Books that Shaped Our Lives

A while back, a colleague of mine asked me to submit a piece of writing about a book that shaped my life.  Here is what I wrote. 

In my life, there have been so many books.  There have been so many books that my mother would tell you she can’t remember a time I wasn’t reading a book.  There have been so many books, that my husband would tell you we don’t have room for any more.  There have been so many books that I can tell you, it is hard to say which one has most impacted my life.

There have been books that served as companions when I have felt alone in the world.  There have been books that have helped me cope when my struggles seemed greater than the strength I had to deal with them.  There have been books that have helped me grow when experience was not enough.  In each of these instances, I could tell you the one book that made a difference to me.  But to say which one made the most difference is like to ask which star in the sky is my most favorite. 

But, if you were to ask which book has been unconditionally relevant to me, I would tell you it was The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.  I have found meaning in this book over the course of my life regardless of my age or experience.  At times it has inspired me.  At times it has made me feel profoundly sad.  At times it has affirmed ideas I believed to be true and right and good.   

And so, for my daughter, I have acquired a copy of this book.   It is my hope that in its pages she will find insight and understanding and in this way come to cherish it as I do.

The Urban Trekker

The last time I bought hiking boots was about 12 years ago, when I was in my 20's, doing a lot of serious hiking.  It occurs to me, that the acquaintances who have come to know me since that time may not have an accurate picture of me when I say I was doing some serious hiking.  So, for those of you who did not know me then, by serious hiking, I mean the kind of hiking you do where you carry everything on your back, dig a hole for your own waste and do not shower for 3-5 days as you explore the wilderness in places like Glacier Bay where the boat drops you off by pulling up to shore, throwing a ladder over the side and tossing your pack down to you.  That kind of serious hiking.

This past weekend, I dug my hiking boots out of the back of my closet, which, to be honest, is where they spend most of their time these days.   Hurricane Sandy necessitated this expedition since the majority of use I get out of the boots these days is to keep my feet warm and dry during rain and snow storms.  The boots, surprisingly, even after what I was shocked to remember as 12 years, still remained in phenomenal shape.  

I should take a moment to mention the significance of the accomplishment acquiring these boots was.  My first pair of hiking boots was an inexpensive, generic brand that carried me through the early days of my hiking as a camp counselor in upstate New York.  They were a sky blue, nylon pair we had purchased from a discount shoe warehouse.  They were functional and supportive but I envied the other counselors who had the elegant leather boots that stayed dry, didn't show the cracked and dried mud caked to the sides and bottom of the boot and had contrasting red laces that crisscrossed up to a decent height at the ankle instead of as high as a flapper boot.  I had these boots forever.  Until, several years after I started working when I could finally afford a new pair.  I, of course, when straight to the holy grail of camping equipment, L.L.Bean and  purchased a pair of boots that most resembled what I had coveted all those years, the Super Expedition III's,  a boot for serious hikers.  Boots that reflected the intersection of my youth, autonomy and self-sufficiency.

Then, I moved to Northern Virginia, got a time-consuming promotion, married my husband and had a baby.  The boots migrated to the back of the closet.  Except on the rare occasions when there was a weather event like the great snowstorms of 2010 or Hurricane Sandy this past weekend.  

Which brings me to this past weekend when I dug my boots out of the back of my closet to keep my feet warm and dry as we braved the hurricane force wind and rain to hike the aisles and hunt the shelves for any remaining bread and milk at Giant.  As I was traversing up and down aisle 10, where there had apparently been some sort of vicious attack on the potato chips, I stepped right out of the sole of one of my boots.  It flapped at first, snapping back quickly with a loud crack and then came right off in one whole piece.  I shouted to David.  This was impossible.  These boots were L.L.Bean.  L.L. Bean is quality.  L.L.Bean has a lifetime guarantee.  

