My sister, a kindergarten teacher, mentioned her school showed a mixture of news and educational videos to the students. One video featured children sliding down hills on cardboard boxes. She remarked, it was sad when children’s’ best exposure to improvised play was a video monitor. When did creative play cease being a proactive experience and evolve in a documentary?
Later as, drove downtown, we noticed a few kids with cardboard boxes sliding down an overlook hill at Renaissance Park. Seeing them temporarily restored my faith in play. Maybe all hope isn’t lost, but it is slipping away.
I am at an age in which the generation gap expands. My niece and nephew’s generation are plugged in. Most of their free time is spent on video consoles, cell phones, web sites, television, or remote controls. Imagination is seldom challenged. Instead of entertaining themselves with noncommercial toys, or playing outdoors, they rely upon some artificially fabricated story line that dictates the game, and inhibits independent thinking. These kids are tech savvy, they will excel locating information on the web, and they are capable of setting the clock on the vcr, provided it hasn’t been banished to a landfill, but will they encourage their own children to pretend and improvise, or will they just entertain them?
Sunday, the kids requested returning to the park before they left town. The Mister and conspired to haul moving boxes, a tape gun, and a box cutter to the observation hill. Within five minutes of the first box launch, three college girls showed up with cardboard. Later, more kids showed up. The excitement was contagious, and there was no age restriction. Maybe my sisters kids will remember to share simple experiences with their kids and encourage the procreation of creativity.
I won’t apologize for not posting, but I am shocked by how quickly the last eight days evaporated. We found ourselves making preparations up until the hour family arrived. All the tasks weren’t necessary, but the visit served as a catalyst for household progress. The Mister finished building a retaining wall, I transplanted eight shrubs and planted adagio grass and roses. We had a plumber replace the small diameter galvanized pipe running through the house. We finished hanging pictures, and added a mirror in the guest bath.
QT saved the day with an ass expanding pulled pork recipe. I made minor adjustments to account for cooking on a gas grill, and used two commercially prepared sauces. I baled on making biscuits, and purchased rolls and sourdough from the local bakery to keep things simple. I will try the biscuit recipe later, when my mother isn’t around to tell me I am doing it wrong.
I like meals that can be prepared in advance. Then, I can drink as much wine as I need.
The family arrived and the excitement was palatable. The visit started with me swearing loudly when a small deluge erupted from the toilet into the hallway. We’ve lived here six months without a single toilet incident. Never underestimate the power of a seven-year-old and a roll of TP. In her overzealousness to remedy the clog, she broke the flush lever. We had a surplus of spare parts, and towels. The problem was resolved quickly due to the Mister’s determination, and that was the most eventful incident during the entire visit.
Saturday, we drove to the local apple orchard for apples and honey before dropping my sister’s family downtown at the aquarium. Mom has difficulty walking, standing, and sitting for long periods of time so her days are careful juxtapositions of managing the three activities in quantities she can bare. She’s too proud, or stubborn, to admit when she’s tired or in pain, so I constantly second guess myself as the appropriateness of the suggested activities. I don’t want her to be tired or bored, but placing yourself in someone else’s head is an ineffective means of communication.
We took Mom downtown to a coffee house that was renowned for roasting their own beans. It was a quaint area with a view of the river and a nice sculpture garden. After lunch, we drove to an overlook for a view of the ridge line, and then dropped at the house for a break.
For the evening, we packed pulled pork sandwiches, chips, sodas, and a picnic blanket, and drove to Coolidge park for an evening picnic. The temperature was pleasant, the bugs were absent, and the kids amused themselves running through the fountain and playing frisbee. The kids had such a good time, they wanted to return the following day.
I wonder how many people look forward to family visits without fear of being judged? Logically, I shouldn’t worry about such nonsense, but it’s always buried in a corner in my mind.
I suspect my family doesn’t completely understand why we moved. The assumption shared by both mine and the Mister’s families are you relocate because of job opportunities, or to be closer to family. Our move has made commuting an easier task for the Mister, and the cost of living is lower. Embedded in the benefits, lie the main reasons, which I don’t feel driven to explain. I don’t see any benefits in explaining how emotionally disconnected I felt in the geography, or the local attitudes about, politics, schooling, and environmental issues. The world felt small, and not in a good way, but in an oppressive growth inhibiting way.
The last thing I want to do is insult the places family and friends call home. They love the area, and it’s simplicity, and I am genuinely happy for them. I need more variety, and I would like an opportunity to grow, as a person, a wife, and maybe an artist.
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When I announced my move, my mother issued much big talk about visiting us. I knew she WANTED to visit, but the long trip would be difficult, and the dilemma of leaving her cats, her bed, and her smoke scented home could be thorny issues. We moved in April, and returned for a few days in May. By the middle of June, she was asking if We was coming back over the summer. We hadn’t been gone three full months. I should have felt flattered to be missed, but instead I was disgusted about the assumption I should making frequent trips.
When I lived an hour away, it was I always presumed I would drive to visit her, and I did. Of the five years we lived in the last house, she drove to our home maybe a dozen times. I drove to her home a dozen times a year, not counting the times I drove to a siblings house to visit her.
The issue isn’t which sibling she drove to visit more. The others have grandchildren, and we have ill-mannered cats. Driving isn’t comfortable for my mother, and health is a complete consideration. I’m not heartless, but I detest the presumption that I should do the right thing because I have a history of doing so. I know the road to hell is paved with good intentions, but I’m not the type of person who’s mood improves when you make idle threats, regardless of how noble your intentions. Say what you mean, and mean what you say. I accept at this stage in life I will be doing most of the traveling, but pretending it will be otherwise is a disservice to both of us.
