This westward journey ends up at my mom's house. Two of my sisters have--amazingly--turned the daylight basement into a suite for this Fam of 3. We'll stay there for six weeks, enjoying the Pacific Northwest summer, family---oh and working from a different home.

As I wrote last summer, we are weather wimps. We may be a bit less wimpy than last year--may be, maybe. But still, our plan to escape some of the Austin summer heat suits us. We hope to do the same each year. As much as we are growing to love Austin, those weeks of above 100 degree temperatures wear on us. (X's school start of Aug 22 interferes with our plan, of course. Darn school!)

X gets more enthused the closer we get to Washington. In western Nebraska, she got out of the car (in a Target parking lot, on a hunt for Starbucks) and said, "The sun is the only thing heating us up." I hadn't thought about it that way, but it's true that in those last few 104 degree days in Austin, the air and pavement were heating us up, plenty. In that parking lot, the pavement and air were cool enough that we could perceive a real warm/cool difference between sun and air, rather than simply an additive (hot plus hot) effect.

When I got out of the car at the first rest stop in Wyoming, I caught the scent of pine. Then I knew I was in the West. My West, though I had never been to Wyoming before. I am enjoying the comfort of those familiar sights and smells. On our way through the Blue Mountains, I watched out the side window as we glided downhill past pine, spruce and fir trees standing straight. At least, I think that is what they were, using my best memory of my (own) lessons from my father. Potential timber, in his eyes. In Austin, the "good" trees spread out, casting shade, as I have learned from Texas Sue. In my West, the "good" trees grow tall, impressing us with their height and, if fallen, their age counted by rings in the diameter. Crowded together, they form a protective forest. More sparsely arranged, they frame a bay view.

A bay view. We are on our way there. We'll see how this plan works out. (We have already pledged to be on our best un-messy behavior so that we don't disturb at least that aspect of my Mom's life.)

Westward, Ho

One of my loyal readers wants to know where I am.

Where the deer and the antelope, play, that's where.

We are just leaving a Hampton Inn in Rawlins, Wyoming, headed for Washington. Really, we saw frolicking antelope. And deer running, at least.

We passed through Wichita two days ago, and we thought about Dr Tiller, murdered in his church.
Murdered in church. We thought about the dedicated but aging group of doctors willing to perform late-term abortions. I wondered about the circumstances that lead women to that decision. A roadside sign said, "Pray to an abortion." Huh? Sad, all the way around.

But the heathery looking range cheered us up. As did all the roadside attractions in Nebraska, featuring giant fake gorillas or cowboys memorials. Oh and in Kansas, the Oz Museum, of course. We didn't get to stop; we are in a hurry. On to Boise!

Middle vs. Elementary

X finishes 6th grade next week. Her first year of middle school. My first year of parenting a middle schooler. There is a lot to say about each.

I have almost no involvement with the school--maybe none, outside of writing emails to a couple of teacher beseeching them for extra time for X's project. Or saying that we agree, she should not be making faces at you during class. I put it this way: "We have reminded X not to let her face betray her emotions." In other words, "your class is pretty darn boring and X thinks you talk down to the kids, but we've asked her to act otherwise." (I do not blame the teacher, here; she is just doing her job the best she knows how and it probably works just fine for most of her students.)

I am not so good at acting otherwise, myself. In fact, about 10 years ago, I decided I would walk out of any meeting that made me physically uncomfortable. I have had to excuse myself a few times. And I was probably rolling my eyes way before I got out of there.

Anyway, back to school involvement. As my long time readers (hey, my only readers!) know, I was an activist back at X's elementary school in San Francisco. Looking back, I think I was flipping from mania to depression, fueled by the dual sense of power and futility that comes with working closely with a small, struggling elementary school. My lasting impression: I was more involved in the school than in my child's education. Part of that was because, as I have written, we saw that school as our family' social justice project. So, I wanted to see all kids get exposure to art the way that X had. Unfortunately, X didn't much like the "artists in residence" who were ultimately hired.