That is when it struck me.  L.L.Bean has a lifetime guarantee.  We have an L.L.Bean store.  So the next day, despite the weatherman's desperate pleas for  everyone to stay home and avoid unnecessary travel, we drove up to the mall to exchange the boots because of course, I am a Serious Hiker, one that braves the elements.  In the shoe department, the kind man who, had himself braved the Hurricane to get to work, was sympathetic and apologetic taking the shoes in his hands.  He admired them, turning them back and forth and around as he examined them carefully, finally pronouncing, "Yes, these look like an early model of the Super Expedition III.  These boots are for serious hikers.  These are the boots they take up Everest."  I smiled smugly, trying not as hard as perhaps I should have to conceal my conceit.  Then he said, "Let me see if I can find you something that will work for you today," and he disappeared into the back.  

Meanwhile, I piled my coat and bags into the stroller the total sum of our gear and equipment being spread across three of the four benches in the store while David and his father chased Emily around.  Prying her off and out of such fascinating things as the heavy sock basket for trying on boots. It wasn't long before the gentleman reappeared with two boxes.  One suspiciously smaller than the other.  The suspicious one, the one on top, was the one he opened first, pulling out a compellingly attractive low-ankled peet colored boot that he called the Urban Trekker.  "This is the Urban Trekker," he said, "Good for walking on pavement and short day hikes."  I was, curiously, simultaneously offended and intrigued.  The Urban Trekker, you say?  Clearly not a boot for a Serious Hiker.  Good for walking on pavement and short day hikes, you say?  In fact, I do walk a lot on pavement.  "Are they waterproof?" I asked reflexively as my only line of defense.  "Yes," he said.  "Do I have to treat them or are they already treated?" I asked desperately clinging to my denial with the only line of reasoning that had any potential to invalidate the boots' practicality in my life.  "They are already treated, you don't have to do anything."  

So, I settled myself down to try them on.  The Urban Trekker, not a boot for the Serious Hiker.  As I pulled them out of the box, the gentleman went on to say that one of the features of this boot was the "easy lace-up" which meant there was only one set of hooks you had to cross the laces under.  A non-hiking, hiking boot, I thought skeptically. Until I tried the easy lace-up.  How fast that was!  I could tie my shoe and chase a toddler out the door into the driveway before she hits the street.  Then, I stood up.  And it felt like I was walking on clouds.  Was there even a floor below me? The last shred of my opposition crumbled and I knew these boots would work for me.  

Which was really what the Urban Trekker is about.  The harsh reality that I have aged past the identity I still cling to.  It's embarrassing to be made aware of this by a hiking boot.  Not accidental nudity kind of embarrassing, but more like realizing you are too old to be shopping in the juniors section at Macy's kind of embarrassing.  It made me wonder how I had gotten from Serious Hiker to Urban Trekker without noticing.  It made me think about the short decade long journey that it was.  It made me grapple with accepting who I am means something to do with embracing experiences beyond my control.  

Nonetheless, upon arriving at home, I resisted the Urban Trekkers, banishing them to the floor in a corner of my bedroom, not taking them out of the box.  Until, we were putting Emily in her costume for Halloween and getting ready to walk the pavement to trick-or-treat.  In the spirit of the holiday, I went upstairs and returned in my own costume, the Urban Trekker formerly known as a Serious Hiker.    

Zeldie the Reluctant Big Sister

Zeldie's world shifted on September 26th when we brought our daughter home from the hospital. Previously, she had been an only child. Now, she was a big sister. Not only that, but a big sister to a human child who had all sorts of privileges that she did not such as sitting on the couch and the bed. At first, Zeldie was confused about where she stood. Especially with Daddy, who had formerly been her whole world and a source of undivided attention. This confusion caused much consternation for Zeldie. Eventually, she discovered not all changes were bad. Mommy stayed home for three months and during that time Zeldie went on more and longer walks than she had since she first came to our house as a puppy. Opa and Memaw, two sources of infinite euphoria for her visited more frequently. Food was spontaneously abandoned in accessible places in response to the baby crying. We did our best to convince her the baby was a good thing, letting Zeldie sniff her and give her kisses frequently and with minimal restriction. However, she remained aloof and undecided. Until, that is, this past month when the baby started moving of her own volition. Emily now makes talking sounds that resonate as loud screeching noises every time Zeldie approaches her or coos to get her attention every time Zeldie walks away from her. Zeldie is beginning to get a firm grasp on the conditions of being a big sister. In Zeldie's world this means that when the baby calls to her, she gives her kisses. And when the baby is on her tummy on the floor, her job is to push her nose under her arm and nudge her to roll over. The two of them are becoming good friends. In fact, it seems when Zeldie loses interest in her, Emily is a bit bored. And Zeldie, once the reluctant big sister, is blooming in her new role. We thought we saw evidence of this when the other day, Zeldie went to her toy basket, pulled out her tug of war rope and dropped it in front of Emily. Ever obliging, Emily grasped at the rope with all of her might and tugged as much as her little 18 lbs. would allow. Zeldie, demonstrating insightful perception, tugged back, but no more than was necessary to create just enough resistance for a taut rope. Zeldie, it seemed, was moderating her play to be gentle enough for the baby. Suddenly, being the big sister has become a lot more interesting.

