A Tasty Summer Treat

Contrary to what you may think because of my lack of posting in the last few months, life has not stopped dead in its tracks as my blogging has. This is the balancing act that I can't juggle well, in fact, that I struggle with: how to continue full force through each sunrise to sunset, fully attentive to every moment and then attempt to stop, retrace, and pick a particularly poignant part of my day to reflect upon. Lately there have been many and stopping to write feels like a chore. I don't want to diminish the effect of the memory, try to recreate the laughter, colors, views and turn it into work. But then what I forget is the beauty of the words. They exist forever. I can always go back and experience vividly a moment of sheer delight by simply reading my own thoughts on paper. I need to write to create those treasures I can pull out of my diary or computer when the rains of a Northwest winter return and I forget how we danced in the dust of summer. Or when it's dark in December I can reminisce through written reflection on the brightness of early morning sun while drinking coffee on my deck--how everything felt like it would fade before August's end because of the sun's rays sucking the moisture out of green grass, golden wood, and bleaching colors out of the plastic bubble wand laid to rest in the yard.

Honestly, I don't expect myself to record it all I would miss too much. I mentally take stock of an instant and cross my fingers I won't forget. There have been many wonderful moments in the last months. A trip to the horse races in Seattle with my Mom Phoebe's graduation, recital, swim meets. A week on Terrapin, Hunter's visit to University of Utah, Sailor's birthday extravaganza, and first round of swimming lessons. String Summit, our yearly camping/music festival. Picking plenty from the garden, and dinners with friends. I have a slide show running through my head of snapshots that are some of my favorite and these have not necessarily made it to film. Most recent is a fleeting minute yesterday that made me close my eyes, try to imprint what I saw through my eyes as best I could on my brain, and then spit it out with laugh from deep my heart.

Sailor had our two neighbor girls, ages 5 and 3, over an

d they were playing in an area of the yard not visible to me while I chatted with a friend. It was 90 something degrees and early evening and we were all sweaty and tired, my hair was a messy bouquet perched high on my head to keep it from curling tighter from dampness around my neck. When I turned the corner of the house I saw what to

me is the essence of being four. Sailor was stark naked from the waist up. Her delicious, creamy white skin on her belly shockingly bright in the fading light. Covering her bottom half was the largest tutu imaginable for her size bursting out from just below her waist while streams of pale pink, purple, yellow and blue tulle cascaded down to her ankles to reveal her pudgy toes peeking out from underneath the giant shade. When I called her name she turned, ruffling the tutu in the warm breeze and exposing her gorgeous self she squeaked with delight, "We're dressing up!" and there all three of them were, princesses grinning from ear to ear, lost in an imaginary fairy land leaving the rest of us behind. Now that's what I call a summer treat.

Morning Run

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Rubber soles meeting asphalt on a quiet morning run. The rain has subsided for a moment and a cool, light breeze occasionally blows pleasing my sweaty face as I lift it to fill my lungs with another long breath of crisp, earthy Oregon air. Thwap. Thwap. My soles grind then displace a few of the small pebbles below my pounding feet. Breathe. There, around the back of that tree, a robin watches me go by unaltered in its quest for whatever lurks near the trunk of the stoic oak he quietly hides behind. Birds move in such quick, jerky motion and with purpose but cautious nevertheless. I, however, thwap, thwap, thwap. Slow, steady, and strive to reach the state of consciousness where I am purely thoughtful and less aware of the legs attached to my body. The soreness in my knees, the oddness of my gait, the weight upon my feet, the quickness of my breath. I’m almost there, rising to meet nature on a meaningful level of awareness. Feeling better, like all of the old air is flushed out and the new brought in. Smells like the forest, of dirt and pine needles. Everything is bright even though it is overcast. More spright sparrows searching for worms watching me from afar.

I look down at my companion, Maggie. The jingle of her collar reminds me of her presence. No complaints, steady jog, happy dog. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. I listen carefully now to birds chirping and even hear a rooster crow over the streaming bluegrass music turned low, spilling into my psyche from minuscule speakers plugged into the bend of my ear canals. It's a perfect combination: banjo, guitar, mandolin, and...breathe in. I take in another mouthful of tasty, moist air. I turn my head in all directions for a full view of the valley I live in. Lush. Vibrant green, endless fields of fertile soil absorbing the misty rain and reaching, reaching for any light available.

A breeze blows, curling the leafy crops in one direction, then the other. I can hear the wind travel from a distance, over the grassy fields, then meet my structure, and continue beyond. I hear a car in the distance behind me, approaching fast. We guide ourselves into the muddy shoulder, enjoying the added cushioning provided by the saturated ground, a relief from the unforgiving road that throws all of our force immediately back at us. Misty rain begins to fall, the droplets hold on to my face, my sunglasses for a moment, then drip to rest on the gravel below. They provide the ideal relief for my salty, glowing skin. A natural cleansing.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Now beginning a hill. Focus, push through. Keep breathing. I thrust open my chest, pull my shoulders back and lift my head then visualize filling my lungs. Don’t stop. Make it to the top, slow your pace. Think beyond, find a thought to take me to the end. Jingle. Jingle. How's Maggie? I glance, following the red leash from where it loosely sits in my hand down to the white, shaggy Westie dashing across the ground. She is keeping up. Clearly, she is tired but determined to continue despite the weight of her twelve-pound frame burdening her four short legs and tiny paws. I need her tenacity to push me onward. Her tongue is out, she looks at me with no emotion now, just focused. Click, click, click, click her bare feet scrape the pavement. Off in the distance across the field, I hear the "moo" of a lonely cow.

