Life on a Layover

Little Prince lived alone on a tiny planet no larger than a house.. . .

The suitcase is empty, but it is not. There in the bottom, a small piece of paper with some writing on it.  I read it and I smile.

The bag's opened up, and some toiletries are spread around the hotel bathroom.  Another day on the road.  I guess the wandering spirit runs in my blood, passed on from my Air Force father to me. Ever since I got a control yoke in my hand I've been wandering across miles of land, across rivers and towns in whatever way I can, be it dromedary-like transport plane, raggedly land rover or swayback mule.

I have an anchor, over time it's been a large house, a small house, it's been simply a suitcase and someone I love.  But when I'm there, I am thoroughly happy, for that anchor, instead of being confinement, is simply the base from which I move, a fulcrum that amplifies the effects of my motion, the beat of my heart.

St. Expurey said, "He who would travel happily must travel light". And so I did, the earliest memories little more than the remembered feel of the starched uniform shirt I wore, the dense oily smell of jet fuel lingering on the tongue like smoke. It seems as if all my early years were reflected in the window of those moving airplanes. I see my reflection, my past, through bug-splattered glass that tinted the world bright.

The airplane, the destination, and the years changed, as did the landscape of my career; however, some things remained the same. Days in an aircraft traveling far. Miles and hours spent watching the landscape, silver grain elevators, red-winged birds, mountains formed of ice and fluid need, and rivers without borders, all blending into a bright diorama of life racing past. The world looks different from above, clouds massive and dark, looming up like a target in a gun sight, looking twice the size of an ordinary man.

I have spent half of my life it seems, on the way to somewhere. I have watched a hundred cumulus clouds erupt, the mass assassination of mayflies, and the disappearance of a slice of cherry pie at a tiny airport diner, and the journey was only beginning.

Each day comes another opportunity for adventure. The ride to the hotel was something to remember, in and of itself. A shuttle service, stopping at several hotels on the way. The driver, sullen and demonstrating why driving was his second language. You know how, when most people drive, particularly professional drivers, they brake by applying increased pressure to the brake pedal, allowing for a smooth stop. Not Mr. Shuttle. The only brake technique he used was to stomp on the brake, let up, let the car roll, and stomp again. It would take four or five of these stomps to equal the force of one normal braking action. No traffic, heavy traffic, it made no difference.

I started to feel like a bobblehead doll, and the $ 25 I saved on a taxi was beginning to look like one of those small decisions that had significant, oversized repercussions. But perhaps I should have been more patient. I suppose it's challenging to concentrate on braking when texting while driving in heavy traffic.

I simply made sure my seatbelt was fastened and then bent down as if into a stiff wind, horns of the impatient exploding into the rain-split asphalt that opened and closed with opportunity. Like all traffic in big cities, we carried on, sharp with speed, and then trickling to a standstill, the road dipping into the fog, like a hand cleaving water, the headlights showing the grey bulk of streams of cars coming down the hill like rain.

When the last guest got off and it was just me, he quit texting and had a series of increasingly heated exchanges in his mother tongue with his dispatcher about how he only got 47 US dollars in fares for this trip, and he wanted to get a number one spot when he got back to the airport. (Actually, sir, you got 68 dollars in fares, one that you did not log and pocketed. I notice things like that.)

The arguing got more heated. I am not fluent in languages. I can listen and relate to small things in a number of languages that come in handy, such as Russian, Chinese, and Farsi, just enough to know when it's a good time to get out of Dodge or when happy hour is almost over.  It comes in handy, the knowing, the looking, I think, as I catch quick glimpses of other drivers in the failing sunlight, faces fixed and grim as they fought to get upstream.

The van driver, still yelling into the phone while almost whacking several people on bicycles,  finally stopped in front of my hotel. I paid him the fare plus a 15 percent tip. He did NOT look happy, expecting much more from the American Redhead in nice clothes.

He muttered something under his breath about what he had to do to get a big tip, and I replied -

Вам надо научиться использовать торможения.

He was still standing there, mouth agape, when I went up to my suite.

But I had arrived. The hotel bulked long and dark against the city sky, but inside was golden warmth, a bite of fresh apple, a much-needed bottle of water. Sitting still for a minute, taking care of the aching neck, and soon it was time to meet my partner for this assignment, while we went over notes for tomorrow's business over a light meal.

After a short walk back to the hotel, my partner making sure I got to my room safely, I made a couple phone calls to loved ones, wanting to let them know I was in and safe. My Dad always worries when I travel, even when I don't tell him where I'm going.  So do friends, and I try to keep in touch. Then I took a long bath in a tub so deep that you could hide a Mastodon in it and slept until 6:30 in the morning. Unfortunately, it was 6:30 in the morning where I wanted to be, not where I was at.