To slice or not to slice a banana

Recently, I have discovered Zeldie loves bananas. When she hears the snap and tear of the peel which sends the odorous scent of the fruit wafting through the air she propels herself almost involuntarily to my feet. Now, I am a sucker for hungry or hungry-apparent beings. No man, child, dog or dust mite may go unfed in my house. This is a reflex I can not control. It was carefully cultivated by my mother who modeled the art of feeding the hungry to me as the purpose and fulfillment of being a woman. I still remember when I was a teenager and one of my girlfriends came over. As she walked in the house, my mom asked her, "Would you like something to eat?" Having normal and appropriate hunger signals and cues as well as a healthy understanding of diet and nutrition, my friend responded, "No thanks, I'm not hungry." To which my mom replied, "I didn't ask you if you were hungry." David finds this amusing to no end. The first time he met my mother, we went to her house for lunch. Lunch is an understatement. It was a veritable feast. When we were done eating, it looked as if we had not touched a plate on the table. As we were leaving, he whispered to me, "Who did she think she was cooking for?" It was, perhaps, the first time, I was in touch with an awareness that the volume of food on my mother's table was not in proportion to the number of people at the table. It had never been any different in my house. As a teenager, my mother helped make dinner for her family. She had two younger brothers. My mother is still cooking for those teenage boys. And therefore, so do I. When David and I first started dating, we had some friends over for dinner. I made pizza. Everyone ate. Everyone had second helpings. At the end of the meal, after everyone had pushed back from the table, bellies rounded and extended, I examined the two pieces of pizza left on the plate as I carried it back into the kitchen. In an anxious hush, I whispered to David, "I didn't make enough." At the time, I don't think he fully understood that this compelling concern actually bordered on a disorder. Now, time having passed, he has a fuller picture of just how completely I am moved by hunger. This was more fully illustrated to him when we watched The Blind Side. While this is an incredibly inspirational film and story, it is also profoundly sad. But, what moved me to tears was not that he had been abandoned by his mother, not that he was homeless, not even that he was walking in the freezing rain in his t-shirt. What moved me to fretful, unabashedly sobbing was when he ate the discarded concessions after everyone else left the basketball game. What moved me was that he was hungry. With this insight, David now has a better handle on how to manage me. It involves a very assertive, if not forceful, posture on quantity. Especially at the grocery store, where he frequently has to talk me off the ledge after he has put back items I have taken off the shelf. He artfully and sincerely attempts to reassure me that we will have plenty without buying double. Though I am suspicious he has grossly miscalculated our needs, I have learned to trust him. He has plenty of convincing hard evidence by way of previous examples when I have over indulged to support his case. If I make a fuss, he begins to recite the list. Even more so, when we are expecting company for dinner and the list of dishes I am planning grows exponentially in proportion to the amount of time I have prior to the event. In these cases, he listens patiently, smiles gently, and asks a thoughtful reflective question to prompt me to realize I have once again succumbed to my inner hunger demon. For the most part, these strategies work.

