Mad cow (no pun intended)

Or .... "The best workout of my life" ... or "Only in Vermont". I couldn't decide what to call this post, so here goes ... I hate running. I believe that if God wanted us to run, he would send someone to chase us. But the nearest gym is too far, and I get tired of doing Burpees and push-ups in my livingroom. I have virtually given up yoga because I simply can't bear the thought of giving up 1.5 hours for anything that isn't culinary, and the teachers, quite frankly, touch students too much. I am not that friendly. But everytime I look out my window and see this amazing river surrounded by a glorious collection of trees and wildlife, I simply feel guilty for not getting out and taking advantage of it. So, I choose to run along the river because I know that when I leave I would kick myself for not spending more time in the beautiful Vermont outdoors when it was right on my doorstep. (And why should the cyclists have all the fun ... they already get to wear costumes.)

But, as I embarked on my last run up Route 5, I brought along my digital camera. We are just now entering the legendary Fall Foliage season, I had a bright idea to capture the changes week by week and share them with my friends and family who have either never experienced the splendor of Autumn in New England or who miss it terribly since moving to California. So, I on this particular day, I decided to kill two birds with one stone and snap pictures while getting in a good workout. How efficient is that? (I am German after all.)

It started out business as usual. I tie up my running shoes and warm up with a brisk walk up my road a quarter mile to the "friendly" neighbor's pier (and stopping before I reach the house with the PRIVATE DRIVE sign in the yard so the cranky old bird who lives there won't catch sight of me and chase me down the road spilling hot coffee on her mud boots like she did once before.) I snap a few photos, then turn back for the serious run along Route 5.

Now, the serious jogging begins. I start out at the train trestle and head north to Thetford. I brave the bridge that cuts over the river inlet and hope no Mac trucks are passing at the same time because I am both afraid of heights and, well, Mac trucks. From there it is usually smooth sailing. But I bring my inhaler just in case.

One of my favorite spots, though, is a hilly pasture on the West side that usually hosts a dozen or less medium-sized cows. They all have horns, so Aaron says they are bulls, but I call them cows anyway ... some of them have babies and I can't be sure which ones have horns.

Now, let me just say that I love cows. I love their giant brown eyes and serene expression that seems to suggest they are right with the world--no matter what their fate, and largely because they don't know their fate. And they get in a hurry about nothing ... or so I thought. Because on this day, I spotted one of the herd loose and eating up a patch of my neighbor's lawn. (By the way, I call everyone who lives within walking distance of my house my neighbor even though they don't have a clue who I am.) This is the quintessential black and white cow you might find on a milk carton .... not because he is missing or something, but because he ... she ... whatever ... looks like a Jersey Cow. And he is chewing a load of tall weeds that are hanging out of both corners of his mouth. He looks at me nonplussed, and I think this is the perfect photo "op." So, I snap him.

It is then that I notice that a section of the barbed wire fence that keeps the cows in place is loose and I wonder what has keep the rest of the herd from the sweet grass across the street. Good behavior? Fear of Mac trucks?

I run on.

Within seconds I hear the sound of something pounding the pavement and I know it isn't my girly-girl pink and silver Reeboks. I look back and the damned cow is chasing me ... and what's worse ... his fellow bovine gang members are following suit, jumping over the broken barbed wire and mooing at me as if I had just made a leather jacket out of one of their cousins. I have never run so fast in all my life ... not even during track and field day at Collegewood elementary. But it is hard to run when you are also laughing, because honestly, what could be funnier than going for a jog and being chased by cows. At least in Pamplona, participants get a party afterward--if they survive.

I spot a dirt path that crosses the Green Mountain railway train tracks and make a pact with myself to find the first house that looks it has someone inside and that the inhabitants aren't serial killers. But as I run I realize that not only am I not brave enough to knock on anyone's doors, I don't even know if this dirt road is leading me back to Route 5 or not. All I know if that I heard a truck honk its horn, a loud "MOOOOO!" and I never saw the pack again. My heart rate is about 179 at this point (I highly recommend the Polar Heart Rate Monitor). I flag down a car carrying two women returning from a very important shopping trip to West Lebanon, New Hampshire. I know this because NO store in these parts carries packages of toilet paper as big as they had except for Wal Mart of BJ's, both of which are in West Lebanon. I don't know exactly how to explain myself so I say, "You are going to laugh, but ..."

