happy campers

We survived our camping trip this weekend and of course I cannot pass up the chance to blog about it. Some of you may be the camping type and love the thought of this sort of endeavor. It brings back memories of your own childhood, flashlights, and the lumpy floors of a tent. Others of you are of the Hyatt variety and this is just fine too. No judgment here. But my husband and I, we both grew up camping and somehow made it to adulthood still wanting to do it. Craving to do it actually. When we lived in Colorado we could whip up a camping trip on a whim. We’d both get home on a Friday afternoon, look at one another and say “so yeah, ya wanna go camping?” and within an hour we’d be packed, through traffic, and on our way into the Colorado backcountry.

Then we had kids.

Three of them to be exact.

So this was the first trip with all three of them. And it was pure chaos. And it was excellent.

Of course we were in a crowded campground in central Wisconsin. There were RV’s and tents everywhere, college students drinking too much a few sites down, random people stuck in the 70’s next to us. They liked their radio and had a penchant for old Journey songs. We were late making our reservation so we also landed the site across from the bathroom. Lucky us. I had to tell myself that we need not be alone in British Columbia for this to somehow count.

So it was still fabulous. A campfire and two boys with an obsession for burning sticks. There were flashlights and mad dashes through the trees once it got dark. Scratches on arms and legs and dip in the lake before sundown. A 20 month old who found falling asleep and staying asleep completely overrated. She awoke at 4:45 AM ready for fun. Good thing the hubby likes to fish early. They went fishing and left the boys and I to slumber to the late, late hour of 6:30 AM. There were also mosquitos to swat and grounds in the coffee. Smores to make and bagels for breakfast.

The next morning we were all completely exhausted, hungry, and we stank. Campfire smoke and dirt and marshmallows stuck to faces. The residue of bug spray and sand from the lake stuck to our skin. It feels sort of hangoverish to be honest. By 7:00 we’d had three trips to the bathroom and breakfast under our belts. By 8:00 we were running through the trees again, waking up the rest of the campground. So we packed up and rolled out to hike up a lookout tower by 8:30 AM. 

All chaos and sticky goo aside, it was one of the highlights of the summer. That next morning as I sipped my chewy coffee without my beloved cream and stared at the kids with a smile, my husband said to me “well you are in a surprisingly good mood given all the chaos last night.” I’m normally given to erratic evil behavior when short on sleep. But the fresh air and the sight of my kids running amuck in a campsite made me squeal with delight inside my sleepy little heart.

I think to camp, to be outside, to soak in the trees and nature is in my soul. We’ve all got that hobby or activity that just moves us to a place beyond all the chaos of this life. Maybe it is when you dance or sing or camp or run. Maybe it is when you paint or swim or write. Whatever it is, we’ve all been wired to find our hearts bursting when we get to do that thing we love so much.We are overcome with joy, the sappy among us get all teary, and the very thought that our kids might just love what we love is honestly beyond words. It really is. It’s just sort of a big goosebump of a feeling that creeps up over your shoulders and into your heart.

Being outside, taking time to notice that which is big and majestic and so other than ourselves is my soul shaping thing. Honestly, I think that at some level it is everyone’s “thing.” You may not like to lay in a tent with a marshmallow skewer under your pillow, but almost everyone I know has an orange and crimson sunset etched in their brain. They’ve got a sandy, gritty beach memory, a whiff of sea salty air stuck in the recesses of their mind. Or maybe a fondness for rain or a snow day sort of feeling when fresh powder slips from the sky and rests on the window sill. 

So this weekend I was not grumpy. I was not an evil sleep deprived wife and mother. I was not overly concerned about the stains on the clothing or about keeping up appearances. I did not even care about the mosquito bites. I got to watch my children tear though a campsite and sleep outside and this brought joy to my weary suburban soul. The sort of joy I plan to repeat often and impart upon them forever and ever I hope.

Just a half mile or so South of our home is the Illinois Prairie Path. It’s an old rail line that was converted to a walking and biking path in the early 1960’s. An electric line actually, that once hauled commuters back and forth from the Western Suburbs to the city. After rail service ceased on this line, a naturalist named May Theilgaard Watts decided that letting this slice of the suburbs go the way of track housing would be a tragedy, so she rallied the troops and with partnership from DuPage County, helped form the Illinois Prairie Path Corporation. Thanks May!

