had basil and grilled onions, sun-dried tomatoes, toasted whole grain bread. The lemonade was fresh. Max ate two bagels. When we had our fill we made our way to the Country store for a quick visit. At the Country store we were surprised to find that the ice-cream saloon was closed. Closed for good. We liked to go there for the atmosphere. The woman behind the bar could toss a scoop of wild mountain blackberry or double chocolate high overhead and catch it in the cone. That was a sight. On the walls were old movie and rodeo posters, with romantic scenes of the ol’ west. The beautiful marble topped bar was wood, carved and polished. The people, patrons and servers, were friendly, and happy. Today we weren’t there for ice cream. We were there for the feel of the place, for a peek at the goats, to see what’s new, and because the Country store is on the way to Bob’s house, where we had to pay the rent.

It is spring, and I had a suspicion we might see lots of chicks, bunnies, kids (the goat kind) and calves, maybe even puppies. We’ve seen ducklings and goslings there, baby pigs, ponies, guinea fowl and even baby ostriches. Our chicas came from another feed store, but we found them on a spring day like this. A hot spring day, when things like heirloom tomatoes and ice cream seem like good ideas. Stepping out of the afternoon sun
and in to the cool cavern of the feed store is good. We noticed they have hayracks for guinea pigs, so their food stays off the floor of their cage. We filed past the saddles, harnesses, and feed sacks to the back of the store and the double doors that open to the back lot and the corrals. I could see there was a butter-blonde pony, and several goats. I could hear doves cooing and the chatter of finches. And because I suspected that we might see kittens I had a succession of thoughts, leading up to a plan, which I kept in my mind, but felt in my heart. Quite possibly and even likely, there would be kittens here. It is spring and kittens are part of spring. For quite sometime I have resisted many cute kittens. I have seen plenty of kitties in need of a home. We came close to adopting two kitties in San Luis Obispo last November, but we were over come with reason and our wait and see lifestyle. But on this day my succession of thoughts went this way: There may be kittens, they may be particularly cute, young, endearing and irresistible, and I will take one home, on our way to pay the rent.

The rest is just details…





The kitty is joy. The children are joy. Being in freakin' housing limbo bites...

Dear God,
Please let me write a bestselling novel that gets picked up for a movie, and brings us lots of money so that we can buy a home.

Totally objectionable. To begin with, you cannot decide to become a writer just because you want a huge paycheck. Writing takes skill and discipline. Also, praying for personal gain is tacky. Back to the skill and discipline: You have to write daily and with a plan, and you have to know your grammar, tenses, good word usage and you have to be engaging, as well as intelligent. Novels don’t come out of wishful thinking and desperation. And lets not forget Rejection. Writers are rejected, criticized, corrected, censored, and sent to the discount shelve. Writers need space and time, backbone.

Oh, God. Enough. I am discouraged enough already. What if I just keep telling a story that is reasonably entertaining, or at least honest and hope that someone will think it’s good enough to share?

I just got off the phone with another property management company. The yellow house with four bedrooms sounds awesome. It’s walking distance to the beach and of course in a great school neighborhood. Wanda and I were enjoying good rapport and I was fixing my thoughts on the prospect of our first summer settling in to the cute beach house. The rent is higher than we’d hoped to pay, but that’s the market. Wanda was talking and I was opening my heart and then she said, “There are two units in the back, so the front house has street parking only.” Her words came to me in slow motion and my open heart cinched up and withered just a bit. Street parking within 3 miles of any beach is “No Parking.” And ‘two units in the back’ is the equivalent of raising children next to a frat house.

The yellow house is the only new listing that looked possible. Even the Navy Nirvana Bachelor Base is gone. Someone must have been happy to have a wet bar instead of a dining room, for $3300 a month.

I just took a peek at houses for sale in the area… bad idea from a personal depression stand. There are more houses on the market than a year ago, which is a good sign. The prices seem to be holding, so please, please let this be the beginning of hope. But if the Fed isn’t going to raise interest rates, and if salaries aren’t going up, but fuel and housing prices are rising… does anyone have a clear understanding of where this economy is headed? Does anyone care that houses are being sold with no money down and variable rate loans? We may soon hear the delayed outcry over the changes in bankruptcy laws. And again, there was no upset over the death of the estate tax, so that those who ‘have’ can pass it on, but what about meritocracy?

Someone told me ‘renting is like pissing down a rat hole.’ If we don’t find a place to rent, if the bubble doesn’t release some hot air soon, we may be living in our RV, the Green Goose.

Available: Cute home with room for 6. Cozy. Customizable views. Must see!

For four or more years we were convinced that we were moving somewhere new, Hawaii most likely. We planned, we saved, we cleared out our belongings, we sold our home, we packed away boxes and marked them "Hele on." We visited favorite places for a last goodbye. In my heart I practiced a letting go of familiar sights and paths. I braced myself for missing friends, being further away from some family and closer to others. I anticipated the challenges that are sure to come with new places and changes in latitude. We constantly grappled with the issues of what we could and could not do, because we weren't going to be here long. No kitty, we are moving soon. No new television, better to wait until we are moved. Don't get settled, don't unpack, don't decorate, and don’t enroll in that program, because we are leaving soon. We put a lot on hold, we held our breaths, and we didn't commit to here and now, because the real thing was coming, anytime now. We have been healthy and had fun adventures, we have Maria, the boys have friends and a climbing tree, but throughout we have been living with the voice in our heads, the common denominator: Not now, wait, we are leaving.

But we aren't leaving. We are looking for a place to move, another place to rent, and we'll be staying for a while. We don't have long term plans any more. We know we need to stay in the county, and close to the office would be nice. We know that the housing prices here and in Hawaii have exceeded the expectations of reason and ration. Houses
are no longer homes, sweet refuges, but trading cards for profit... oops! Off-topic housing bubble rant... redirect...