I burned a few bridges too. More than in my professional life, where I am a little cautious to maintain relationships (usually), I would cross whatever lines I had to get the programs I wanted at a cost we could afford. I still have mixed feelings about that.

Earlier this year, I was forwarded an email from the current PTA at X's elementary school. Of course, this PTA has its own priorities, and they are dismantling most of what I worked to build. I know from my day job that no one person alone can make lasting change in a school. But still I tried. The changes are inevitable, and from my new vantage point, are less painful than they might be.

This year, my focus was on X, helping her make it through that first year. Even though we purposefully chose this school because its homework requirements were less than at some "magnet" schools, it was still a challenge for her to get her work done. Many nights, my job was to sit next to her as she struggled to get words onto paper for yet another book review or report on world culture. And I sympathize; I too struggle to get words on paper. Anyway, supporting her that way was much more satisfying than coaching her on keeping her emotions to herself, how ever useful a tool that may be.

X reports that middle school is hard and kids should not have to do so much work when they are kids--similar to her theme in elementary. She's pretty convincing. On the plus side, she has a circle of 11 friends (we counted them last night) and the parties and overnights that come with that. She's had good experiences through the "Gifted and Talented" club, and has enjoyed school dances and such. Those things mean a lot to her--and therefore, to me.

Temporarily Terse

It's terse; it's stark; it's kind of bare.
Mom of One, a placeholder.
A new blog look to go with it.

Renaming, Again

OK, it is time. I need yet another new name for my blog.

I have my Texas license and plates; the local Nordstrom has my address. I can drive to a (limited) number of locations without getting lost. X has finished almost a year in school here. D is out fraternizing with the locals several late nights a week. The boxes are all unpacked (I think) and we are settled into our townhouse.

I can't be San Francisco Mom of One anymore, either GTT or in Austin. But clearly, I can't be Austin Mom of One. And just Mom of One sounds too stark.

So, who am I? Or, I mean, what is the name of my blog? It could be just GTT, but I think a place-oriented name isn't right this time.

Help me?

Sand!

Sandcastles and surf. That was last weekend, in Corpus Christi and North Padre Island.

We arrived late Friday at the Corpus Christi Omni to check into our upgraded $65 (yes!) room. This Omni is a slightly faded lady, but it didn't matter too much. They treated us well and even let us pick free room-service breakfast drinks. X and I both love room service--well, who doesn't? We were thrilled to place our card on the doorknob asking for coffee, cranberry juice and ice tea.

Oh, but on to the beach! It's about 20 minutes from Corpus Christi, and we got to choose from a patchwork of city and state beaches. We'd never been to the beach in Texas before. It was great! Fine sugar sand and warm water with big-enough-but-not-too-big waves. We stopped at a souvenir shop on the way there and got a boogie board and a small inflatable boat. That was enough to keep us busy in the surf for a couple of hours. And that was about as much sun as we could take.

Back in the hotel room, we all took naps. Then we set off to explore Port Aransas on Mustang Island. We were checking out places to stay for the next time--right up against the beach. The best way to do this, we decided, was to drive right along the beach. Hey, it's legal there. The sand was all packed down like a little country road--at first. The further we went, the looser and rougher it got. I was driving and slightly panicked. OK, maybe D would say more than slightly. We kept thinking we'd find a road off the beach that we could take back to town. Finally, in looser sand than I liked, I pulled a U-turn and plowed my way back to the packed sand onto a connecting road and into downtown Port A, as they say. Which, given my tendency to mispronounce the place as Port Ar-anus, struck me as funny. Anyway, we discovered that if we'd kept driving through the drifting sands for 7 miles, we would have found a connecting road.

The town was better than it sounded. A not-too-chi-chi spot, with more souvenir shops, one with front doors framed by 12 foot sharks with open jaws. Get the picture? No, I didn't take any. I can't get used to having a camera that will fit into my purse, so I often forget it. We looked, from the outside, at slightly run down little cottages and newly built beach houses. D watched fishing boats arrive back at the town dock, tourists carrying snapper and such.