For me, this little crushed gravel trail that runs 55 miles east and west is a tiny respite from the sidewalks and alleys that surround me in my town. As far as trails go, lovely as it is, the Prairie Path is not really all that majestic or lovely. I’ve biked out West and the Prairie Path is more like the parking lot at most of the trail heads out there. I talked to my sister today. She lives in Bend, Oregon. She told me we should come out and bike with her. When I cough up the cash to fly out there and do that, it will involve significantly more adrenaline than the Prairie Path.

That said, the adrenaline rush of passing a suburban parent with a bike trailer the size of an SUV can inject you with a healthy dose of adrenaline. You make the move left to pass. You shout “on your left.” And then you hope that you can pass fast enough to not hit the cyclists from the oncoming side head on. I suppose this should not be underestimated. It’s just that there are no boulders or single-track involved.

It’s of course, super flat (rail line + Illinois topography (or lack thereof) = flat, flat, flat). And it is very crowded (read David’ Goetz’s bit on this trail in his book “Death by Suburb” if you want to hear more about lines of people, spandex of every color, and uber urban weekend warriors). But in an urban area boasting around 8 million people, things get crowded. It’s part of the deal.

I run the path about 4 times per week. I just love it. As soon as I turn west on to the entrance to the path that is closest to my home, I am instantly covered in shade. It is humid and cool, the ground is damp and it feels all foresty and earthy. You really can hardly see the sunshine through the thick canopy of Oak and Maple trees that lock arms above the path. The gravel is always damp. There are puddles there for at least a day after a rain. And it seriously feels about 10 degrees cooler than the air on the sidewalk. I love it. At noon it feels like sunset. At dusk it feels like midnight. At dawn it makes me want to wake up and do something marvelous. 

This first section that I run is dark and shady. Then I cross a busy street and enter an area that makes the previous section feel like an open field. It is even more dramatic. Perhaps another five degrees cooler and never a spot of sun. I call it the dark and spooky section. I love this part of the path. And it is only, maybe, 200 m long, but it is glorious.

The other day I was running the path. I’d been on a week long break up with running and had not been there in a full seven days. I laced up my shoes, headed South, and moved along. I was listening to Matt Costa. Mr. Pitiful always makes me run faster. I am such a dork. I crossed that busy road and prepared to enter into the “spooky part” when suddenly it was not so dark anymore. It was actually quite bright and I sort of started to freak out. I looked up at where the former canopy of trees was and saw these ghastly power lines that I’d never seen before. Apparently they’d been there all along and the power company decided that everyone was getting all tangled up together. So they chopped them.

Now they don’t chop the trees down completely, they just hack off the tops. If you’ve never seen this it’s sort of like when you bite the crown off a head of broccoli. you still have a green stump but all the majesty is gone. And they sliced some big limbs too. Most they carted away in wood chippers I am sure, but a few fresh logs were still lying about. They were twice the size of my body. They were big limbs. I was sad. It would be 10-20 years before these trees made it so high again. If they did. 

I spewed internal venom at the power company and then stopped myself. Those power lines were less than a mile from my home. Chances are they powered up my television, lamps, and this little laptop from which I type. I am such a dichotomy. On the one hand wanting to “stick it to the man” (the man being power companies or the logging industry or someone even bigger like the oil industry). On the other hand, I want lights, paper, and gasoline for my car. I also want the spooky part of the Prairie Path back.

I cannot have it all. I should not have it all. But how do I strike a balance? And let’s be honest, I shut my lights off and rarely run my AC and I do what I can. But people down the street light floodlights 24/7 and chill their homes to 70 degrees in the summer. So does my little effort even help? And the trees have already been cut.

Yes, my effort helps. It is something. And as the saying goes, something is better than nothing. And it is indeed true that if everyone does their somethings that something will change. So talk it up. Flip off the lights. Turn off the AC. Run your heart out in the shade and then be sure that you can keep that shade. Small things do add up big if we all do them. Sounds cliche but it is true.

PS, want an example? At the end of March the World Wildlife Fund sponsors a little gig called “Earth Hour.” All over the world, for just one hour, people shut off unnecessary lights. Major cities and nations around the world report massive drops in energy use. Thousands of pounds of carbon emissions are kept out of the air. This little bit but a bunch of people makes a big difference. Make every hour earth hour baby.