Sometimes I run into someone and they're surprised to see me. "Weren't you moving to Hawaii or something?" And in conversations, after friends ask about our Move and I reply "Not yet, " then there doesn't seem to be much more to say. With so much build-up for our big goodbye, I think it's embarrassing to be found 'still here.' And not just here,
but renting, not buying, renting. When 70% of Americans own homes, it isn't surprising to find people incredulous about our choice, but it does make one feel left out, sub par. It's a fascinating, and humbling, experience to realize how integral home ownership and happiness are in American culture. No sour grapes from me; I'd love to be putting some nails in my own walls, matching drapes to Lego bricks, calling chickens to breakfast, planting a garden.

For now, I am just trying to rewrite our story. We live here. We rent. We are moving, but staying in the area. Really, a lot has changed, yet not. We are still on hold, waiting. I could add more to our story, I know we have a lot to be glad for, but I do feel a little disoriented, sad, turned around. Helen Keller wrote, "Life is either a daring adventure or nothing," and John Lennon sang, "Life is just what happens to you,
While you're busy making other plans."
Does it have to be so?

Every beautiful day, every green tree, every carefree moment; I thought of Hans and said a prayer. I hoped he would soon be home to enjoy it all.

Welcome home Hans!

This poem makes me think of my brave brother...

peace.
it does not mean to be in a place
where there is no noise, trouble
or hard work. it means to be in
the midst of those things and still
be calm in your heart.
(unknown)

Yesterday we drove around looking at rental homes. Yikes. Have I ever complained about the Treehouse? I take it all back, 'cause it's slim pickings out there people. We looked at one place that sits in the middle of a postcard neighborhood, but it's surrounded by light industry and growers, and the steady hum of the freeway is the constant soundtrack. Further south we were in the Navy Bachelor's Taj Mahal. "We figured we don't need a dining room, so we just built this wet bar instead. And outside we want to keep this permanent keg set up." They also need the tenant to keep an eye on the engine block they're storing in the garage. The rest are too small or too, too funky and a great many of them are homes that are not selling; as a last resort desperate owners decide to rent out their lovely, overpriced homes, and hope that some poor tenant will be smitten enough to eventually buy.

How small is too small? No one seems to know. A lot of the houses we go to see are advertised as one size, like 2,200 sq. ft, but in truth are only 1,600 sq. ft. Cozy.

Okay. Time to shower. Time to rouse the children, and convince them to join us on our quest. "Life is an adventure. Isn't this great! Hey, let's see if there's a yard. It could be worse. We think this might be the one. Because I said so..." They're team players. They're wonderful. We're going to find them someplace nice.

Easter Sunday at the Treehouse was a success. We had good company, good food, and good and happy children. Tamsyn brought her mom and dad, aunt and uncle. Nicholas and Isabella came with their mom and dad. There were plenty of eggs to find. Late Easter Sunday night Max assured me that it was the best Easter ever; he did a lot to relieve my insecuritiy and fatigue.


I've noticed that wherever uncle Rich goes the Easter bunny is especially generous. None of these children was disappointed.


Have you met Isabella? She is the new cousin and Nicholas's baby sister.


Maria found eggs with raisins and one egg with cookies.


Every time Maria learns a new trick that involves house damage, or life endangerment, either Geoff or myself says "Eviction notice!" This not a childproofed house. Time is running out on our time here. Maria dropped her Elmo radio in the toilet. It is time for our eviction. June is looming. We are searching...
Here is Maria climbing Max's slide. She gets to the top, then slides down on her belly, which is moderately dangerous, but when she gets to the middle she sometimes stands and waves or she presents us with this pose... which really makes me queasy. But I have to admit she has style and skill... Olympics?


Wanted:
Single family home. 4 bedroom, 2.5 bath, fireplace, whine cellar, sewing room, gas stove, light and bright, pets allowed, RV parking, 2 car gagrage, gardener incl., swimming pool, ocean view, walking neighborhood, near schools, restaurants, National Park, Legoland, Zoo and convenient freeway access... landlord in Florida will sell to exceptional tenants with loving hearts and delightful children...

Remember the scene in Star Wars, when Luke has to hit the sweet spot on the Death Star, so that there can be a happy ending, and he's nearly out of time and the Imperial fighters are on his tail, and the tension is mounting? It's like that, or maybe more like the last 100 miles of a 2,453 mile roadtrip when everyone needs a shower and a nap, the car smells *off* and you are in heavy traffic. Almost there. Almost there. If only we had an Obi Wan voice-over assuring us.

If I tried to explain or describe our lives it would be either too boring or way too much back and forth, upside down, in and out information, which could also be boring. Let's just say we are deep in to job hunting mode and it's really, really, really stressfull... kind of like rattlesnake juggling, or jogging on the Santa Monica Freeway. Oh, speaking of Santa Monica, we were there 2 times last weekend (no small feat with four children.) Here are the happy pictures I took with the children, while Geoff was being grilled alive at a studio.


The Promenade, where we mingled with paparazzi and the homeless.

The Santa Monica Pier was a treasure trove of sights and sounds.

We had 4 hours to spend, so we played with wild abandon.

Max loves miniature golf, so he could hardly pass up the chance to play over the Pacific, under a blue, blue sky.

I may create an all carousel photo album for Maria. This merry-go-round is very old and very lovely, and Maria said "Oh, Weee!" all the way around.

And Geoff? He survived the grilling. Tomorrow he flies to San Francisco.
May the Force be with him.