So I got up, made coffee, and watched a stain of light snare itself between steel and rain, spreading until the stain grew light and the light became morning.

By choice or not, travel is part of my life.  But travel brings something to you that people who live in the insular world of their hometown their whole lives may miss. It pushes your boundaries. When you travel, you can become invisible if that is what you choose. I like that. I like to be a quiet observer. Walking alone along the edge of another ocean, as it stretches away into space with its illusion of freedom. Strolling through the celestial hush of a square that has seen generation after generation, the sun glinting off marble where the monotonous rain has washed it bright. What stories would that old building tell, what makes these people who they are?

You don't have to understand the language that is spoken, only the language of the streets, the scents, the stone. Without understanding a word around you, the language becomes simply a musical background for watching the water flow onto the shore or a leaf blowing in the wind, calling nothing from you.

You may have work that takes much of your time, yet still, in this strange place, there are hours open to you.  You don't have a lawn to mow or bills to pay.  There is only life, as simple and inescapable as an empty hallway, where you can leave behind for a moment, the burdens that you freely assume and carry as bright and ambitiously as brass. For this moment, you are simply a creature of choice, free to visit stately buildings, savor a cup of coffee, or simply go watch the trains. You're open, if only for this moment, as a child to receive all of the world, not just your own.

It is all there for the taking, multicolored flowers in bright density, the smell of fresh bread baking, laid out like fabric on the ground, which you pick up and wrap around you, drawing in a breath through the scented cloth. This fabric, this essence of a place, that contains both the dead and the living, the blooms of lush flowers, the decay of a building, the smells that are both the death and the birth of a city. You are a historian, a hunter free to explore, seek, find, and then return home, bringing memories to lay on your doorstep.

From the memories come words.  They may be only in your head, or they may be on paper.  But they tell a story, one composed of past journeys on ancient rails washed clean by wind and rain and tempered by time, written to the mournful sound of a train whistle echoing through ancient memories and newfound dreams.  The words strung out like cars, beyond which wait the world and life, hope unrestrained and incontrovertible.  They recall the memory of it all, moving fast now, wind rushing past like a flood, leaving you breathless.

The suitcase is open on a simple wooden stand. It is empty, but in it there is so much, the smell of crushed sage as I bounced across the desert in a jeep, the wood-smoked burnt woods of autumn, the smell that is untouched ground after a rain, the rich earthy scent of something being lit that had for so long been cold.
Love - Brigid

Brown Bagging It

With Fall here, it's the perfect time to go pick some apples at a local orchard or pick some up at the grocery store.  But this time, when they ask "Paper or plastic," go with the paper, because you're going to bake your pie in it

That's right, baking the pie in a brown paper bag makes a perfect, crunchy yet flaky crust and a perfectly cooked filling —neither too hard nor too mushy.

My husband spent most of Sunday afternoon working out in the yard and flowerbeds before winter, so the least I could do for him was bake him a pie.

To start - my foolproof pie crust. (makes 2, one for now and one to freeze)
4 cups all-purpose flour
1 3/4 cups lard
1 tablespoon sugar
2 teaspoons salt
1 tablespoon vinegar
1 egg
1/2 cup very cold water

--Add flour, shortening, sugar, and salt to a large bowl. Get out your pastry cutter.
Mix flour and shortening with the pastry cutter until it looks nice and crumbly, crumbs should be much small than the size of peas. In a small bowl, whisk together the vinegar, egg, and water.

Add to the flour mixture, stirring until well moistened.

Shape it with clean hands into a ball of pastry dough. (Don’t overhandle.)
Divide the dough into four equal-sized balls.

OK, pie for breakfast

On a lightly floured work surface, roll out 1 disk into a circle about 1/8-inch thick. Keep rolling until the circle is at least 2 inches larger than your pan. Line the pie pan with the dough, letting the edge hang over a bit. Roll the second disk, place it on a sheet pan, and chill it until you're ready to build your pie.

Filling:

5 Granny Smith apples, peeled, cored, and thickly sliced
1/2 cup sugar
1 1/2 tablespoons cornstarch
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 1/2 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into pieces

Equipment: 9-inch aluminum pie pan, 1 medium-sized brown paper bag

Give the Dog a Snack

Make the Filling:

In a medium bowl, toss the apple slices with sugar, cornstarch, lemon juice, vanilla, cinnamon, salt, and nutmeg. Transfer to the pie shell and dot with the butter. Brush the overhanging edges of the dough with water. Carefully cover with the rolled-out top crust, then pinch the edges together and turn them under all around to make a thick edge. To decorate the rim, press it all around with the back of a fork, or just pinch it to seal. With a knife, cut a couple of small V's in the top crust.