Shark Fishing South Carolina

We saw turtles and alligators today. An Ibis and some sort of crane too. Excellent fun this vacation stuff! Right now the hubby is out by the pool with our two boys. Goggles and water wings galore. The baby is trying to settle into her nap. This is easier said than done when she has finally reached an age where she knows she is missing out on something. Which, leaves me running up and down the stairs to check on things and lots of time to blog about our trip. For those of you just logging on, I am totally a vacation blogger from South Carolina this week. Fabulous Family Reunion Fun!

Check out the previous two posts to get caught up (Holiday Road #1 and #2).

I need your input on this one. Honestly, I do. Most of my blogs involve me rambling about some issue that I may or may not really have an answer to. I guess this is how most of life goes though right? We may or may not have answers and the moment we dare to exercise the audacity that says we do indeed have an answer, things change. So even when I have an answer I hold loosely to it (most of the time, I am also a stubborn pistol that hangs on for dear life lots of times). But this time, I am at a loss. There are piles of opinions on the little story I am about to share and I would honestly value the conversation on this one for sure. So log on and fire out a thought if you have one. Here goes:

Sunday I went shark fishing with my husband, Joel and his dad (also known as Grandpa John). It was Father’s Day. I will tell you that it was awesome to be bouncing across the harbor in a little fishing boat, just the three of us and a guide. Even though I am clearly not a man and even more clearly, not a dad, it was cool to be doing some manly thing like fishing with my husband (a dad) and his dad. Shark fishing. Our guide was a guy named Greg. A local for 27 years, raising a family down here in this humid little world. He was unflappable and witty and the perfect picture of a completely local fishing guide.

We fished for sharks. Catch and release. Greg, our guide, seemed to know everything about his little slice of the ocean. As we headed out from Harbor Town he told us all about the tide and why the waves were bigger today and how at 7:30 the tide would peak and the full moon was coming. And he hauled a little net along with us that, when we stopped, he tossed into the water to catch bait. And let’s just say that the bait we were about to use were the size of most good midwestern fish. And he knew all about the ebb and the flow of the current and where to find bait and what the birds were doing above us and how the water looked shadowy to him so that he knew where to toss in his net. None of this made any sense to me and with my landlubber eyes I could not tell what he was talking about, but he knew his stuff.

And he knew all about sharks and how to catch them and which ones were annoying and overpopulated and sort of like noxious weeds and which ones were marvelous creatures that were beautiful and wild. And he knew how to pull out a hook so the fish supposedly did not suffer. And as I caught my first shark and then watched him pull the hook out, I shrieked a bit (much to my chagrin) and jumped onto the seat of the boat to get far away from my snaggle-toothed fish. And I told him that I was a bit of an environmentalist and asked how bad this all hurt the fish. He said it didn’t. I did not believe him. Then he said “aw, you ain’t with like PETA or something are ya?” “Would I be on this boat shark fishing if I was?” I answered. 

Anyway, it was all cool. And as I went about catching wild things from the ocean that day I also learned so much, so very much about currents and tides and pelicans and the names of 5 different kinds of sharks I did not even know existed! I learned a ton as a poser sportswoman that day.

Which brings me to my question. I’ve always poo-pooed hunting and fishing as these sort of controversial hobbies that kill things. When my husband heads out to hunt for deer every November I get all snippy and angry about it. I tell him that he should not hunt things he won’t eat. To which he replies that he will eat that deer. To which I say, why don’t you just go to the grocery store. To which he says, why, to eat over-processed hormone filled meat when he can eat the good stuff he killed with his own effort. Good point.

Joel knows a ton about the forest and about deer and about how they sleep and nest and rub antlers on trees and mate. The guys I knew in Colorado know a ton about Elk and migration and the mountains and how to find them. Fisher men and women know more about lakes and rivers and the ocean than anyone else I know. Turns out they want the very animals they hunt to survive as well. Without them they have no sport. And some of these men and women are the best advocates for the planet that I have ever met. Their livelihood and recreation and for some, their food depends on it all.