Return of the Flu!
Max skipped the round of flu that struck a week ago, but somehow he managed to contract the same nasty virus this week.
He was completely wiped out on Friday. Anne and Adam know just how rough it can be; they were sick last week too. I hope you don't get it.

I don't have anything too interesting to share... that's not true... I could share some news of a highly personal nature about two of my favorite people, but I am not sure they are going public just yet. So I need to wait patiently before I spread the news with joyful abandon. So, now I am back to not having much to share...

Periodically people ask whether we have moving updates: Our one update is that our move out date could be as soon as June, which as you may have figured is sooner than July. Bob and I talked. He 'likes us as tenants and he is going to make it as easy as possible for us to stay here as long as possible, BUT they are submitting plans to the city soon, so...'

Have I written about the horrors of California real estate? Nevermind. I have no idea where we are going. Really. It could be anywhere. I know I am not the first person to live in a rental, but I can't quite get over myself and so my pity party goes on. I was already reminded that my blessing way outweigh my hardships, that this is Life... I know. I know. There just seem to be these impossible to swallow lessons about dreams and expectations and how cruelly they can clash with reality. I should be careful not to settle for something in my desperation to resolve the limbo status we are in. Anyway, I am not feeling too proud of my shallow, selfish, weak, mopey self. Someone recommended chocolate... I almost wish retail therapy were my fix. I am tempted to make a road trip. I really should insert a photo now; somehting to distract the reader from the bad writing.

Summer. It seems like just yesterday, but really it was 6 months ago!

Packing. Again. I was thinking that I've written all there is to write about material things and carrying them from place to place, about how much I keep and how much I lose. I was thinking there is no point in going over it all again. It's depressing and boring. I was wondering why am I here again? Why am I repeating this chore? Why are my hobbies, glue sticks, stickers, pens, paints, dictionaries, photo albums, pinking shears, ribbons, and patterns, all of it, going back in to boxes? Why has most of it remained in boxes in the first place? I have sorted it, and purged it and organized it, but what remains is coming with me. I am packing my stuff again. If I never get to see any of it or do anything with any of it, then it will have been truly pointless. I suppose the urge to keep my things is an indication of hope.

Are there signs? Not the obvious signs that ask us to stop, yield, turn left, buy on sale. Are there signs that are meant to direct our destiny, prevent user error, find us a higher purpose?

This morning Geoff discovered that the tailgate window of the Odyssey was totally shattered. Kapoot. There is no impact point or signs of a struggle; the van did not fight back. Something happened. Is there any need to elaborate about the hassle, the clean up, the expense, the uncomfortable mystery aspect? Enough said.

Life being the way it is these days, we were looking for an iterpretation of the windshield event. Hey, we're flipping coins, reading cookie fortunes and doing eenie-meanie too. So what does an open tailgate window mean? Does it mean move someplace open and breezy, like Hawaii? Does it mean don't move to a rainy place like the Pacific Northwest? Does it mean don't go to the tropical paradise if you don't have the income to deal with $$$ windshields?

I do know that before we discovered the minor disaster, we were trying to muster the resolve to stay the course, find our plan, be patient, breath deeply, have courage...I know better than to ask, "Can things be worse?" Of course things can get worse, which is why I don't ask. I am not even saying things are completely desperate or unsatisfactory, but Yeesh. This is probably a good time to take account of my blessings, maybe have a small glass of wine too, and to let go of half of my worries, half of my fears. If there are any signs of where we are heading, or how to get there, I will surely miss them if I am too stressed to pay attention.

The glass is swept, an appointment has been made to replace the window, and I have even called the insurance company, so I can drag $22 (more or less) from their coffers. Now, it's time to breath deeply, be patient, and stay the course.

I love boxes. Max loves boxes.
We love that a box can be anything the imagination wants it to be. Max's box is a rocket ship and inside he has his pillow and red blanket for "rough landings."


Maria loves boxes too.
She likes to open and shut the door on Max's viewport.

Geoff asked me to call Bob today and get him to agree on our move out date. I kept thinking we had until October, but Geoff reminded me that last month Bob said they want to start their remodel in 8 months, which means July or August, right? You may be thinking that summer is a long way off and that we have plenty of time. I know better than to underestimate the swift passage of time. July will be here soon, trust me. Picture me looking a little stunned, making gagging, pitiful little sputters of shock and confusion... I need a plan. I need a destiny. I need the big picture, blue prints, flow charts, maps. I need a big box, some tape and magic markers. I'll make a boat, or a yacht, or a barn with a hay loft and a swing hung from the rafters. Each stall of the barn could be layed out as a room and we could open up the barn doors to let in the morning. We'll live all together with cutout windows and a clawfoot tub, a woodburning stove will keep us warm at night, and we can lay awake listening to the barn owl call to his love and the moon.

Let's see... William is watching Phantom of the Opera. Max is alternating between the movie and magnetic darts. Alex is writing code for a game editor. Maria is looking for more to explore. Geoff is working at restoring an old laptop. I am avoiding any number of chores and responsibilities; I am doing a very good job, thank you. We all seem to have found new colds, but I am determined that these will be minor illnesses that will amount to nothing but waste baskets full of Kleenex. And I am updating Chickenblog.

While I was brushing Maria's hair, separating strands from banana, I imagined that I had many new thoughts to share, insights, wit and poetry. Alas. I've already bored everyone with my lavish descriptions of our Katamari fun; there was only one taker, and I think it may have been more out of concern than interest. I've already discussed chapter 42 of "We're Moving, We Know Not Where," a true story of drama in the suburbs; also boring. That leaves the weather and plans for Geoff's birthday: It's raining, rather pitifully. Geoff won't accept the utter bliss of having a surprise 40th birthday party thrown in his honor, so...