Slide the pie into the brown paper bag and fold the top down. Staple the bag shut and place it on a sheet pan. Bake  in a preheated 425 F. oven for 1 hour (check at 50 minutes).

Let the pie cool at least 30 minutes before serving. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Autumn Play

It's getting darker earlier and earlier, so Sunny and Napoleon have been having their play dates as soon as Nap's Mom gets home from school (she works with autistic children).  They don't let the waning light and the cooler temperatures slow them down.  Let's Play!

The Grills of Summer

As summer says goodbye, and Fall starts making that "let's just be friends" speech, it's time to think about one last grill. It's dipped down in the 40s at night this last week, so it was a "now or next summer" kind of moment.

First, I made some buns - well, not exactly buns.  I had no yeast, no eggs, and no milk, as my husband had been on the road on a long trip and I had used up what I had, and hadn't needed to make a trip to the store (or the fence to trade the neighbors some bread for eggs from their chickens).

I had flour, butter, and Kefir (fermented milk found in the yogurt aisle) and honey. These turned out great - sturdy enough for the burger, but with a texture that was tender and biscuit-like, soaking up all the burger juices. Plus, they took 5 minutes to get into the oven. The leftovers will be frozen to be a base for stew in the coming weeks

No yeast "Buncuits" (a cross between a biscuit and a hamburger bun)
In one bowl, mix:
3 and 1/2 cups flour
4 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt

In another bowl mix:
1 and 1/2 cups kefir (fermented milk drink) or plain yogurt

1 stick butter, softened until starting to melt 

3 Tablespoons wild honey

Combine wet and dry and stir until it holds together. Place on a floured board and knead 12-14 times, adding flour as necessary to keep it from being too sticky. This is more than you'd knead biscuits but LESS than bread. You don't want it so smooth and elastic that you have a hockey puck when you are done. Make six small balls out of the dough. Knead the dough in your hands, form it into a ball, and place it on a greased baking sheet. Flatten slightly. Bake in a 375°F preheated oven for 17-20 minutes. The top will NOT get brown, but the bottom will. Check for doneness with a toothpick.

 Then, it was time to light the briquettes.

 The rest, they say, is history.

Bison burger with Worcestershire and maple bacon seasoning, sharp cheddar, and garlic mayo on the tender "buncuit".  It was worth it.

ARE YOU GOING TO EAT THAT?

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It's that time of year for the Fall school picture. . .

I don't WANT my picture taken.

Seriously, do I look interested?

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Freedom's Ride

They say only the young have rash moments. You know those times when the laws of physics are still something to be learned about years later in university. Times when your mom is busy in the kitchen, your dad is at work, and you are left to your own devices.

With my big brother, we cut a swath through our parents' patience. There was the time we took the TV apart, literally, when we were 12 years old. Mom was still amazed we didn't electrocute ourselves as she surveyed the CRT, flyback transformer, demodulator, and filters scattered across her clean floor. It was worth the grounding (literally and figuratively). Then, the less physically risky, though not without its own penance. Mom and Dad had an electric blanket with dual controls, something NEW. We reconfigured it so Mom's control operated Dad's side, and vice versa. Mom woke up, "I'm freezing!" and cranked up the heat. Then Dad would say, "I'm hot!" and would crank his side down. It took them two nights to figure it out. Grounded again.

The world was ours to take, living as we did at that age, in advance of adulthood, when life knows no pauses and has no fear of what the future brings. I'm not sure when it changed. Mom's cancer was turning terminal, the splash of cold water against the bow of our lives, her death in her late 50s, that shadow line that marked the official end of that unfettered road.

I can't say I didn't do anything rash again; every fork in the road has its own seduction, but everything was tinged with the mark of mortality, the portent of possible loss. If you don't love hard, you won't be hurt, you think, reconciling yourself to the life of a gregarious loner.

40-some years later, with as many lessons of loss etched on my heart as there were marks in my logbook, I embarked on what was the rashest decision of all. A tattoo? You say. No. A change of job, residence, or last name? Certainly not. No, it was a decision made one night, Lorelei, our last rescue, having been diagnosed with an aggressive soft tissue sarcoma. We took her to the best Veterinary oncologist in all of Chicagoland, whatever the expense. They went in to see what could be done, but it was inoperable; she wouldn't have survived any attempt to remove the embedded mass. While she waited to come out of recovery, a dash was made to a local thrift store to obtain an extra-soft baby blanket, which would provide her with some extra warmth and comfort on the long drive home.