Finally, we’ve made it past the crest and I slow down. Time to breathe. Time for Maggie to breathe. Our walk morphed into a run we both embraced. Here comes the sun, hazy behind a light grey cloud. The blood is rushing throughout my body in a happy dance of renewal. I feel exhilarated. We walk now, more like prance, to cool down. Ah, Maggie spots a grey squirrel. She pulls the leash taut then whines as she follows the busy-tailed creature's every move. It scampers up a tree, then across a telephone wire. We both watch intently as it maneuvers itself with its fate in flux. Maggie retreats, not defeated but realizes the grey squirrel is out of her reach and brings her attention back to the sidewalk. The squirrel waits until we've passed underneath, then continues on its narrow path across the street.

Suddenly, the red trim of the house appears on the horizon. I smile. Maggie's step quickens. Comfort comes to mind. Dry, warmth, drinking water. The rain has subsided and someone nearby just started their mower. Another deep breath before I open the gate and release Maggie to find her bed inside and relax. This spring day in a quiet country town, alive with nature, bursting with color and new life has now officially begun.

Phoebe for President

This week voters in Oregon are casting their ballots not only for the governor primary candidates but Mt. Angel teens are choosing next year's freshman class president at Kennedy High School. Phoebe decided to run for the leadership position and her preparations have been underway all week including the necessary campaign procedures: designing posters and speech writing. No propaganda-filled newspaper ads, phone calls, or television appearances. She's making her first run at politics based on just who Phoebe is as a person. Au natural.

I, of course, would vote for Phoebe but decided I would list all of the reasons she would make a perfect candidate for the position.

Phoebe's work ethic is this: give whatever you have to do everything you've got, then enjoy yourself as a reward for accomplishing your goals.

Her passion about an issue directly leads her to be proactive about it. She believes in herself and the causes she is behind. She will fight until the bitter end (believe me, I know this first hand).

She is thoughtful about everyone and NEVER manipulative.

She makes good choices, period.

She can debate and defend her position on a subject better than most adults. I was blown away at the argument she presented the other day while trying to convince me to allow her to have texting as an option on her phone. She even got into my psyche and told me how I was thinking (and of course, how it was wrong). I had to admit, she came at me from many convincing angles but Mom held her ground.

She likes to learn and is a good listener.

She cares. Better yet, she loves from her heart but keeps herself well protected from being hurt.

She is honest, reliable, funny and if you're lucky-enough--a true friend.

Plus, of course. She is smart, witty, loves good music (and is talented), and just plain adorable.

Phoebe used these lines from John Lennon in her speech, "A dream you dream alone is only a dream. A dream you dream together is reality." When Phoebe was little we used to say, "In Phoebe's-World.....(everything is seen in technicolor, money grows on trees, pajamas are worn all the time, people hoola-hoop all day, etc.)". But in Phoebe's grown-up world today, everybody deserves a chance to achieve their goals and she is leader who can help her peers get a little closer to reaching them.

So, vote for Phoebe Mt. Angel Middle School 8th graders! And if the rest of you want to cast your vote or add a comment please do it by becoming a 'Jen's Friend' here on Straight from Hill, Facebook Phoebe, or send an e-mail to hills@terrapintrips.com. May the best candidate win!

Bury Me in My Prom Dress

The sun broke through the early-morning clouds two Saturdays ago providing the perfect spring day for Prom 2010. While it felt fairly ordinary to the rest of the family, Hunter was cheery and clearly looking forward to an evening out with "his girl"(as Sailor puts it), Julia. His plans were set: pictures, then driving into Salem to eat at Bentley's, then prom and an after-party/bonfire.

The previous week had been eventful. The tasks included going to measure for and pick out the tux, order the corsage, and figure out transportation. Phoebe and I spent an entire day with Julia talking endlessly about color and dresses, shoes and accessories. At one point, I remembered that tucked away deep in one of my closets I still had my prom dress. "No WAY!!" Julia and Phoebe said in unison, "Go get it! We want to see!" Rod said, " "Wow, why would you keep something like THAT?" Clearly, he had never thought twice about his nights at prom while I remembered details like it was yesterday. I was excited to finally have a reason to pull it out and show it off.

The build-up before my own prom had been four years in the making. At the all-girls Catholic school I went to, we hosted only a senior prom so students had the opportunity to go to the elegant event only once. My prom was at the Renaissance Center in Detroit which at that time had recently been built and was a hot Motor City attraction. I had a boyfriend, but things were fizzling out and I was much more interested in having a terrific evening with my best girlfriends. My dress was simple, big surprise, but elegant. It was a white, spaghetti strap dress with an empire waist, a tiered, ruffled skirt , and was finished with a pink bow that tied in front. We had a memorable night, and wrapped things up with a breakfast party at a friend's house. Then the dress went to rest under a plastic bag for 26 (can that be right?) years.

I brought the precious item out from the plastic grave it was hidden in. There it was, complete with champagne spills still in tact and a ratty ribbon that hung lifeless like it hadn't had air for, well, 20 years. Julia said, "It's really not that bad." Phoebe just said, "Ewwwww!" Hunter shook his head, looked sweetly at me with that, "Oh, Mom why do you have to be so sensitive?" look and a warm smile. It was then that Rod had an epiphany. He realized when I revealed the attire from my past that prom is a major event for the girl, maybe not as much for the boy. In fact, he couldn't even remember who he went to prom with!

As the days neared Prom 2010, I witnessed Hunter rolling his eyes whenever we'd start talking about times and places, flowers and pictures, parties and cars. He had no patience for the repeated discussions about the same issues over and over. So, Rod sat Hunter down, explained how important this was ("I mean, look, Hunter, your mother saved this dress this entire time!") and from that point forward, Hunter didn't complain one bit about the attention that was being given to the details and planning for one night.