The Phantom of the Opera. I think that with counseling, some cosmetic surgery and maybe some antidepressants, the Phantom could have saved himself and the object of his obsession a lot of heartache and strain. Of course we then would have missed all those catchy, romantic tunes. Andrew Lloyd Weber can write music.

I can't post pictures from this computer. I can't think of anything to write about, and so: Good night.

Bob, the landlord, came by again today. In our first two years here he never came to the house, which was nice. It's no fun to be reminded that the house is our home, but not *ours.* Now I guess he is anxious to get their remodel plans rolling. He brought his tape measure today, and as he measured he passed the numbers to someone on the other end of his cell phone.

Is it hard to believe I am shy? I write tons and send it out in to the world almost daily, and yet I feel more or less anonymous, so no anxiety. But I sat quiet as a mouse while Bob went around the house. I hoped he'd not knock on the door or ask to come in or inquire as to why we still have halloween pumpkins on the front porch... The doorbell has been out of commission for quite some time, so if he tried to ring, I didn't hear it, but of course I knew he was out there, so I am still technically spineless.

Since his last drop-by I have resolved to pack/clean. Rather than put things on a shelf or back in the closet, I try to pack it for our inevitable move. Of course, I can't pack everything, and we don't even know where we are going, or even when we are going. But we are going, no later than October. I'd rather it be sooner. I am very ineffective when I am anticipating upheaval.

Last night I dreamt about Nena. We had pet mice and Nena kept getting in to the cage and swallowing the mice whole. It was a remarkable sight, she hardly let a tail slip from her kitty lips, so perhaps they were very small mice. There are also seemed to be a number of aquariums in the dream, and they were all low on water, which I attributed to Nena drinking the water. Who can say what the significance of any of this is? In life Nena ate birds, not mice.

Bad cabbage. I am not going to read too much in to this, but I had planned to make a salad this morning. I prepared most of the ingredients, and I was feeling good about my healthy choices, then I realized that the cabbage had gone bad. When cabbage *goes* bad it never returns.

Our other option is oatmeal. Maria will eat oatmeal. Max will eat oatmeal if I make it with raisins, but then pull the raisins out. If you are thinking "That's crazy," you're right, and you probably have very little idea about living with Asperger's. Sometimes things work out. Maria loves extra raisins.

Bob, the landlord, came by on Sunday. He came with his wife and two kids. They wanted to scope out the yard, so they can begin to make their plans. They want to build an addition and call this place home... it served as a friendly reminder that time is running out and we need to be moving along.

Canada is one of our possible options, so I tried to find interesting Canadian facts for William, who does not want to leave his motherland.
There are Famous Canadians. And you can make beautiful train trips in Canada via Rail Canada. In Canada you can prepare figgy duff, fried cod tongues and other Canadian Recipes. A first glance at the "Introduction to the Government of Canada Official Web Site"shows they like red. William likes red.

He probably won't appreciate that I am trying to make light of all this, trying to find the silver lining. Life is taking a new direction and, until we stop spinning, we aren't even sure which direction we are heading. It won't be easy for any of us. Yesterday I didn't want to accept anything, except disappointment. Yesterday all I could think about were the things I lost, the plans that were dissolving, the effort that seemed to be for nothing. It's still utterly frustrating. So, maybe I shouldn't rib William about Canada's good points, or insist he see the bright side. Like me, he may need to slowly find his way to accepting the inevitable changes. We have a lot to get used to, and we tend to consider everybody's feelings, so emotionally this has become overwhelming.

... let me interrupt myself a moment... I was sharing some of our concerns with some people last summer, explaining that in Hawaii jobs are scarce so if we lived there we'd have to be careful, and someone responded, "So, you'd have start to living like the rest of us." I should have asked her on the spot, "What does that mean?" I have been wondering what she meant ever since. I should have asked her to explain: "How have we been so unlike everyone else, so unlike her?" She seemed to hold some particular beliefs and opinions about us, and the way she delivered her statement left me hurt and confused. Shame on me for not taking up the issue directly. I just recently learned about myself that I am so fearful of rejection that I won't stand-up for myself. I think I had better learn to believe that rejecting myself is far more damaging than calling someone on an ignorant and chicken@#&! remark.... anyway, that's a deep thought I just needed to put out there....

The boys are still coughing, but gone are the 105 degree fevers. Maria got sick too. Her first illness, poor baby. Christmas is 11 days away. Tomorrow is Holly's birthday. Next week we want to go see Grandma in Pasadena, make tamales, send greeting cards. I'm just going to take things step by step, enjoy what's good, figure out the rest.

Souvenirs from Kalopa... wish we were there.

Geoff is home. He was away 4 days. We missed him.

He says it rained a lot in Hilo, that there were good enchiladas at the Pumpkin Festival in Waimea, and that Ruth is looking forward to retirement. Gracie and Pearl, the kitty sisters, ate the dried tuna flakes Chango sent them. He went to a barn warming party, and played tennis at HPA. He did not see Clint Eastwood, but at the HPA auction he could have bid on the autographed Million Dollar Baby poster.

He also looked at homes and lots. One lot in particular has got both of us intrigued. It's 5 acres with a gulch along one boundary. It has a beautiful ocean view. Though I have not seen the actual property, I know the area well enough to recall the sweet smell of the old cane fields, and the fruit on the guava trees that grow along the gulch. I know that at that elevation the tropical heat is subdued and pleasant. It rains there; I like that. It's near Ruth and Corm, and town, and a bigger town and not too far from Hilo; I like that too. Five acres is plenty roomy. Room for four children and chickens and Chango, and whoever might come by. Room enough to garden. Room enough to run around and get dizzy, if you are so inclined. Alex says, "If it's near Tutu and Grampa Corm, and it's for sale, then buy it. Just buy it." William agrees. Max reminds us about our promise to take him to Ikea so he can outfit his own room with his own furniture.