We took her home to make her remaining days as joyful and pain-free as possible, when the notice came in from the Rescue group that we had adopted her from. They had a young yellow Lab with an orthopedic defect that might need the "doggie elevator" my husband had made for Lorelei. Honey Bee was her American Kennel Club name. She was 10 months old, from an Amish Breeder who had released her when it became apparent she couldn't be sold due to markedly bowed front legs. Poor nutrition? Genetics? Growing up in a small pen for 10 months in a barn?" We don't know, and didn't ask; all we knew was they had the good hearts to take her some distance to a well-known rescue that would find her the right home.

So, with a thumbs up from EJ (who, honestly, would probably say yes if I asked to buy a tank), we brought her home. A PUPPY. What was I thinking? I'm 66 years old, still working, and I've now got an overgrown puppy with NO training, NO socialization, and the urgent energy of a 40-pound Velociraptor on Crack (with puppy teeth to match). Add in a husband who can be on the road 2-3 weeks a month, and there was a moment I almost called and said, "wait, I change my mind", but like that moment when that first labor pain starts, there's no calling it off.

Her first night was great; she had some cuddle time with Lorelei and her new mom and dad, and then slept next to EJ as he lay on the futon beside her. As he waved to leave for work the next morning, I thought, "I can do this!"

It was the calm before the storm. I likened it to those long, late flights overseas, when storms were forecast but not yet visible, the engines humming in a drowsy sky, senses alert but not fully engaged in the fatigue. On such nights, the few stars above cast their touch upon our aircraft, shafts of light penetrating a sky that was turning from clear to the blackened soot of nearby fire. The massed clouds all around would have had a singular significance of effect, had we been able to see them ahead. But the aircraft's radar was not yet painting any threat. You sensed it was there, but with no hint of the direction from which it would come, the nearing of a menace, feeling like it was coming from all and every direction. Then that first spray would hit the window as your radar screen lit up with what looked like the big red dot on a 7-Up beverage can.

I remember the first sharp expression of small puppy teeth in my flank; she had discovered that people have bottoms, and they are biteable. Ouch! It really didn't hurt that bad through my jeans, but the surprise came out in my voice, and she thought it was a game. The next thing I knew, she was running and jumping off the recliner, launching herself at the couch like one of the Flying Wallendas, knocking over a plant in the process, while Lorelei looked on, taking notes.

The typhoon had arrived, and I named her "Sunny."  Phonetically, it was close enough she responded immediately, yet avoiding the whole standing out on the porch at 6 am shouting at her in the yard while EJ loaded up his car for work, "Honey, NO, not the rabbit poop" or "Honey, NO! NO, don't lick that!" The neighbors would be calling the authorities (or the local sanitarium).

Lorelei was overjoyed to have a friend, and Sunny played with her surprisingly gently, then lay protectively nearby when Lorelei slept frequently in those last weeks with us. Bittersweet scenes to view, as it was impossible to see without that sense of unavoidable finality. The quietness as they slept came over me like a forecast of abrogation, that pause before the heart ceases to beat like a rundown timepiece.

The coming months were marked by continued mayhem, including stolen tools and shoes, shredded rolls of paper towels taken from the counter, as well as one late-night trip to the Vet when a dew claw was torn in the Zoomie to end all Zoomies. There were laughs, tears, and many days I would have gladly dispensed myself of the regrettable opportunity of "guess what gross thing I have in my mouth, Mom?"

We had a local dog walker who came by as needed, especially when we were working, playing with her, and teaching her the skills we were slowly building with her daily. But I'd still come home, approaching her crate like it was the den of some wild beast, with bravery but some bluster. I'd open the door while singing the notes of "Ride of the Valkyries", and our evening would commence, measured not in hours but by the kinetic energy of flying fur.

But, as with any storm, the skies clear, the winds calm, at least in the land of Puppy-Ville. It was during those last weeks before retirement that we faced one of our largest challenges, both intellectually and emotionally, on the job in several years. The loss of life was immense, the senselessness of it all, a bitter taste on my tongue as I worked late into the night. I'd learned long ago, my first official assignment after the earth shook in Pennsylvania on 9-11, that there was no point in asking "Death, where is thy sting?" as you stand before a vast, smoking hole in the ground. The images that day, 24 years ago, pursued me home, making sleep impossible without a strong shot of Single Malt.

But having put that bottle away years ago, I learned to take comfort as the shadows gathered again, with the little things of joy I had around me. In those last weeks, badge still in my pocket, regret in my fingers, I learned to appreciate the simple pleasure of a young dog. For she was once as I was, living in advance of an end she will not fear coming, because she doesn't conceive of its existence, that beautiful continuity of joy that knows no limits and no introspection.

I wouldn't have traded this decision for anything. - Brigid