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My sister and her family have tried to visit since July. They’ve scheduled at least four times. Each time, some extraordinary circumstance beyond their control has prevented them from coming. The number of days has remained constant, but the number of participants has ranged from three to five. We have one guest bedroom, an air mattress, and a comfortable couch. They can all play rock paper scissors to see who sleeps where, as I will be sleeping in my queen sized bed covered in cats.
The issue isn’t how many, as much as it is who. The who part relates to cooling. My BIL is a very picky specific eater. He is hypersensitive to spicy food and very LOUD about it. He has insulted my Mister about this. Typically, BIL will not eat food he doesn’t prepare himself. I try to prepare a dish or two of the non-spicy variety for him, whether he eats it or not.
Why bother, you might ask? My BIL has always been a most excellent and generous host, each time I have descended upon his home invited or not. I want to return the hospitality, though it may be a pain in the ass.
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My sister’s family scheduled their most recent visit for next weekend (hence, the toilet seat makeover). Initially there would be five guests. My sister’s family of four and my mother. Thanks sis!. Last week, my sister said her husband may or may not come. His class reunion was belatedly scheduled for the same weekend. I asked her for a final head count a few days in advance so I could prepare food. Saturday, my sister called to say they didn’t know if they would be able to come. This postponement was brought courtesy of an act of God (if you believe in that sort of thing). Gas shortage due to Hurricane Ike. As a cautionary measure, I tried to fill my tank Saturday, both stations on the mountain had sold out. If i were a believer, I’d question whether a visit from family was a good idea. Nonetheless, I should be prepared.
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To expect a household to maintain normalcy when they expand from two adults to four adults and two excited kids is unrealistic. If plans don’t fall through this will be a very noisy house next week. My family is loud and in constant competition to be heard. Talkers always outnumber listeners. Commotion wears me down and erodes my patience. I’m trying to make as many preparations in advance as I can to make things easy. I want to be good hostess, though it doesn’t come naturally. I want life in the kitchen to be easy, not stressful like every faily gathering I’ve attended since I was five. I know everything will not run smoothly, but the more preparations i have in order, the less scrambling required.
My goal is host a relaxing weekend for my family, that appears easy, even if it isn’t easy and I am not relaxed.
********* Calling those who cook!
Okay, I prepare food, but I am not much of a southern cook. If anyone has a recipe for biscuits, or buttermilk biscuits, please share. I am also looking for tips on slow roasting a Boston Butt in the oven (our electric smoker is schizophrenic).
I am an enigma wrapped in a mystery. I was born in the land of home cookin’ but I don’t know how to make biscuits, sweet tea, fried chicken, gravy, or squash casserole. So you won’t lose all respect for me, I can make an ass-kicking sausage and lentil soup, blackened salmon, and rosemary garlic cornish game hens.
The Mister and I were driving home after breakfast and conversation shifted to a mutual friend. This friend habitually dominates conversations by attempting to regale listeners with numerous anecdotes from his glory days. Glory Days being the decades between his twenties and forties when he was intellectually superior to his peers, and demonstrated it with acts of machismo. I suppose the retelling of the stories in excess of six times is an effort to recapture some of the fleetingness of youth, or perhaps he’s just getting older and doesn’t recall the repetition. Regardless, these stories have a way of disrupting conversation. Instead of an activity of joint participation, the the interaction is reduced to monologue and prisoner.
I confessed I seldom paid attention to the stories, and consequently to little else this guy said, because the experiences lacked reciprocity and overindulged repetition.
The topic shifted to daily interactions, and how many people in our daily lives discuss topics we have no interest in, and yet we listen politely, though maybe with indifference, and how many of those same people can’t be bothered to listen to the mundane details of our own lives when put in a position to return the favor. Consequently, I have little to say, because so much of my life is uninteresting and quite ordinary.
The Mister remarked that both of us frequently had little to say, and noted that I talked slightly more than him, which was interesting because I thought that he talked slightly more than me. We assessed one another with deer in the headlights looks, because both of us were surprised the other thought the opposite.
We are frequently surprised by the way others view us. At times we are surprised at their misinterpretation, in other instances, we are completely shocked when they see us clearer than we see ourselves.
Incidentally, both of us have said very little since we arrived home. I guess neither of us wants to be the one who talks more.
I should be crawling into the Mister’s man cave to apologize for hurting his feelings…The thing is, I am not sorry in the least. I should be, but I’m not.
Why?
I’m not sorry for speaking up this time, because there have been dozens, maybe a hundred, other times I ate shit politely with a knife and fork, while he spoke rudely, loudly or inappropriately. Or because he found himself in a disagreeable situation because, he did not read the signs or heed warnings, and faced consequences for his actions. All those times I stood quietly singing the lyrics of Liz Phair’s What Makes You Happy in my head while he ranted and had his moment. I have allowed him many moments.
For all the times he interrupted me mid sentence to correct some seriously significant, or seemingly inconsequential detail about his profession or the specificity of detail, and completely obliterate any contribution or point I attempted to make. And for all the times I allowed him to slaughter the details of my profession and explain concepts to others he didn’t fully grasp.
So this time I called him on it. One time out of dozens. Eight hours have passed and I’m not sorry. I don’t believe in saying words that lack meaning.