The well-dressed couple had a wonderful night. We rented a luxury car to shuffle Hunter and Julia to and from Salem where prom was held, and they agreed to let Rod be the chauffeur in order to satisfy our concerns of being safe for the big night. Dressed in black from head to foot, Rod looked like he was straight out of a mob movie when he opened the doors and guided his son and date into the fancy Cadillac SUV. They rode in a caravan behind the Hummer limo rented by ten other Mt. Angel couples and by the end of the night Rod and the other chauffeur were sharing driving info. Too funny. I think Rod has a future behind the wheel in retirement, don't you?

So, while saving that prom dress for a special occasion was self-indulgent and a bit out of the ordinary, it provided about five minutes of laughter and then went back under the plastic bag that survived years of neglect and multiple moves. Maybe when it's Phoebe's turn for prom I'll bring it out of the closet again. I'm not so sure the threads on the dress can hold out until Sailor hits 16. When Rod and I chuckled about it later he asked, "What are you going to do with it now?" I said, "Bury me in my prom dress." At least it has a purpose for hanging around. Of course, I had to ask Julia to at least think about keeping hers. Now, what should I do with my wedding gown?

Oceans Emotions

Yesterday, I cried quietly watching a film in a nearly empty theatre. I was positioned in a high-back, comfy seat with Sailor perched at the edge of her cushion on my right and my Mom on the left. The giant screen over us flashed beautiful scenery, shocking moments of disbelief, and touching love scenes. But you won't see any of the featured actors and actresses marching the red carpet or pictured on the cover of grocery store tabloids anytime soon.

You might be wondering if it was a "chick flick", a true story drama, or an adventure film but it was none of the sort. The film we saw was Oceans, a Disney Nature film that was released in celebration of Earth Day. Please go see it, if you haven't yet. The footage under the mass of blue water that most of us see from shore of unusual sea life, majestic whales, hilarious penguins, acrobatic dolphins, fighting crabs, adorable sea otters provided entertainment better than any dramatic film I've seen recently.

I was giddy with excitement when I told others about memorable scenes much more so than when I saw Brad Pitt for the first time in Thelma and Louise. I realize it is because this was the first time I have seen non-mammal, undersea life act with sense, determination, and skill. Watching crusteaceans like shrimp, lobsters and crab search for food and protect their shelter with purpose was phenomenal. I had always thought they were less able to reason, more reactive then active. Clearly, I was wrong.

It was such a positive feeling to know that there are places in the ocean that are untouched by human hands. I felt a twinge of jealousy while watching the dolphins flip, chase, play, and feed in their great blue world. How wonderful to live life in the moment, letting nature take its course and do what you need to do only when you need to do it. And what an incredible playground they have!

I remember as a child bawling through scenes in Benji, Bambi, The Black Stallion and later through Seabiscuit and Free Willy. Animals, just by their nature of being innocent and unable to speak to humans, instantly capture my heart whenever featured on film. I've always been curious about their thoughts and as I child I absorbed books about gorillas and chimpanzees, filled my room with stuffed creatures, watched Wild Kingdom religiously, and dreamed about a future writing for National Geographic or as a veterinarian.

So, then, why was I crying this time ? It was the sheer beauty of massive whales breaking through the blue to show all their glory as they breeched near feeding grounds that brought the lump in my throat. The sweetness of a mother sea lion urging her calf into the water to teach it to swim caused the warm, salty droplets to roll down from my eyes and rest into the creases of my mouth. My tears left tracks, too, because I remember dearly days and amazing nights I spent sailing on the ocean, rocking up and down with each wave gazing at the horizon and discovering the beauty of silence. I miss the serenity, the closeness to nature that just being there among whales and dolphins provides. And finally, I wept because I did not hold true to the vision of myself that I had while dreaming as an adolescent.

Now when I watch the purposeful actions of wild animals, I can't help but contemplate human behavior--everything from family relationships to large socio-economic and environmental issues. Frankly, we humans have screwed up. We have selfishly thrown garbage and poisonous waste into the ocean thinking that it just goes away. But we've been dumping

in someone else's environment. Creatures whose life is centered on survival. We have threatened species and created a massive heap of trash in the Pacific. Dead dolphins, whales, and seals are discarded everyday from massive fishing nets belonging to humans trying to make a living. And here we are faced with another oil spill, larger than the last. Pierce Brosnan in the voiceover during the movie said, "The cries (for help) of the endangered species may never be heard." Those are the biggest reasons I had to reach for a tattered kleenex from my pocket to wipe my wet face. I felt responsible for these actions. How do I justify these horrific actions to the little girl in my past who loved animals so much?

Oceans doesn't dwell on punishing us. The movie tactfully mentions threatened species and touches on pollution in the sea, but more importantly shows what exists for us to preserve. What beauty there is that we need to take action to protect. The film felt motivating in an organic way, not in a stuffy, "green" marketing manner but through giving us a vision into the world that lies beneath us and surrounds us. It is our responsibility to take care of not only ourselves, but the gift of the earth that we are blessed to dwell upon and those that we share it with. It is, for lack of a better term, human nature that gives us compassion. So listen to your heart and take care. Because that's what we're supposed to do.

In Perfect Harmony

A Visit with Jerry

"I'm a writer," I said to the deep, fast-talking voice on the other end of the telephone line. "Of what?", the man asked, obviously curious. I blurted immediately back at the nosey stranger, "of non-fiction." It was mid-morning on a Wednesday and I decided to answer the multiple post-card requests from my high school (Our Lady of Mercy) alumni association to call and update personal information. The man assigned to my call asked basic questions to summarize my life since the '80s and we had finally landed on the details of my present-day endeavors. "It's true," I smiled and thought to myself. In three words I successfully put an answer in all of the long blank lines I will face after the question "employment"on applications and questionnaires in my future.