So when I hook a shark on vacation, what does this mean? I’m not a sportswoman, I’d not held a fishing pool in years. I had a ton of fun and the adrenaline rush of reeling in a 40+ pound black tip shark that is pulling you around the boat is amazing. And then the hook comes out and the fish goes back. So is this a problem? I don’t know.

I do know that I took a great picture of my husband and his dad on the back of the boat. All smiles. Vacation fun. I know that this picture is so good that I will someday blow it up and frame it. I probably did not have to be shark fishing to get that shot. but I was. What do I do with this?

I think I grew up in the best little neighborhood on the planet. ever. And if you happen to disagree, I challenge you to some sort of a duel, my childhood gang versus yours. We could take you. I spent my childhood in the suburbs of Chicago where strip malls reign supreme. But I happened to live on a street that had a little slice of childhood heaven just 5 houses down, a swamp. A certified mud hole complete with bridges made from logs and old plywood, trees to hide in, enough water to ice-skate on, and enough privacy to play hours of hide and seek in. It was our swamp, we claimed it. We owned it. We ruled it. And we built more memories there than anyplace I can remember.

“We” were a band of girls and a few outnumbered boys who lived in 5-6 houses all next door to one another or across the street. In this little group of homes there were 9 girls and 2 boys. There was also a cool girl from way down the block that we played with, she made us an even 10. We were mostly tom boys. We’re all cute and sassy now that we’ve grown up and realized that Keds without shoe laces and pinstripe jeans are no longer cool. But at the time, we were tough ones (at least in our own minds).

We played outside constantly. Rode bikes with playing cards slapping the spokes to make them sound like motorcycles. We sat on skateboards and rode them down our big hill, narrowly missing a head on collision with the mailbox at the end of the driveway. Every now and again someone nailed it head on. It was awesome (except for the gal who hit it). We swam in one another’s pools, played Barbies on the patio, played ghost in the graveyard, kick the can, truth or dare, and had endless slumber parties. 

We’re all adults today, we’ve got careers and kids and all the trappings of the grown up life. We’re all really different and we live all over the place, well, just my sister really, the rest of us never really left Chi-town. But we all stay connected. We’ve been in or to one another’s weddings. Our kids play together today and we reminisce every chance we get about those “good old days.” I never thought I would be so uncool as to actually use that phrase so someone please shoot me.

When my husband and I were looking for our current home, the place we moved into this past November, I became a neighborhood stalker. Each house we viewed was an opportunity to find a neighborhood gang for my kids. Places and people to play in the dirt with and run across the street barefoot. A place where you would all sit around and pound through a box of Twinkies after someone’s mom went shopping. I looked earnestly for kids, for any sign of kids. A tricycle here, a big wheel there. This would signal to me that there was a potential play mate for my children. We found a great home and are now officially on the prowl for every kid we can find.

I want my little brood to run outside in a big neighborhood pack. I don’t want them to play video games. I’m not against video games per se, I just happen to think that you could have a ton more fun building a fort in the swamp. I want them to find little friends to go sledding with and buddies to play endless games of tag with.

But right now, they are small and we just moved in. There are a few families on our block and I am giddy about that. But what is it about memories that make them so much bigger in your mind. When I think back to my childhood I think that I climbed the biggest trees. That my house was perched on the biggest hill on the planet. I feel like our swamp could easily have been the Everglades. And I fear that no amount of playmates could rival the childhood I had outside, in the swamp, with 10 girls and 2 boys. 

I hope I am wrong. Today we have laptops and cell phones and the Wii. And we have DVD’s and DVR’s and ADD. And honestly, I completely love all these things, except for the ADD. I would be lost without my laptop and I would not be able to sleep without my phone. And while I don’t have a Wii, I want one. I threw my shoulder out playing Wii tennis one time and want a chance to undo that drama. Bring it. 

And we also have a hyper news media that scares the crap out of me. And I know, thanks to mandated reporting (a good thing), that there are ex-sex offenders living in my area. And I’m pretty paranoid. And I cannot manage to figure out how to get my kids outside and let them run wild and keep them safe. How to let them enjoy this short time in their lives when they are not glued to a computer screen, yet teach and equip them for school, where they are glued to screens. I don’t know how to say no to soccer and t-ball and guitar and swim lessons and just let them play outside when there are not a ton of kids to play outside with because they are all at soccer, t-ball, and guitar.