There's room for Midnight the horse.

Gee. So I guess all that stands in our way is a willingness to take a huge leap of faith, employment, a tremendous amount of planning, and some work... and that's just to move there. Then we would have to build a house...


Flower. Horizon. Ocean. Would you visit us here?
Didn't Geoff bring home pretty pictures?

Recipe for a Pity Party:
1. We cruised by El Rancho the other day... saw our old place... nostalgia and heartache
2. Geoff is looking at property in Hawaii... can't say what this will lead to...
3. The Pottery Barn Holiday catalog, full of lovely nesting neatly ideas, arrived yesterday...
4. I can't find an X-acto knife

Okay. I am ready to put it out there. I am ready to confess. I am really, really, really tired of being a renter. And more: I want to unpack my Stuff. I want to settle down, organize, decorate, leave my mark, paint my walls. I want to be in a home that I call my own, and stick a nail in the wall. I want to know where the X-acto knife is, and where my big message board ended up. I want to alphabetize our books, just once. I want our address written in ink.

I want to decorate an adorable baby nursery, and 3 clever rooms for 3 bright boys, or 1 clever room for 3 boys that get along remarkably well. I want to have a compost pile, an irrigated, bunny gated vegetable garden, and a charming little chicken coop with 3 fat hens. I want the right kind of door knobs ( not hooks that catch and tear pockets,) and I want an end to popcorn ceilings and fluorescent lighting. I want to invite you to our house for a long weekend, or tea; there's time and room for either.

I am not neat or tidy, or particularly orderly, but I suspect that this could improve tremendously if we were not so often on the move. Every move is an upheaval, and a do-over. Every move means starting the system of setting up life all over again, and the process is time consuming, mind consuming. I want to give my messy, scattered self a chance at redemption; time in one place to be unpacked, moved in, settled, and somewhat certain that another move isn't 6 months away.

Sigh.

Deep sigh.

Groan.

Please don't send me a bumper sticker like, "This is the First Day of the Rest of Your Life" or "Be Happy, You Whining Middle Class, Materialistic American." I need a few more days to wallow in self pity.

Geoff is going to Hawaii.
I am not.
It rained, but now the rain has stopped.
On Tuesday I am cooking dinner for ten friends.
We'll eat by the ocean, not in our dining-bedroom.
Geoff is going to look at lots and homes for sale.
We may move soon.
We may stay here longer.
Should I just roast weanies and serve fancy beans?
Should I make enchiladas?
I was going to make enchiladas, but now I'm not so sure.
Geoff may go to a Pumpkin Festival.
He might see Clint Eastwood.
Or maybe he won't.
Maybe he'll find a place for us to build a home with a covered lanai and a laundry room and two or more bathrooms.
Nice.
I am making a ghost out of cheese cloth and diluted Elmer's glue.
It's sticky right now.
I gotta go.
Alex and Max are done detaining Maria.

Every now and then someone will ask, "Aren't you moving somewhere? Wasn't it Hawaii or something?"

We aren't moving somewhere, not yet. We're still here or something.

I don't want to immerse myself in a lengthy description of the housing market, the possibility that it is an economic bubble monster of incomprehensible volume. But the bubble monster is real and we are really stumped, and it is despairingly frustrating.

I am fully aware of my blessings and I am fully aware that there are worse circumstances one can be in, but right now I am feeling sad; sort of a debilitating disappointment, or a gnawing grief. And mixed with my sadness is an embarrassing awareness that there are no guarantees.

"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing." -Helen Keller

Good morning.

Geoff has been in Hawaii. Yup. We are at it again: House hunting... we are seriously considering storing all our worldly treasures and living in our RV until the Bubble Bursts. We are not destitute. We are not unwilling to work. We don't mind a fixer-upper. The problem is we live in California, and unfortunately the housing mark-up insanity has spread to our back up state, Hawaii. Oregon could work, but there are no jobs there. Basically we are face to face with a disappointing reality, so we keep looking away.

Our 16th wedding anniversary came and went. The boys and I marked the occasion with low carb ice cream sandwiches. Do you know what makes them low carb? They are only 1.75 inches in diameter and taste like the box they came in.

I know, there is greater suffering in the world, but I need just a few more minutes to wallow in my pity party. Sometimes maturity is overrated.

A.K.A.: Super Delirious Puzzle Go!

Here's proof that not all games have to be based on crime, violence and disrespect. Frantix is the product of hard work, faith and hope, and now it is a published product ready for the free market come September!!!! Geoff makes me proud. He and Tom, and Alan turned down all offers to write games that involved abuse, subjugation and other senseless behaviors. We all put our hope and faith in finding a publisher that would be willing to produce a game made for fun and thinking, for puzzle solving, for children and adults alike. This rocks! Affirmations galore!


Go inside E3 and see what's hot!

On his way home from a morning with his friends, Geoff called me. He likes to call me when he is on his way home. Sometimes we get so involved in our chat we'll still be on the phone with each other when he is already home and climbing up the stairs. Our relationship is fairly phone dependent. When I was 16 I sat in the UCSD family housing laundry room and with only 1 dime we talked for hours(?) We talked a lot.

Today we talked about our options. Our future. He offered to let me find a home in the Bay Area, so I could be close to my brother. He said he would find work wherever I want to live: "I'll make it work somehow, so you decide." I decided to think about it. Thinking about our future is as much as we've been able to come up with so far. He is finishing work on the game, and we'll see that through, but by mid-July we need a plan. We do have options, and there is a great blessing in this, but it is not always easy to clearly see what the best choices are. I think we'll be on the phone quite a bit.