The voice on the other end of the line belonged to a guy named Jerry Garcia, believe it or not. He was gathering my details to put into a book the publishing company plans to sell to Mercy graduates who have the desire to read about their fellow classmates' lives. "Oh, that's cool," Jerry said when I revealed my profession. I smiled at myself thinking he's going to say "groovy" in his next breath. But he didn't have a chance. I eagerly jumped in. It was my turn to be the interrogator and I just had to ask, "Is Jerry Garcia really your name?" He chuckled an almost perfect replica of the real Garcia's raspy smoker's rolling giggle with a "Yep," hidden in there somewhere adding that he, like the original, was from the same generation and from southern California. We plowed through his lists of questions while I imagined Jerry's bouncing wild, grey curls, round glasses and wide, bearded face taking notes about my life on his computer.

Towards the end of our conversation, he tried to sell me the "Facebook book" of all the alumni of my high school in hard or soft cover. I declined and he eventually respected my choice. I didn't really have to explain that high school was a long time ago and I didn't feel the need to share my personal history or read about anyone else's. After all, as the real Jerry once sang, "There is a road, no simple highway, between the dawn and the dark of night, and if you go, no one may follow, that path is for your steps alone.”

"Thanks, Jerry, " I said like I'd been wanting to say that all of my life, wearing a self-proclaimed hippie grin from ear to ear as I hung up the phone. The conversation was a pleasant, surreal surprise and I did appreciate the uncanny connection with the name behind one of my musical faves. Not to mention the music that since this encounter has been streaming through my head. Was he really named Jerry? Was it his way of remaining anonymous? Was he using this name as a marketing tool to make me talk? How many Jerry Garcia's are there in the world? I don't know, and it really doesn't matter. He made my Wednesday. So, if that's ever me making calls on the other line......I'm Amelia Earhart. Who are you?

The Return Home

The return home from a weekend away, a long journey or any extended stay somewhere else is in itself an enlightening experience. There is the anticipation, the buildup of emotion before you pull up and view the place you live from the street. It starts days before you depart your vacation spot to venture back to your routine existence. You wonder, “What will it feel like to get home?” I have found this question to be answered with varied responses each time I go somewhere often depending on where I live, what things were like when I left, and what I have to do when I get back to my real life.

I grew up in Michigan and remember most of my travels once I was in my teens to involve flying. I spent summers in Connecticut and school breaks in Florida. These states offered an escape from my immediate family to experience extended family and friends in a drastically different environment. I would return to Detroit Metro Airport from the sky, peering out my window at the grey, smoggy blanket over the city and think, “Why would someone want to live HERE?” Through my eyes I saw a concrete mess of dirty houses, smokestacks, depressing city scenes surrounded by flat farmland and strip malls. I couldn’t wait for an opportunity to leave the ugly suburbs for a life I imagined somewhere else near mountains or oceans, anything more exciting than concrete and cars. Yet, I continued to live in Michigan through college, and some years of work grounded by relationships of love that overpowered my desire to leave. “Some day, I thought, someday I will go.”

“Someday” came after I married Rod and we jam-packed our apartment and two dogs into a Volkswagen Jetta and moving truck to head to Utah for his graduate school opportunity. I’ll never forget entering Salt Lake City through the mountain pass and viewing the peek-a-boo scene of the valley as we traveled through the curvy highway to the valley floor. “This is home,” I thought to myself even though there was no one there I knew and no place for us to live. Fortunately, Rod felt the same way. We adventured locally while living in Salt Lake and Park City, there was so much to see and do in the mountains, every weekend provided a getaway. But when we did fly somewhere for a wedding, reunion, or funeral we couldn’t wait to get home. We were comfortable there and enjoyed our environment as well as the log home we eventually built in the mountains. I worked, he studied and we met at home where we truly felt like we escaped the chaos of Salt Lake City.

It took me a long time to acclimate to Oregon when we moved in 1996. I loved the high desert--the sun, the endless recreation, and everything about the puffy snow, except shoveling it, of course. When I went driving looking for a place for us to settle in this state I was se

arching for small town living and found it one day on a rainy afternoon drive in the spring through the Willamette Valley with a sleeping three-year old and ten month old baby in the car. Hunter and Phoebe would grow to know Silverton as their home while the neighborhood would watch our young family mature through life’s adventures. We drove to Mexico twice in our camper van, traveled to visit family in the midwest, drove to our favorite hideaways in British Columbia, and took multiple weekend and extended summer trips on our boat, Terrapin. Each time returning to the house we all loved with that feeling of relief once we rounded the corner on Welch St. and saw the greenish Victorian farmhouse standing right where we left it waiting patiently for its busy residents to occupy its rooms once more. So much of our young married life was enjoyed with holiday celebrations, birthday parties, halloween get-togethers in this century old landmark which I am sure my kids will remember as “the house they grew up in” . It was undoubtedly difficult to sell it when we left for an extended sailing trip in 2005 but we were moving on to Terrapin, to be our home for a year of life away from the familiar.

Surprisingly, the boat proved to be just as cozy and comforting, in some ways more so, than a house of many rooms. Each stroll down the dock to return to her Terrapin, whether in La Paz, Mexico, or in Molokai, Hawaii, brought the same feeling of “I’m home” that we had experienced on land. Our feet might be tired from walking to the store, or we’d be wet from a dingy ride back to the anchorage where she sat but once we climbed aboard, fired up the stereo with our favorite songs and relaxed in Terrapin’s wooden belly we felt very much at home. Her dark-green hull rests beautifully in the water and we were so proud to be the ones to claim her our own that we repeatedly invited others over to share our space. We had become confident in her ability to care for us in long ocean crossings, and that had made her, well, part of the family.