And I just don’t know how to let it all go and let life unfold. So this summer I am going to try to slow things down. To sit on the front porch rather than the back deck. To ride our bikes on the sidewalk rather than the driveway. And to take the time to talk to our neighbors, meet some new friends, and spend the afternoon at the pool. And I pray that in a few years, my little ones will find themselves swept up in a giant game of Ghost in the Graveyard with the best little neighbor buddies in the world. And I will then eavesdrop with a joyful heart on all their play time, from my front porch, sitting, smiling, remembering, and listening. One -o’clock, Two o’clock, Three o’clock rock . . . .

I’m super paranoid about skin cancer. I spent the better part of the 1980’s lying on a beach towel, on my driveway, with baby oil and all my neighborhood friends. We had to be tan. We bleached our hair out with Sun In, took great pride in sunburned noses, and sat around waiting for all that charred skin to turn into a wicked tan while listening to Duran Duran. This is what adolescence with absolute ignorance about UVA rays will do to a person.

Fast forward 20 years and behold the crows feet and age spots. When I was 27 I scored my first Basal Cell, smack in the middle of my upper lip. I don’t know how people manage Botox injections because the local anesthetic it took to numb my lip for surgery sent my through the ceiling. Since that time I’ve managed to land myself a visit to the dermatologist every 6 months. They look at this bump, measure that freckle, scrap off this and biopsy that. On occasion another Basal Cell pops up and I get to go back and relive my adolescence through the fluorescent lights of a doctor’s office. Not as much fun the second time around.

So I am paranoid. It does not help that Izzy Stevens is currently dying of Melanoma on Grey’s. Last week I went to see my Derm (who is awesome by the way) and she scraped a little bump from below my eye. Getting an injection a centimeter below your right eye is the best way to spend a Tuesday afternoon. One biopsy later and I have myself another Basal Cell. It’s almost laughable by now. My dermatologist called to tell me that I would need to get it removed and then said that basically, every time something white pops up on my face I should just assume it is a basal cell.

I’ll take all the basal cells in the world as long as it is never a melanoma. I know people, good, good people, friends, dads, fathers, who are/have lost fights with melanoma. I am on my knees thankful I’ve never had melanoma. But, since I’m still in my 30’s and have lots of sun damage waiting to rear its ugly head, I’m nervous. A bad burn as a child can come get you 20+ years later. Sun damage is cumulative and some of it sits sort of dormant for years. You get a bad burn as a child, you peel, you eventually lose that tan, winter comes, and you move one. But years later it shows up as age spots, wrinkles, or worse, basal cells, squamous cells, or the dreaded melanoma.

And with everything else these days, climate change plays a role in our exposure to the sun and its damaging rays. Holes in our ozone layer, created by the fact that we are heating up the stratosphere, means increases in skin cancer. The World Health Organization and other international health groups have commented and researched this material, it is a fact. So while I know that my unyielding devotion to sunshine at age 16 contributed to my risk, the fact that I drive a lot and release CO2 into the atmosphere by running the dishwasher also contributes to my risk. We are indeed slowly killing ourselves.

I know that this is not the normal chatty kathy blog that I type but I was sobered today when my Dermatologist called to give me the referral I would need. This Basal Cell is small. But it is near my eye. Tear ducts are involved. Now I need a sitter and to clear my calendar and I need to pay my insurance deductible. And funny thing is that I need to DRIVE to this doctor. Which means I will add more CO2 to the air while I go remove the effects of CO2 damage. Oh the irony.

So here is my green plea. Let’s do all we can to lessen our impact on the planet so that our kids won’t need space suits to protect themselves from the sun. Mine already wear long board shorts and long sun shirts to the pool. They wear hats everywhere. That sun is scary stuff. And if you are still holding on to the hope of a tan this summer, LET IT GO! Save your skin. Save your life. Save the planet. I hope that I am here long enough to sit around with my children and laugh about their lame-o adolescent lives. They won’t involve lying out if I can help it. I hope they will involve conservation efforts, hang drying laundry or skipping a trip to the mall in the car. I hope they will involved recycling and re-using, and re-purposing everything they have. I hope it means they never get scraped up at the Dermatologist.