They did. Hard. Especially when I told them that I thought it was my camera that had ticket off the gang leader. The passenger said, "Damn Paparazzi!" And they probably continued to laugh as they continued down the dirt road to their house where they put away loads of toilet paper.

On a positive note, I got to see a whole new view of the river bank and got some fabulous photos once I caught my breath. And sure enough, my little detour led me right back to the train trestle and right back home again. I tell you ... I have jogged through some shady neighborhoods, but nothing scared me as much as that cow. And my hamstrings are still sore.

Knit one, purl two ... or was it the other way around?

Or was that the other way around? And when you ‘yarn over,” do you wrap it counter-clockwise? I mean, if the needle is vertical, which direction is clockwise anyway? And what's a slip stitch, dang it?

These are the questions that fill my head late at night when I am knitting alone, or were asked out loud as I was trying to show my mother how to knit during my visit to North Carolina. I can now honestly say that I taught her a thing or two, since she is the one that taught me how to do most everything else (except cooking and how to use a computer). For a near two weeks straight, we sat in her living room at night and watched British comedies from Netflix, and tried to figure out new and more complex knitting patterns—or just finish a measly little scarf.

This usually involved a three step process: 1. A period of silence as we casted on the yarn and managed the first three rows, then 2. Several whispered expletives and the clanking of needles as one of us realized we had made an irreparable error, then, 3. The sound of stitches being pulled apart and a snicker from the person who did not make the error. We are a bit competitive in my family. Then it dawned on us. It was easier to knit, though much less fun, if we avoided an after dinner Cordial. To put it bluntly: Don't drink and knit. As my knitting instructor, Shelley, said, " It ain't rocket science!" But it does require a heap of focus, especially for a newcomer, so your mind must be clean and sharp—just like your needles. And while it may not be rocket science per se, it sure as heck isn't as simple as decorative napkin folding. This stuff is hard, and I guarantee you that Martha Stewart pays to have her sweaters knitted, and I double guarantee you that the shawl she wore leaving prison was crocheted ... not knitted.NOTE: What's the difference between crocheting and knitting, you ask? Well ... I really don't know, except that crocheting involves one needle, usually plastic or metal, with a hook on the end. (Might as well get dental work.) Whereas knitting uses two needles for the most part with a whole host of styles and types, many of which are made from bamboo or shaped to suit a specific purpose like cabling sweaters or are rounded to make big projects like afghans. Some knitting snob I know explained it like this: knitting is estate-bottled wine, while crocheting is White Zinfandel in a box. Not really, but as an emerging knitting snob, I caught her drift.And it just so happens that, believe it or not, (well, if you truly know me, you believe it), knitting is one of the top three items on my bucket list, so I am taking the opportunity while living in Vermont to learn the art. Knitting is big here, and I suspect the weather has something to do with it. But, I doubt there are many others who have listed knitting as something they simply must do before they die, but honestly, I don't care. It is a beautiful craft, steeped in tradition that was born out of a basic need to keep warm, but evolved so that a good knitter can make one beautiful at the same time. I find fewer activities more important than that.

My love of knitting all started thanks to an Austrian exchange student we hosted named Claudia (pronounced Cloud-ee-h) who once made me a colorful sweater in a single afternoon. I was much smaller then. She was a master of the traditional "Trachtenmode" German-style knitting patterns that included intricate designs, such as flower adornments and the addition of silver buttons. But it was the way she sat, gracefully and near motionless, save her delicate fingers that held needles moving like parts of a tiny, well-oiled machines, that intrigued me. In the course of a few hours, she produced some of the most delightful products I have ever seen—or touched—because knitted products are more than visually appealing. They have incredible texture that can range from kitten soft to deliciously nubby. She left an indelible print on my soul much the way she stitched an Edelweiss to a sweater—neither would ever wear off. Ever since then, I knew I wanted to be a knitter. I wanted to be like Claudia.So, while visiting Woodstock, Vermont, one day, I happened by the Whipple Tree Yarn shop. They were offering free knitting lessons the following weekend, and I signed up faster than you can slip a stitch (see, I know what that means, now). I joined a small group of other wannabe knitters including a part-time Woodstock resident from San Diego, an Endocrinologist at Dartmouth-Hitchcock who surprisingly said she had nervous energy to burn and thought knitting was just the trick, and a 6th grader who had been ordered to learn the family hobby as her older siblings had done before her. When I first arrived, I was directed to select a cheap skein of light-colored yarn (so I could see my mistakes) and given a set of size 7 needles. The instructor, a woman with silver hair cut shorter than a marine, hurried me along as she assured me that the yarn didn't matter much since whatever I produced the first few months would be completely unwearable. She never smiled, and if I am to be completely honest, she scared the living bejeezus out of me. I half expected her to yell, "Drop and give me 50, Maggot!" every time I made a mistake. But, I soon learned that if I made nice with her labrador retriever, Logan, the most beautiful dog on the planet, that I would get on her good side.