Now we are at rest in Mt. Angel and our family just returned from Spring Break 2010. We spent the week at Black Butte Ranch in the high-desert mountains of the Cascades in Oregon. It was a relaxing retreat for all of us including golf, swimming, snowboarding and quality time together in sun and snow. And as the week came to close I started thinking about our return. What emotion would be stirred up as I approached our tiny town? How would I feel when opening the front door? We arrived Sunday in the midst of pouring down rain. And while I was excited at thought of climbing into my own bed and relishing a good nights sleep, there was a hint of sadness when I turned knob and walked in the back door. "Goodbye," I thought as everyone retreated to their rooms exhausted, "see you next time."

Being home here with two teenagers means life away from each other because of busy schedules. When our family is apart naturally I worry about the well-being of my kids and as we all grow older I realize our time together as a family is limited. Happy memories in this house are mixed with tumultuous teenage crisis and mid-life dramas that continue to invade these walls. While our home is quiet, spacious, and charming it means less when the people who I care about aren’t here. So really, what I anticipated as I pulled into the driveway was the future in this house and that provided some thoughtful insight to the present. It’s interesting how perspective on the past or foresight into what lies ahead is often more pleasant and enchanting than the reality of today.

Two of my very close friends, whom I consider family, spent their spring break exploring new territory to settle with their families in states far from the Willamette Valley. They have the itch to move on to another place as they write the next chapters of their life. I wholeheartedly understand their need to start a new adventure and we will dearly miss them when they leave. Our house will be less of a home without their faces here to help fill our photo albums and memory banks. Thank you for sharing your life with ours for the last few years. This Irish blessing my Dad often quoted seems so appropriate here,

"May the road rise to meet you,

May the wind be always at your back,

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

May the rains fall soft upon your fields,

And, until we meet again,

May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.”--Anonymous

The Hill House of Style

This morning I was gifted a genuine moment of true "mommy" laughter in our family's otherwise typical daily routine. I stopped dead in my tracks and instantly recognized how our average bustling household is by nature full of diversity and sometimes polar opposites. Toddler, teen. Boy, girl. Sensitive, strong. Upbeat, cranky. A combination of all of these are stirred into the soup of our everyday life.

I walk past two bathrooms on the route from my bedroom to the kitchen and today each was occupied simultaneously with the doors open and a teenage Hill inside. In one, thirteen-year old Phoebe was carefully leaning over the sink putting on mascara one detailed stroke after another. (By the way, she is skilled much beyond my own ability in this area.) Confident and secure she also made the last adjustments to her freshly straightened hair and overall “look” of the day which on this particular morning was 'casual-hip'. “Who are you looking so good for Phoebe?” I asked in a teasing tone secretly hoping she might reveal to me an admirer or crush, “The eighth-grade boys?” We started to laugh in unison while she shook her head and said, “NOT”.

I continued on my way downstairs, passing the other bathroom with the door wide open where sixteen-year old Hunter was putting the finishing touches on his “look” of the day. I would label it 'urban punk'. He was fiddling with his flat-brimmed black and red baseball cap while placing his headphones over the top of it and onto his ears. That’s when I couldn’t hold it in. Many of you readers may know the book by Robert Munsch, I’ll love you Forever? "Here it is", I thought to myself. "It is him, in the flesh!" The children's book is the heart-warming tale of a baby boy who matures into toddlerhood, progresses through adolescence, then his teen years, and eventually moves away on his own. Through each of these phases of life, despite the fact that the boy gets bigger than she, his mother holds and sings to him assuring her son that he will always be her boy. Until she is very old and the boy becomes a man and reciprocates her lifetime of love by holding his sick mother in his arms and singing to her. He also begins the same singing ritual with his own child. The story never fails to make my voice crackle with emotion when I reach the ending when reading out loud. But today, I laughed. It was the vision of my own son in the mirror that struck me so funny. Hunter had grown out of the boy of the story and there, in his reflection in the mirror I saw the teen that “belongs in the Zoo” according to Musch. I chuckled to myself recognizing this milestone of life as well as the dichotomies in our living arrangement. 'Casual-hip' and 'urban-punk' just starting another day while making mine. Everyone left for school together, relatively satisfied with how they appeared to the rest of the world.

Alas, there is three-year old Sailor who won't stop for a second to fuss in front of a mirror but has proven consistently she is undoubtedly comfortable in her own skin. One afternoon while she was immersed in an afternoon of dress-up and imaginary play, the doorbell rang. A neighborhood high-school aged Boy Scout was collecting checks for his troop's most recent fundraiser. Sailor jumped up at the "ding-dong" as if poked by an electric stun gun and answered the door completely naked. Casual but prompt, she said, "Hi" and looked up at the boy as if everything was hunky-dorey. Now, while most mothers would find this toddler with no tan lines and rosy cheeks adorable, our visitor was not as enthralled. When I walked in seconds later, the embarrassed teen was bright-red and holding his hand flat over his eyes making every effort to avoid looking at the baby in the birthday suit standing before him. She was blurting questions at him one after the other like, "What is your name?" "Do you know Hunter?", "My Mom is here. Do you want to see my dollhouse?" I burst out laughing when I walked to the front of the house to see the commotion but quickly apologized once I saw the horror on his face and finally got eye contact with him. Sailor looked up at both of us confused. Let's call her style 'beautifully bare'. And oh, she gets that from her father.

It's nice to have a household filled with unexpected joys. I can't wait for tomorrow.