We picked a restaurant on the dock for dinner. Our first course was Oysters Rockefeller, which I hadn't had in years. The main courses were a bit of a let down after that, but it was nice sitting on that covered patio overlooking the water. On the way back to the hotel, we bought supplies for the next day's activity: making sandcastles.

During the drive down the sand, X and I had noticed fancy sandcastle making in action. One castle looked like it belonged in a fairytale. The other was more sculpture than castle: a bust of someone. We had decided that we should try for ourselves.

Next morning, we were on the beach by 7, with our molds and a bucket. We made a basic castle and then sculpted with our fingers, the way we'd seen the pros do. We added details with the drip method, because our sculpting wasn't all that effective. We aspire to more next time.

I've written about this trip in more detail than I'd planned. I think it's because it represented a real turn around in mood for me, after my usual spring-time blues. I am glad to be back.

Birthday Dinner

I haven't done much cooking over the past year. I am a good-enough cook, but I just lost the will. X eats just five things, but mostly a lot of Annie's Mac'n'Cheese. D has gotten into the habit of going out for dinner at around 10, fueling his late night work. And I have been living off of snacks and sandwiches. There, I admit it. The family dinner is, of course, more virtuous, but has not been one of our virtues.

Anyway, last night I mustered it up to cook a birthday dinner for D. I knew what would please him and it was simple: fish and a vegetable. When I want to make him happy, it's an easy method.

It's tomato time in Texas already, or at least they had some local tomatoes at Central Market, the nearest fancy grocery. So I decide to go for the classic tomato-mozzarella-basil salad. Central Market is always a challenge for me. After one year, I still haven't learned where everything is. I kept looking for the vinegars near the salad dressing but turns out they had a whole half aisle to themselves. Sherry vinegar seemed like a not-too-tangy choice.

The cod looked pretty good, and I thought a simple lemon-butter sauce would match its uncomplicated flavor. Lemon butter and vinegar in the same meal seemed a bit weird, but I knew he wouldn't mind. It's each flavor that matters to him. As much as my spouse can seem a mystery after 14 (or so) years, I guess I have learned a few of the subtleties.

When it came time to cook all this, I recruited X's help and it was good help. She made the salad on her own pretty much. And she used some little tricks on the cutting board: slicing a bit off the bottom of the tomato to steady it while she cut the slices, for example. She even knew what a chiffonade was, though she needed some help in execution. I didn't teach her any of that. We haven't done much cooking together, outside the key-lime pie we made for Christmas (for D). She explained how she learned: it was all Good Eats, and the other cooking shows on Food Network. We often watch Good Eats together. We like it because the host, Alton Brown, explains the whys of cooking as well as the what--sometimes even scientific explanations. Sometimes he even has Shirley Corriher on. She's an actual biochemist of food.

X's comment: Who says you can't learn something from TV?

Not me.

(She points out that I have already used that line in a blog entry. But I am too lazy to find the page.)

Oh, yeah, D loved the dinner and thought the vinegary tomatoes cleansed his palate for the buttery fish. (See, I knew he'd like it.) We bought a key-lime pie (also his fave) from the local and wonderful pie store, which does not seem to have a URL. Like many places in South Austin, it's just down the street from a landmark bar--in this case, the Horseshoe Saloon.

(Apologies to Deb for my foray into her territory. )

Torture is Wrong

A local Unitarian church displays a banner, "Torture is wrong." Duh, right? Hey, it's illegal, too.
Well....during the Bush era, the Justice Department advised that techniques such as waterboarding are OK—just don't actually drown them. And that there was no need to follow the Geneva Conventions because Al Qaeda is not a nation-state.

Recently released memos from the Justice Department's Offfice of Legal Council detail—and I mean detail--what the US Justice Department sanctioned as interrogation techniques, post 9-11. And it's all wrapped up in the reasoning that was used to justify the approval. It's sickening, shameful stuff and you can read the memos here, at ACLU's site.