Lately I have been trying to formulate a comprehensible (is comprehendible the better word?) essay about families and the changes that happen when families move apart. I want to explore the changing dynamics... this pie still isn't ready. My thoughts are half baked and though I strongly want to talk about my deep thoughts I can't convince myself that I am making any sense. It's bad enough that I frequently confuse myself, there's no point in dragging innocent readers through the mess. I will say this much: I think the family that I grew up with has so utterly changed and evolved that I need to come to terms with the new reality and move forward with my own destiny, while dragging my own children along for the ride... (that last part is supposed to be ironic and sort of humorous.)

On the phone, Geoff asked "Are you alright? You kind of sounded like you're at the end of your rope."

And I answered, "Ya well, maybe, but I keep losing so much hair that I just weave it to the end of my rope, and hang on."

Maybe we should do like the Jones: Jones Odyssey to the Caribbean

Maria's got the map.

It's mostly good around here, and it's mostly the same, which is one reason I haven't posted much lately. Still nursing and changing diapers. Still taking lots of pictures, cooking, washing and checking my email. We've been on a few nice walks lately. Maria is very happy when she is out in the world, looking up at trees. I have not been back in the saddle again, but I am going riding on Thursday. Also, Mom's Night Out is Thursday, which makes Thursday very atypical. We are still clueless about our future home state, and sometimes I am okay with that and most times it makes me frickin' nuts. It comes down to money... just kidding... it's really about jobs, housing costs, commutes, mosquitos, climate, schools, culture, quality of life, but I'm sure there's a place for us somewhere. So, mostly things are the same around here. What's new with you? What's the same?


Everyone needs a pad to call home.

My thoughts today are way too "what the ?!#*" so go check out "Raising Chickens In The City" for fun and interest.

So. Well.

I tried this last week, and still nothing, but a good friend shed a little light on things. She says, "Expressing your milk is just another way of expressing yourself." I do feel drained. It's one of the cruel ironies that what you most love and cherish can still knock you on your ass. Maybe I only need a long nap, full of REM and corner of the mouth drool, or maybe something like coffee in the morning and wine before bed. I can't seem to express much more than milk. No writing. No deep thoughts. No idea what I want... not "what I want for breakfast," but the big "What I Want."

I'm really happy as mom, but I am not convinced I am very good at it. I'm really happy in California, but I am not convinced it's where we can stay. Keeping Chicken Blog has been fulfilling, but I think I may be getting a little dull, self censoring, self conscious in a naked, public way. I still want chickens, and a place to sew. I want a garden and time to see flowers and children grow. I also want to have a deeper sense of my own value, without depending on anyone or anything to affirm my worth.


Geoff has had to work a lot, and focus, and agonize over details, and it's mostly over now, so he can move on, but I think I don't know how to transition and breath that "all done" sigh of relief. It could be because I am never "all done." It's hard to know when I have done the job right, or good enough. There's nothing in my contract about a bonus or vacation or how indispensable I am to the company; this contradicts my thought about not wanting to depend on "anyone or anything to affirm my worth... " Actually this whole mess is full of contrary thoughts, deep thoughts, random thoughts.

If I wait too long to nurse the baby, my breasts swell, get heavy and tender. They begin to leak, and then they spray milk. It's uncomfortable and messy. It's too much for the baby. It's not a very good thing to have happen in public. I think my head is full of unexpressed stuff that is sloppily spraying all over the page and making a big mess that should not be seen in public. One more thing: It is a relief to get it out ... I just need to find a good way to express it all.

Maybe I haven't posted much lately because I have been so productive in other areas of my life. Perhaps, but not likely. The productive one has been Geoff. He is in the final countdown mode; working from 6 a.m. until midnight everyday of the week. It bites. He's pretty tired of it too. Everyday. He comes home for dinner or when I call him and say something like "I must shower." This PSP game will either be appreciated, bought and produced for its lack of simulated blood and gore, or we will turn to organic cat nip farming in Hawaii. For what it's worth, I am very proud of him for not caving in to the Rape-Pillage-Murder and Mayhem Game craze; believe me it's where the money is, but we are trying to set a brighter example for our children. If you pray or meditate or just hope for less gore for greed media, then send some good thoughts our way.

It may be the chair. I have been too uncomfortable to sit at the computer and update Chicken Blog. In order to accommodate Mini Me I have to lean back and give her more room. When I lean back the key board is out of reach and the screen gets a bit blurry. Wait! Hold on. I just remembered I can pull the screen in lower and closer... there, that's better. So, now what's my excuse?

We have been busy around here. I am imparting my vast stores of knowledge and the boys are learning. Geoff and I revisit our "Where should we live" conversation on a daily basis, and that is always time consuming. I am nearly finished with a quilt I have been working on. I did the last of the actual hand quilting and now I need to complete it by sewing the edges with quilt binding. We managed to shift enough things in our room to make a nearly crib size space in the corner. I think for spaces that are nearly big enough I will have to go to Ikea, where furniture is often times scaled down a bit. Yes, we have definitely been busy.

I did end up going to the baby shower. Geoff and I know Danny from tennis and working out, and Danny has been keeping us updated on Amber. She's 4 weeks more pregnant than us, so Geoff and Danny pass some time comparing notes while lifting weights. The shower was nice. I mean good. I mean, I knew no one. Nobody, and that's not an easy situation to be in. Everyone was friendly, and it was nice to be out of the house for something other than grocery shopping. The hostesses used a Hawaiian theme, because it matches the baby's nursery. I have to say the theme was fun.

I won't mention the barely audible sigh of envy I am releasing, because I sort of slightly, really wish I could decorate a nursery. Perhaps I should pretend to have a nursery and draw out my plans, choose paint colors and coordinated lampshades. I think this much effort would exhaust me, and life being what it is, I wouldn't have to actually follow through on executing the project.