A Taste of the Sweet Life

I am working with a writing teacher at the local community college here in Salem, Oregon. Here is a sampling of my first assignment which was to write about a turning point in my life.

I opened the shiny gold, foil wrapper carefully as to not break the precious contents. Creamy, chocolate bliss with a dreamy caramel center formed in a perfect square. I was attempting to teach Rod, my husband, the art of slowly appreciating the fine flavor packed in a Ghirardelli chocolate that often brings joy to my afternoons when I stop to enjoy one square on hectic days. Slowly being the key word. “Don’t chew,” I said. “Just let it sit and your mouth and let the flavor come to you. Wait patiently while it melts and it is an entirely different experience.”

Our kids, Hunter, eleven years old, and Phoebe, nine, watched me coach, giggling under their breath to each other knowing darn well how their Dad loves to inhale a sweet treat. We were perched in the small cockpit of our 36-foot sailboat, Terrapin. A large wooden steering wheel sits at the center of our seating arrangement and we nestled together around it in the chilly, saltwater air as Rod held us on course. It is Friday, December 16, 2004, and the late sun is making our faces radiate an earthy clay hue from reflections off the water and sails.

Typically, Rod eats candy impatiently; immediately munching the sugary morsel so his teeth can get right to the business of demolishing it. I was hoping to help him savor the moment, to take a chocolate break as I had a hundred times before, letting the flavors mix and dance on the palate. “Mmm,” Rod purred for a moment, then finished his square snack off with three chews and a swallow. “It does taste a little different that way,” motioning for me to pass him another, “Let me try it again,” he said with a smirk.

I had an alternative motive for trying to help Rod train his taste buds. It was my tactic to ration our chocolate. Our family had officially cast off our lines that day from Terrapin to sail out of Coyote Point Marina in San Francisco Bay towards the Golden Gate Bridge. We were finally leaving from land on an eight-month adventure that we hoped would provide us with a taste of flavorful characters and unforgettable experiences.

Ironically, we tie up Terrapin that evening at San Francisco Bay Marina which is aglow with a neon marquee that reads “Ghirardelli Square”. The Hills Brothers Coffee building is our protective neighbor illuminated by Christmas lights and the bright city scape that reflects off the water. We are stunned at the breathtaking panoramic scene from our floating home on this mid-winter evening--our sleepy hometown of Silverton, Oregon, tucked in the land-locked Willamette Valley just didn’t quite come alive like this at night.

Despite the million-dollar view, our cheap berth was uncomfortable. We sat unprotected from marine traffic in the bay making Terrapin’s exposed dark green hull jerk up and down and side to side from the waves of passing boats. The marina is also out of the proximity of town for an easy venture ashore with kids and simply provides us a transient resting place. That is okay with us. We had exhausted our stay in the Bay area by touring Alcatraz, visiting Haight-Ashbury, and the madness of our final provisioning of Terrapin. We ate dinner and settled in for the night planning to leave out the mouth of the river and over the legendary San Francisco Bay bar the next afternoon.

Finally, mid-day on Saturday we hoist the main sail and turn into the wind to glide under the Golden Gate Bridge. I think to myself how surreal it feels: We can only hear the swish-swish sound of our boat moving through water and the dull hum of our diesel yet we are passing by one of the largest metropolitan areas in America. “Look!” says Phoebe pointing to the water. A small pod of dolphins pleased with our wake escorts us towards the Pacific and I instantly feel connected with their carefree existence. I smile, sighing relief to be actually leaving the city and our busy life behind. I have no worry, surprisingly, and I realize it’s because we are all together and there is no mortgage to pay, no carpool to drive, no deadlines to meet.

The ocean swell begins to carry Terrapin slowly up high peaks and then down into deep valleys as soon as we approach the bar. Quickly my elated mood changes to serious focus. The frequency of these lifts continues to increase over the first fifteen minutes we’re offshore and so does the intensity of each climb. “Make sure you’re attached to the boat,” I say to the kids in the cockpit, feeling suddenly dwarfed by the size and power of the waves. I’ve read articles and heard stories of fatal attempts at crossing this bar. I’m standing with my feet planted in front of the helm, my knees bending to adjust constantly to the random movement. My sweaty hands are clenched around the steering wheel.

I glance at Hunter and Phoebe on the cockpit bench wearing toothy grins and shrieking excited shrills of joy as if they’re in the middle of a roller coaster ride at Disneyland. I choose to not reveal my overwhelming concern. “Whoa, this one is really big!,” Hunter says fearlessly and I nod with a crooked smile just as we start up another precipitous crest and ride it down shifting our bodies to help gravity bring us back to a stable, comfortable position.

Rod tethers himself to the boat with a safety clip and heads up toward the bow for a better look. This weird uneasiness is all new. Always entirely confident of Captain Rod’s ability, I’m not sure if I should start crying, yelling, or simply wait. Eventually, I can’t hold my words any longer and I blurt out, “Rod, I am really scared.” He instantly reassures me, “It’s fine. We are following the chart just as we should.” I retreat and start biting my cuticles, a nervous habit I’d developed over the years that keeps me quiet when stressed.

Five minutes later an approaching buzz breaks the heavy silence. Rod and I scan the horizon looking for clues and see what from a distance looks like a Playmobil toy set complete with plastic men, a rubber boat, and accessories descending upon us. When our visitors burst through a fog of spray in the valley of a wave, we are greeted by a cherry red inflatable Coast Guard Zodiac boat with nearly ten standing men wearing full rescue gear, helmets, and neon orange suits. Over the roar of their powerful engine, the captain tells us his vessel had been watching our progress and came to alert us of the danger of our location and heading.