But more important is what we should do with this information—and other evidence that the CIA, the military and mercenaries used or authorized torture in an effort to extract information from men who were held in US prison camps. We should prosecute those responsible. So far Obama hasn't gone for it, though he made at least one statement saying he's open to an investigation.

Paul Krugman's column in the NYT explains why it is so important to demand justice. He says what I'd been struggling to say for the past few days. So I'll just leave it at that.

Except for this: You can sign the ACLU's petition for an independent prosecutor over at their site.

Running Late

This morning, X woke me up at 7 to remind me that she needed to be at school by 7:30 to meet up with her prospective tennis coach. I usually wake up way before that, my need for coffee leading me to the kitchen. But with less than half an hour to work with, I had to choose: coffee or grooming.

I chose coffee. Fortunately, we just got this electric kettle that boils water in a miraculously short period of time. And it is clear, so you can see the miracle in action. Still, between throwing on clothes, making and drinking coffee, I was just ready to go in time. Yes, I have to tell you that I didn't even brush my teeth.

As we pulled up to the school, X suddenly said that she wished someone would go in with her. "Like me?" I asked. "Well, you cleaned up," she said. I gave her a couple of questions to ask, wished her luck, and went home to get cleaned up for Pilates.

My Find of the NIght

YouTube surfing is my latest after-dinner hobby. I ran across this tonight and it gave me goosebumps. Enjoy.

Remaking

I think most bloggers live for (write for) comments. So, speaking of, Anon Y. Mous said,

"We have little control over the randomness which has shaped us until we reach alleged adulthood, but then we can work on a second self: how do do we want to be, feel, think, imagine, become?"

Now clearly we can work on a second self. My question is: how far can we get? How much can we overcome our genetic- and early-experience-shaped destiny? (You can see something of my opinion there.) Sometimes I feel as though I am pretty far down the road. I even get a little smug: let those snarky high school girls see me now! But then, I get what feels like a big smack down. The great depression of 08, my personal one, for example.

And my husband: it is increasingly clear to me that I married him in some good part because of what he has in common with my maternal grandfather. "PaPa" died when I was 5 or 6.

I have hauled myself around the world, given myself the broadest range of experiences I could manage, and accomplished a fair amount professionally. But what do I really want to do? Hide under the covers and read, as when I was 7.

What about you? How much have you remade yourself? Or were you even trying? Maybe you were/are embracing your childhood self?

Getting Home

If I labeled my posts and did a word cloud, I bet "illness" would be in big letters. Which is part of why I am not doing that. Anyway, now I have had five days of the flu. And I had a flu shot! (Husband tried to accuse me of not.) Whenever I got on a conference call with other work colleagues, they wanted me to hang up. I tried not to take it personally.

I think I got it on a plane. Planes are virus factories. Yet I have these colleagues who fly all over the world all the time and never seem to get sick. I am wimp; that's it. What else can I say?

Anyway, while I was shivering in the Washington snow/rain, D and X took off for Corpus Christi, along with the rest of the spring break crowd. Misty went with them in her own little pink and green guinea pig carrier. And a leash (which she hated). So Misty was hanging out on the 8th floor of the Omni, while I was shivering in my mom's basement. (exaggeration: she has heat.) X loved the beach; she said the sand was the softest she had ever experienced. She found an acceptable bathing suit in the hotel gift shop. (After she and I had searched through every single online option.) D just likes going anywhere.

All this is good, because I felt a lot of guilt just heading north for Seattle without bringing X along. X was happy with the trip; she leapt into my arms to tell me about it. Misty was happy to get home; she leapt into her real cage. I was happy to get home; I leapt into my king-size temperpedic-mattress bed. Ahhhhh.

Where in the World?

I just got back from a trip to my hometown in the Pacific Northwest. It was COLD! As I made the two hour drive from the airport to the little town , it was raining so hard that the freeway looked glassy. Hydroplaning seemed the norm. I got lost only once and it was only a 15 mile detour. The next morning, it was snowing.

So I should be used to this, right? I grew up there. But I wasn't. I was terrified on the freeway and completely discouraged seeing snow the next morning. (Snow in March there: I think that is an anomaly.