Theme: Rustic farm/country with a Mexico flavor: Cowgirls and chickens, flores y rebozos.
Colors: Deep cranberry red, smatterings of pink, and splashes of lavender and green.
It looks good.

I was surfing my archives this morning. Two summers ago I wrote extensively about gardens and hens, about landscaping and anticipating a swimming pool. The chickens and garden, I miss. The huge responsibility of managing 2 acres, I do not miss. I wonder, is it my nature or is it my altered state: Why do I crave being settled? We still have not figured out where we will be in six months. We still want to be here and there, California and Hawaii. We want security and adventure, familiar and exotic. Sometimes I find myself nostalgic about our Rancho Days, and fortunately I have a very good grasp on all aspects of those days; we were ready to let go. Still, I feel really ready for a place of our own again. I also feel nauseous, hot, large, and somewhat cranky.

Okay. I have gone from "Ambitious Plans" to "Wishful Fantasies." It was a short trip, and I'm not too proud.

I wish I were as strong as two men, so I could move all the furniture around and make the living space in our upstairs more comfortable. And spacious. And pretty too.

I wish the cats used the toilet, and never scratched the walls.

I wish there was a way to drive to Oregon without seeing L.A. County or the Inland Empire.

I wish I had the energy and the deep down, sincere desire to keep this house really clean. All the time. And organized. Even the closets and garage.

I wish I was so philosophical, confident and secure that I didn't obsess about stuff.

Alex wants to go camping this summer. He wants to sleep in a tent and wake up to hooting owls and the piney freshness of redwoods and forest ferns.

Max wants a Sponge Bob birthday party tomorrow; not next Saturday when his friends can come. He wants chocolate cake with whipped cream frosting. Actually, "cake first, then presents, then pinata and last pizza."

William wants to be left alone to delve in to his world of programming computers and deciphering the mysteries of 3D Studio MAX.

Geoff wants to provide for his family, and play tennis. Lots of tennis. Preferably tennis in Hawaii. Maybe some kayaking too.

The Papaya seems content to bounce vigorously on my bladder, and alter my taste in foods.

I made my first away from the children venture. First ever. In thirteen years I've never had a night away from them. So, on Friday I was on a plane to Kona. The best part was seeing Ruth and Corm's progress on their house. It's becoming a home, complete with all their tasteful touches and beautiful work. Soon they will be permanent residents, and I think the relief of being done with all the construction and commuting will make it all worth while to them.


Ruth and Corm in the Big Kitchen.

I was in Kona to see about a house we thought we might call home...the details are tedious (much waffling and debating and going back and forth.) The property is definitely far more of a fixer-upper than we had anticipated. After seeing photos, Geoff agrees that we would be undertaking a major project. We could get in to a place that is ready to go; we call it Wayne's World. It is sufficiently large, and has a view. It is dated, but not offensive. The drawback is that Geoff would miss the opportunity of having a "major project." This is very much a question of mangos or guavas. Both are good fruits, but distinct. This is one of those paragraphs that is not saying enough, and yet saying too much. Bottom line: we don't know what to do.


At the farmer's market in Honokaa: We spent a lot of phone time trying to keep Geoff updated on housing options.

So I came home Monday, happy to see my family and cats. Happy to hear about all their adventures while I was away. Happy to be missed. Happy to know that where ever we end up living we will be together.

2 days: The amount of time it took for the house to return to it's *natural* state.

2 hours: The number of hours the inspector spent going over every crack and corner of the house; an agonizing process I liken to a public bikini waxing.

2: The number of rabbits I did not mention to the landlord.

24 hours: The time left before we can go to see our new home.

16 days: How much time we have before the movers come.

There has been an amusing aspect to selling this house. I was so anxious about the actual sale and whether, or not, anyone would buy this large and unique property, that I never thought of people loving this place. Yet, "Duh!" It is logical to deduce that someone buying the house would like the house. And still I am befuddled by the praise, "We love everything you've done here," and their interest in things, decor and taste. "Would you be interested in selling your dining set?" and "Will you sell us your bench?" and "We really like these painted pieces, are you keeping them?"

They bought the tractor. No need to feel too sorry for Geoff; he consoles himself with the thought of someday buying "the bigger one." They bought our huge outdoor table and benches, which is somewhat of a relief, because it weighs more than the house. At the negotiating table the selling agent said casually, "And they want the pool furniture." This knocked me on my ass. I never expected anyone to give a second glance to the blue chairs and tables sitting around our pool. I painted them last Summer, with flowers, and a checkerboard, a view, and other garden themes, and I keenly felt my attachment to them, when I heard Geoff say, "Yea, sure." There is some history here: In one home I painted murals on the children's wall, and we sold that house. In our last home I painted framed murals along the garden fence, never expecting we'd leave, but we did. I thought, 'this time I will be more clever and only paint what I can bring with me.' Geoff tries to console me, "Think of it this way, your art sells houses," and he grins at me encouragingly. I am seriously tempted to paint our annoying and dull bed, which we'd be happy to sell.


NOT FOR SALE

Odyssey. Pilot. Odyssey. Pilot. Odyssey. Pilot. Odyssey. Pilot.

Odyssey says: "We like safety and comfort. We travel with children and may be getting a dog. There is room for groceries, soccer balls and car pooling. Asphalt is necessary and desirable. Oh, dear, are those ruts?"

Pilot says: "We like safety and comfort. We travel to remote places and the kids may be a bit snug, if we bring friends. There is room for groceries or car pooling, but we aren't concerned about driving a rural road. Ruts?: Okay, I can handle this"

I know from experience, if I ask for opinions I will get "opinions," and everyone has an opinion. Opinions are not the same as good advice. And good advice is not the same as a decision. Argghhh!! The curse of the blessed; too many options!!!