Rod determines that our electronic charts must not up-to-date and Terrapin needs to point further west to avoid more treacherous conditions. He nods “thanks” to the crew and shouts to me from the bow to make an adjustment of “twenty clicks” on the autopilot. I obey his command by immediately tapping the left arrows on the electronic direction pad and we turn toward safe waters. Ten minutes later, the swell becomes less threatening and the boat flattens out.

Our adventure literally began with a dramatic turn for the better. Terrapin’s crew sat reunited comfortably in the cockpit after the affair watching the sun sink behind billowy clouds, float over the sea and then drift into tomorrow. We laughed at our ability to leave land in true, spectacular “Hill” style. It was the first of many sweet, unexpected moments during our journey that we treasured for their lasting effect. We couldn’t wait for the next. “How about a Ghirardelli?” I offered. For now, it was time to take a break and pass the chocolate.

The Bloggers Dilemma

Recently, a friend confided in me about a blog we mutually visited, “What is the purpose of it?", they asked, confused about its random content. I commented that the writer was probably trying to get their feet wet with an online presence and that maybe the site would morph into something very specific over time. The friend continued to look quizzically at me and said, “I feel like I’m reading someone’s diary.” This comment has since haunted me as I daily develop ideas in my mind and trash them just as quickly because I feel they are not “blog-worthy.” I guess the point is, “What am I doing here on Straight from Hill?”

Blogging, I've discovered through some research, serves multiple purposes and personalities. It is a creative outlet for the writer: a place to "file" important thoughts, discoveries and news. For the more practical blogger it is a useful means to reach a mass audience with answers, ideas, and advertisements. But in either case, the blogger is making an attempt to find a reader with a particular interest whether it be politics or parenting. The most successful bloggers have found a niche that threads together a community of followers and leads them on a journey.

In this respect, I've decided my blog has to evolve and grow a heart. A single, hard-working idea that pumps meaning into the body of my work. Up until now I have simply been writing thoughtful essays on subjects that emerge from random reflections on life. While meaningful, they do not encourage a reader to come back because I never intended really, on writing for anyone else but for me to get thoughts organized then written down. In other words, now that I've exposed myself, it's time to walk proudly in my skin and choose a place to go.

As is typical in my poor-decision-making mind, I cannot just choose one subject--yet. I have to try a few paths out. Ideas that have surfaced so far include: the writer's journey (too broad and

common); raising teens with a tot (this dichotomy of my life

creates its own chaos worthy of an entire encyclopedia worth of rants); Simply Small Living (the characters and happenings of small town life and how our family fits, or not). I also have thought about giving myself a "charge" such as eating home for 100 days or no laundry for a month. Your ideas and feedback are encouraged, e-mail me at hills@terrapintrips.com. But for now, I will embark on the next few entries with a different intent; an attempt to mainstream my expression.

Read an excerpt from my last entry into “Terrapintrips.com” the website I maintained while we sailed the Pacific. I refer to it often because it briefly states what the most meaningful aspect of checking out of life on land meant. Which leads me to my last suggested blog idea: "Land Cruising", discovering delight in everyday things (still random, but worthy).

"What if we treated everyday life like we were cruising? I continue to ponder how we can hold onto some of the pleasure of life we experienced the last seven months. One aspect of the cruising life that is so intriguing is the excitement that comes from each place, each new boat in an anchorage, each crossing, each day. What if we approached our life on land with that same sense of wonder, positive energy, and absence of time? Yes, it would be difficult to explain the time element to principals and bosses, but the essence of waking up with a smile and actually approaching life with a---"whatever happens today will be new, different, and a part of my history"--attitude. Kids do it everyday, that's why it's so difficult to get them out of bed and to school, or put them to sleep late at night.

The routines we get into and faces we see everyday during our life on land make it difficult to imagine being surprised or delighted on a Wednesday in February. But it's possible. If you can train yourself to find humor in the guy dancing behind the wheel during a traffic jam or make the effort to strike up a conversation with the clerk at the 7-11, inevitably you'll start to discover unforeseen treasures in your everyday life.

There's a little cruising blood in all of us, and sailing skills are not required. We hope you discover yours."

Haiti and Happy Talk

Compassion is not religious business, it is human business, it is not luxury, it is essential for our own peace and mental stability, it is essential for human survival.--The Dalai Lama

The news stories reported from Haiti since the recent earthquake that we read about, hear about on the radio, or watch from afar while perched in the comfort of our homes are numbing. Initially we are captured by the bravery, the sacrifice, the intensity of the moment of rescue or discovery of a corpse. We may shed a tear or say a prayer. But the reality is we have no concept, no real understanding of what that impoverished country is suffering.

In fact, Haitians were living such a dramatically different existence than ours before the earthquake ever hit and that alone would be so incomprehensible to our fellow Costco-and-Ikea-driven Americans. Their’s is a life of simplicity, survival being the reason for all things, everyday. Ours is not. Period. We have everything we need and more; our closets and drawers overflow, we have t.v and computers in multiples. Only by visiting or living in such a poor country for a period of time would an American ever be able to begin to comprehend what daily living in such conditions would require. But also, what it doesn’t require. Hunter said of his recent visit to inner-city impoverished Lima, Peru, “Here (meaning in the States) there’s always the next ‘thing’. In Peru, you just be.”

Our exposure to other Worlds is essential in understanding the full human experience. No matter how we get it, through media, books, experience, even National Geographic or the Discovery channel provide us a window into the survival struggles of others and an appreciation for what is important. Americans have to make an extra effort to seize opportunities to go out of their comfort zone, visit the distressed, and travel to impoverished nations in order to touch that part of our souls that naturally bonds us all together.