Now I am back in Austin, where I am fretting about the coming hot weather. (Though the spring is wonderful.)

It really does seem that California spoiled me weather-wise. Even though the El Nino storm flooded our basement. Even though our last home was in the fog belt with fog so thick that tomatoes would not ripen and the wind so hard that I needed a scarf to protect my ears--in July. OK, that doesn't sound like I was spoiled.

Maybe I am just a weather wimp. But the whole thing makes me wonder where in the world I belong.

It Really Sucks

...to get a three-day headache when D is out of town. I got X back and forth to school, only vomiting once. I canceled Pilates and the cleaner. Sue brought over my local headache cure: P Terry burger and a coke. P Terry is an "organic" hamburger drive through. If only they has some wholesome buns. But for the headache cure, pulverized protein, smooshy carbs, and a coke are necessary components. It's not a 100 percent cure, but it did help me make it through the afternoon. Maybe a good night's sleep....HAHAHAHAHAH

Maybe a few hours will help.

It's a Guinea Pig...

...named Misty.

I like her well enough. (Remember Obama to Clinton: You're likable enough.) X loves her. She is warming to X, with little squeaks. I have blocked off the hallway for her playspace. This is a big idea to me. She plays—and poops—in there. Ewww.

X's friend came over yesterday and got scratched by Misty. That's because I don't have the nerve to trim Misty's nails. (Do you suppose I could just take her to the nail salon?) Anyway, minutes later, the girl broke out in mini-hives. I freaked out and monitored her breathing every ten minutes til her mom arrived. Apparently she survived, because I saw her with X today after school.

The care of the piggie (they call them that on the net) was supposed to be X's job only. But I have had my hand in there. In the yucky cage. Because I like her—well enough.

Adventures in Cookie Sales

Encounters with the homeless seem more frequent here in Austin than in San Francisco. Weird, huh?

So yesterday, X and I drove out to the aptly named Slaughter Road. I say aptyly because X wondered aloud about the unpleasant name of the road. Well, there were some cattle still evident in the fields between cheap, windswept developments. All this dotted by oases of gas stations, fast food, supermarkets, drugstores and the occasional Starbucks.

We were out there to meet up with X's Girl Scout troop leader, for a late morning round of cookie sales. The poor young leader had driven out to the Slaughter Road Walgreens (our assigned cookie destination. We are a new troop so I bet we get the worst assignments.) before having her morning coffee. This was an emergency that I could relate to--and handle. So the two set up their table while I made a Starbuck's run.

When I returned, a youngish man wearing a Burger King party hat was hanging around the table, making the girls feel uncomfortable. And not just them. When he approached one couple in the parking lot, the man yelled out, "DON'T TALK TO ME!" I could see why the troop leader wanted me to stay around for a while. But what was I to do?

I led the Burger King man away from the cookie table. After a brief conversation, it became clear he wanted money and attention. (Don't we all?) So I pulled out a five, figuring that would be enough money for him to actually buy something with, so he wouldn't need to hang around asking for more. And from his breath, I knew he'd be needing a swig sometime soon. I told him that I was giving him the money so he would go away and leave the cookie sellers alone. He could see he was making things difficult for them, couldn't he? He rambled on some and asked me for a hug. After a quick "what would Jesus do?" assessment, I gave him one. I really thought about it: if an acquaintance or a family member asked for a hug, I would do it. The ideal is to treat every person like a brother. But ewwwww. I did it anyway.

I then asked him where he was going, reminded him that he had to leave, and walked him to the edge of the parking lot toward the train trestle under which he and his friends had apparently made camp.

I stood around the cookie table for a while, hoping my five dollar investment had worked, and finally drove home. I called the troop leader later and Mr. Burger King had not returned.

I asked X about it later. She said she was "creeped out" and tried not to watch. She admitted that she was prejudiced against him. I said that was fine: I didn't like his aggressive ways and dirty clothes either. And reminded her that, being a child, she shouldn't do any of the stuff I had done. She agreed heartily.