Old car. New car. Old car. New car. Old car. New car. Old car. New car.

Old car says: "Don't forget a shovel for prying open the hood, and two more tools, in case the door jams again. Hey, I'm paid for. 1995 was a bad year for Chevy and brakes, but you've got vehicle mass on your side. What is that smell? Sonoran desert? Sure. I've got nothing to lose."

New car says: "You can park me in 2 steps or less, and the movements of my steering wheel correspond with the direction I am turning. Please remove your shoes, and I don't do drive-thru, Mexico or Waipio Valley. The outside temperature is 72 degrees, and you have sufficient fuel to drive 236 miles. Carry tissue, because the first door ding is gonna make you cry like a baby."

SUV, mini van, big ol' truck, sedan...we went on a phase 1, automobile scouting mission. The Big Blue Whale is not a complete beater, but it lacks some of the comforts and safety features of the modern vehicle, plus it's got this aroma... Anyway, it seems like a good time to at least educate ourselves; explore our options. After our first venture out to the car lots, I calculate that we need something smaller than the Excursion, but bigger than an Explorer. I like the safety of the Mercedes, but with the price and smell of a Honda. The Pilot is appealing, but lacks genuine 4x4 capabilities. The Odyssey rates highly, but the colors are lackluster. A previously owned Mercedes can come in at a fair price, but the rear seating is cramped.

Who remembers "Old Hat, New Hat?" The bear tries on every kind of hat and finds something wrong with each one; too bumpy, too flashy, too silly, too feathery. At the end of the story he walks away in his old felt hat. He looks satisfied.

need:
7 seats
superior safety rating

want:
euphoric sensation
pretty color
assorted features to engage Geoff's imagination

Simple.

Today I got two emails. I love mail. I have been fascinated by anything delivered ever since I heard Julie Andrews sing "...brown paper packages tied up with strings, these are a few of my favorite things." The very idea of a package, the paper, the mystery, completely captured my imagination. And the longing for mail continued, when ever I saw old movies, because in old movies there are always packages, long awaited letters and hat boxes and gifts with generous bows that slip off like a blossom from a tree. So even though I was 9 or 10, wearing halter tops and jeans, boycotting grapes and playing touch football in the street, I still imagined myself in a shirtdress, pruning roses in a garden or serving lemonade when a delivery boy would walk through the front gate and deliver a brown paper package and a handful of hand stamped letters. Black and white, soft focus, gracious bliss.

Our retaining wall is more than an idea. It is form and function, and it is almost complete. These guys have been working very hard. I think plaster is next and then it will be capped with royal saltillo bull nosed brick, so that we can sit on it or set Grandma's macetas on top of it. I'm also enjoying the stone path they arranged to go up to the high point of the slope. It makes the ascent steadier. I am celebrating the pleasure of having really good ideas implemented by other skilled people. Our most pressing issue is finding projects to complete that work around the gaping holes that Mission Pools still has criss-crossing the prairie.

Geoff is not working tomorrow. We are going to find some way to honor the 4th of July. We are the generation raised on national self contempt, distrust, mistrust and disillusionment. We were assured by anyone who had traveled abroad that Americans were greedy, corrupt, without culture or values, bad cooks, ignorant and a primary source of the world's woes. When I was a kid we were regularly visited by Harry, a college English professor, and his Swiss wife. They came to hang out with my parents and to condemn us as 'typical lazy American kids, watching too much tv, eating twinkies, making Christmas lists and playing with store bought toys.' Shameful, ugly Americans. If you weren't about protest, or controversy or political correctness , then you were surely shallow or naive, artless, unsophisticated. We have heard, ad nauseum, about American shortcomings, disgraces and failures.

This year is different. We find ourselves looking for a broader vision; the whole picture has to include more than just 'what Americans don't do right.' We want to embrace the strengths of this nation, and to celebrate the ideals and potential that were born and have evolved since the founding of this country. This year we are telling our sons that as a nation we strive to create a place for freedom, for men, women and children. We are not perfect; no nation is. But we have a set of laws and expectations that insist we look out for each individual's rights, and we have a government that is dynamic and with our involvement can be representative of our values. We can overcome ignorance and missteps. We should not let go of the vision: That all men are created equal; we have inalienable rights. These truths are self evident, but have been obscured by years of bitterness and self loathing. We are home to many languages, religions, faces and voices and we do a praiseworthy job of making it all work. Our greatness doesn't lie only in what we are, but also in our potential to improve. We plan to celebrate the good stuff, give credit to our achievements, honor the men and women who strive to make this a better country, and world.

Geoff brought home a flag pole for our big flag, and tomorrow we'll grill some Boca burgers and checkout the fireworks. We'll talk about our favorite television shows and desserts, Disneyland, camping in National Parks, reading books, singing anything we like, the best rest stops in Iowa, birds we've seen and places we'll go, and how great it is to live here, in the United States of America. I will be happy to hand my children a legacy of pride in their country, constructive, insightful criticism of their country, and the inspiration to carry on the fight for freedom, individual rights and justice in their country. And if the French are lucky, maybe they'll catch on to a good thing.

Thank you nurses and firefighters, teachers and Peace Corp volunteers, police officers, letter carriers and mediators. Thank you Heifer Project, Habitat for Humanity and Pediatric AIDS Foundation, MADD and the Kidney Foundation. Thank you to the Lutheren women who quilt, and sew pajamas. Thank you Rancho Coastal Humane Society, and Dr. Gee. Thank you Hans, and men and women like you, for stepping forward in our defense. Happy Fourth of July!