Disaster, then, has the potential to bring promise in the face of darkness. It can merge these two dramatically different Worlds by opening doors and encouraging change, rebirth, and action. Much like natural forest fires burn through acres of tall trees and lush meadows, to leave ash and dirt, what looks like smoldering death. But eventually, through natures will, green sprouts emerge among the blackened earth. Over time, grasses and low bushes develop and animals return to feed on them as life rejuvenates the land and brings back beauty. You’ve seen the people flooding to help in Haiti through rescue efforts, medical support, adoptions. Maybe you’ve even participated in raising money to send to help their rebuilding efforts. This is the type of change and renewal possible through crisis.

The challenge, then, is to live with an everyday awareness of how we are contributing to this bond we share. Those who are mobilized to do something everyday, to really make a difference in other’s lives by educating, to preserve forests, to save species are truly humanitarians. Giving of themselves for the common good of their kind, instinctively. My wish is that I am able to contribute of myself to the best of my ability to this human experience and in return am happy to just "be".

I believe that the very purpose of life is to be happy. From the very core of our being, we desire contentment. In my own limited experience I have found that the more we care for the happiness of others, the greater is our own sense of well-being. Cultivating a close, warmhearted feeling for others automatically puts the mind at ease. It helps remove whatever fears or insecurities we may have and gives us the strength to cope with any obstacles we encounter. It is the principal source of success in life.--Dalai Lama

A Journal Pick from Terrapin's Trip

In December 2009 we celebrated the five year anniversary of our family departing Oregon on Terrapin, our sailboat, to Mexico and Hawaii. I am (finally) making a concentrated effort to recapture the magic of our daily life adventures back then and put them together in written form. It is a monumental task and I am often distracted by the life I am living today. But one of the most effective ways for me to get back into the zone of writing and organizing is by revisiting the journal I kept and glancing teary-eyed, sometimes laughing, at the photos I have safely saved on cd's. I was asked recently to pick one story from our trip, and tell it to a group of people. I chose carefully, captured the moments with the best details and description I could muster and realized how much joy it brought others to 'experience' just a blink of time of our adventure. So, I've decided to once in a while, share something from my journal here at "Straight from Hill". My entries will be random as I post them , not chronolgical, however this entry does describe the day we left and my early expectations.

December 10, 2004
Final preparations before leaving. Toting the kids to friends' houses for final goodbyes. Then to the bank. While at the bank, the bank is robbed. I hear the teller on the phone with 911 explaining what happened. A gentleman went up to the merchant counter and handed her a white bag. He then asked her to fill the bag with money and she did. Then he left. I witnessed the manager in a panic, trying to decide what to do. I shook my head and thought of the poor bank manager I had met with earlier in the day who I was returning to see that evening at 5 p.m. when all this happened. He was a nice dark-skinned fellow with a great, positive attitude. When I saw him earlier, he said, yes, he would be there until they closed, “All, day, “ he moaned with a cheery grin. When I saw him later, he was panicked, couldn’t look me in the eye and obviously, very distracted. I left and went out to get in the car and the kids were excited because while I was gone they had witnessed a three vehicle accident. I wondered if the two had been related. Wild. What a way to leave Oregon!

December 11, 2004
We boarded the Amtrak train in Salem, Oregon. 3:30 p.m. It was drizzly and mild out, 50 degrees plus. The ride to the station was quiet, except for Phoebe humming her kazoo and Hunter blowing a nose flute. It was a positive goodbye with Mom. She was happy to see us embark and her last words were: “ Do everything I would never do.” She also smiled and while watching Rod out the window said, “he’s so excited, he can hardly contain it.” We both were sporting large brimmed wicker hats that made us stand out in the crowd.

On the train, the kids were excited, but plugged into headphones and kept busy. When we got to an area where there was snow, Phoebe noticed right away, and told Hunter to look out the window. He did and said he wanted to go taste it. But then Phoebe reminded him that we’re headed where there is no snow. And they both sat down grinning. The train lurches on. It’s late, midnight or so. I hear people sleeping—snoring, talking, people arranging their figures to fit the seats+ footstool that doubles as a bed for most. When the kids went to sleep, Rod and I tried to fall asleep as well. Laying there I thought about what the kids and Rod must be dreaming about. Shortly after, I found out that Rod wasn’t dreaming at all, he was thinking about projects on the boat. We both couldn’t sleep, our excitement had overcome us, so we kept each other company under our light in the dark train car.

I am thinking about what goals I have for this trip. I can’t stop setting goals, but this time my goal is one that requires me to stop doing that. I really want to relax. Get into the moment of life, not stress about little things. I realize it will take weeks before I actually stop thinking about everything that needs to be done. But I hope to get there. I want to enjoy life at a different level for a while, looking at things from a positive, joyful place rather than from a negative ‘gotta get outta here’ perspective. I want a truly ‘Zen’ experience, and I realize I will have to work for that. It will take lots of time and mind control, but it’s well worth the try. I think yoga will help. Deep breathing, and a lot of laughter.

I also want us as a family to look at the way we live and make some changes. Things like, being reliant on gadgets, always having any kind of food instantly available and only eating when the pangs of hunger actually hit. That’s something we all need to learn. And again, it’s taking control of myself, being a good example for my kids, and living that way happily and with fulfillment and a positive outlook.

I’m curious what everyone else’s goals are for the trip, I’ll have to ask. Surprisingly there is a lot less anxiety about taking off than I thought. I expected to be nervous about sailing. I’m not. I expected to be stressed about sickness, bad seas, scary encounters, losing the kids, but for now, I remain at ease. Thinking I’ve left an awful lot of stress back there in Oregon. And for certain it will all be back there when we return. And hopefully, my outlook when we go back is much more positive. So, here I sit, on a monotonous train ride with hours ahead and nowhere to go. It’s a beautiful thing.