Except when it comes to Zeldie. Each of us spoils Zeldie in our own way. For me, it will always be indulging her every sniff with a sensory treat for her palette. Zeldie has discovered this weakness and much to her own credit, will blatantly exploit it for her benefit, rushing to my side seemingly desperately hungry and pitiful when she clearly is neither. To which I will respond appropriately and predictably by cutting my banana into slices and putting it in her bowl. Or, feeding her chunks by hand right where I am standing. David has discovered I am hopeless in this way. He has moved beyond scolding me for giving her too many treats to scolding me for pampering her in the way in which I give her the treats. Though, for the most part it I do not hear it. Reasoning and logic do not apply when seeing her eat her treat momentarily quells the ache in my heart for the hungry or hungry-apparent. Perhaps in that way, it spoils me as well.

Zeldie the Canine Alarm Clock

I read once that dogs do not understand or know time. I would disagree. In July, David went to a conference for work in Miami. At 28 weeks pregnant, I was less than thrilled with the notion of being on my own for four days to fend and manage for myself. Already at that point, I was having back pain and bending over was getting difficult. The exhaustion that has become my constant companion as well as the insufferable heat and humidity we were experiencing at that time made me a bit weary of being able to adequately care for myself, the dog and the household while he was gone. David, unwittingly did not help matters. Saturday night he called me from his hotel. He had been reading on the balcony of his posh hotel, from which he had an unobstructed view of the beach. My husband, being smart and thoughtful was doing a little pleasure reading from Mindset. For those of you who don't know, Mindset is not exactly the latest Dan Brown. It is a book about research on intelligence. In any case, dutiful husband that he is, he called to check in with me. After I rattled off a litany of complaints and annoyances, including my most recent favorite which is that I was feeling like a tub of butter, to which David patiently listened, he preceded to tell me all about a bachelorette party going on in the room next door about which, it occurred to me, he seemed to know a surprising amount. I finally ask him how he knew all of this and he innocently said, "Oh, because they invited me over to have a beer with them." It might have been my silence that was a sharper reply than anything I could have said, but regardless, he quickly followed up with, "I took the beer and came inside my room." Now, any of you who know David well enough understand the irony in that of all of the potential men in the world who could have been roomed next to a bachelorette party in a posh hotel on Miami beach, it was him. And those of you that know my husband well enough are probably the ones reading this blog, so I won't elaborate. And, those of you who know my husband well enough, know me well enough so I am assuming you can also imagine at 28 weeks pregnant, feeling like a tub of butter, my less than receptive response. Whereas at any other time, I would have appreciated the humor in the situation, I myself was not in the particular frame of mind where that was possible. Needless to say, for the rest of the night I was frenzied and worried that I would not be able to get to sleep. So, I broke the one cardinal rule of the household. I let Zeldie sleep in the bed. I figured it was the only way I could coax her at this point to actually stay put and sleep with me. Now Zeldie, always wants to get up on the bed. She puts her little front paws up there and pops her head up. Sometimes she even jumps up there when we are in the living room to retrieve and chew on a discarded piece of clothing. Sometimes we find her toys up there. The top of the bed is her Everest. However, that night, she was downright uncomfortable on the bed. I could tell because of her shallow breathing and twitchy eyes. She was like, "Mommy, I know this isn't allowed and I am afraid Daddy is going to walk into the room at any point and yell at me. You are breaking the rules and I don't like it." So, I let her hop down. She slept on the floor by my side for I am not sure how long because I eventually fell asleep. In the morning, I found her on the big chair in the living room. She has been sleeping there ever since. I still remember when she was a littler puppy and we tried to let her sleep outside of the crate. It was, by all accounts, a disaster. Having little to no self-regulation, our dog did not know what to do with herself in vast and cavernous expanse of our 850 square foot condo, especially at 3 AM when she was awake and were were asleep and any and all manner of disruption would not wake us. So, instead she would find more destructive hobbies to occupy her time and relieve her boredom and anxiety. Now, although, she had a slight learning curve at first, she pretty much wanders in like clockwork at the same time every morning to wake us up and get us started. It took her a couple of tries to get her internal timing mechanism set properly. But now, we can pretty much count on her to be about as consistent 7 days a week as the full moon is every 30 days. Zeldie is our very own canine alarm clock.

No, Mommy!

I have always had trouble sleeping. However, throughout the pregnancy, I have had even more. One particularly distressing night a few weeks ago, I woke up at 1:30 AM and never fell back to sleep. Early on in the pregnancy, I would cuddle with Zeldie on the couch. This would put me right to sleep. Don't get me wrong, I love my husband, but Zeldie's pleasant biorhythms are hypnotic to me. Whereas David's breathing sounds like a hurricane raging in my ear, Zeldie's regular soft breaths are like a gentle breeze. Whereas David's 200+ some odd body takes up half the bed, Zeldie's petite little 32 pounds tucks and curls into me like a pillow. Whereas David's twitches startle me as I fall asleep, Zeldie's regular heart beat lulls me effortlessly into unconsciousness. It used to be she would stand up, wag her tail and wait for me by the crate door. In the morning, when David would wake up to take her out, he would have to persuade her to get off the couch. However recently, she has not been so agreeable. In fact, she has seemed downright displaced. The past few sleepless nights, she has been at the back of the crate and I have had to pull her out of it. She jumps off of the couch after we lay down causing me to retrieve her so we can settle back down again together. And perhaps the most telling of all, when I wake up in the morning, she is laying on the floor, somewhere else in the room, as far away from the couch as possible. I imagine this is her way of saying, "No, mommy! I am a big girl now, too big to cuddle with you." At 14 mos. old, that strikes me as a bit sad but also inevitable. I suppose when you depend on your puppy as your Ambien, at some point she will make it clear she is an independent being and it is an inappropriate responsibility. I guess the only thing for a Mommy to do at that point is to take some Benadryl, get a Homemedics SoundSpa and buy a few more pillows.

A Sophisticated Palate

Our dog is a picky eater. Or so we have thought. When Zeldie came to us, the breeder sent her with a ziplock baggie size supply of food. This was the source of much consternation for me because the vet had said not to change her diet for at least 2 weeks. Instead, we had to start mixing her food immediately. We originally started her on Science Diet Puppy formula. Initially, our plan was to feed her that until she turned a year and then start her on something less expensive. Soon though, her skin became dry and itchy. She would scratch at her skin until her hair fell out and it would bleed and scab over. She apparently could not tolerate the grain and by-products used in most commercial dog foods. It took us some time to figure this out. Sometime during September, at least 3 mos. after she arrived, we learned about food allergies for dogs. It didn't take long for us to put two and two together to determine Zeldie had food allergies. We did some reading and decided that we needed to switch her to a more allergy and wire-haired coat friendly fish based food. We decided on Halo Spot's Stew Salmon formula. After all of the reading we had done, we were very excited about this formula. Zeldie was not so much so but we didn't notice. We proudly served her the food. We watched as she sniffed at it indecisively and reluctantly nibbled a few bites. We were satisfied. We kept giving it to her. Even though she rarely ate a full bowl. Even though when we gave it to her she would turn over her bowl. Even though when we left it in her crate she would bury it with her blanket. Even though when we went to our friend's house, we couldn't keep her away from the Pedigree. Even though, by the time we got to the bottom of the bag, she would snub it all together. We thought, "Our dog is so quirky. Look at how funny she is turning over her bowl." And, "Our dog is such a picky eater, she doesn't like stale food." We thought, "Our dog is so thin, it must be because she gets so much exercise at doggie day care." If Zeldie has thoughts they were probably somewhere along the lines of, "Idiots! In what other way can I tell them how much I hate this food." This past week, David went to buy the Halo and they were out of it. Flat out of it. And we were out of it. Flat out of it. So, under duress, he picked up a bag of the Wellness Ocean formula which is a whitefish based dry dog food. We fed it to our picky eater hoping for the best. And surprise of all surprises, she ate the whole bowl all at once as fast as she could, like any other dog I have ever known. We stood there in awe watching her eat. She must have been famished after having been starved for a year. She has been eating the Wellness for a few days now and she has finished every last bite of every last bowl. Every time I see the shiny bottom of the dog bowl, I have to admit, I am simultaneously fascinated and overjoyed. If she could have only told us she preferred whitefish to salmon, perhaps she wouldn't have had to wait so long for us to catch on.