I don't really remember much else except that after 30 minutes, I was overwhelmed. My fingers cramped, I got hungry and I made one of the ugliest patches of knit work you could ever see. But thanks to my rampant perfectionism and love of the craft, I persisted. Since then, I have made a beautiful scarf for my mother-in-law—the ultimate critic of handicrafts. She even wore it proudly when we visited her last and said that it was quite likely the most beautiful scarf she ever owned. I had arrived.

I also made one scarf that ended up in the waste basket, but am now on my way to completing a gorgeous plum-colored organic cotton shawl. I can't wait for it to be done so I can start the next project. And I have since discovered an incredible yarn store in my home town called Northern Nights Yarn Shop. (Now, tell me that doesn't sound deliciously warm and appropriate.) I see lots of flannel-clad nights with hot chocolate and lit fireplaces in my future while I make Hanukkah and Christmas gifts for me family. Northern Nights has an endless selection of yarns, to the point that I get confused and want to just buy everything and play. But thankfully it is run by a reasonable “librarianish” woman who is eager to help reign me in with one or two manageable projects. She leads me through the store in a spinster-style black skirt and crisp blouse buttoned-up and pinned at the neck by a broach. She peers at the bins over thick black spectacles with her blonde hair in a tight French twist. And once she has found the perfect skein, she hands it to me and says in her Bostonian accent, “This is what you need.”
I also admire her business savvy and uncanny sense of customer wants and needs. For example, she told me last time that although she hates black and white yarns mixed together, she still carries them for her New York clients who knit while vacationing in Vermont. "Here they come to the country to see all this green, only to pick out nothing but black and white," she said. “I suspect it is what goes with their Manhattan apartment decor.” She also knows a lot about the complexities of international trade. No small feat, I realize even in the yarn industry. Once when I went to purchase my second skein of particularly colorful Scottish wool, she said, gravely, "You better buy it while you can. They just lost their US distributorship and I am trying to work something out to get their yarns directly from the owner’s son." Then she looked at me the way my junior high librarian did when we were making too much noise and said, "I don't fear the Federalies!" She is one cool cucumber.

If they don't have it ... you don't need it

I am talking about Dan & Whit's. It is our local grocery/hardware/full-serve gas station/household goods/outerwear/toy store and it sits in the center of Norwich. When you first walk in, it looks like a jam-packed convenience store, with all the groceries in the room the size of a 7-11. But once you learn the lay of the land, you find a small opening past the meat counter, sort of like the one Alice in Wonderland squeezed through, and you are suddenly in a warehouse-sized room that rivals the Home Depot. Back the other way is a miniature Bed, Bath and Beyond, and another alcove houses its own version of Toys-R-Us. We are very familiar with its inventory since we are in the bribe-your-child-to-behave phase when we go out to eat, so Isaac knows that if he is a good boy at Chinese food, he gets to go to what he calls "Damn and Whit's" and pick out a small trinket. In other words, this place is huge and versatile.

But I must admit that I didn't like it at first. It had the feel of a small-town general store (maybe because it is, duh), but somehow, after visiting many small-town stores in the South, they always make me feel like an outsider ... like I don't belong. I am not loosely related to the cashier or stockboy, nor did I go to junior high with the hardware manager. I haven't saved a customer whose car battery died in the parking lot with a set of jumper cables and I probably will never meet the owners--legendary figures whose family photos are plastered on a bulleting board. Still, since it is the only gig in town, and they have the best coffee on Earth (at least it tastes that good on the way to take my son to preschool), I will be spending more and more time and money there. And throw several inches of snow in the mix, and I am sure Dan and Whit's will save our necks more than once this winter with a few items we couldn't have possibly known we would need. And what's even better is that the more I go there, the more I realize that I don't feel like an outsider at all. I don't get treated any differently than anyone else, and I have learned that the customers range from natives to passersby to the Dartmouth Professor who pores over the selection of wine for his dinner party--quite an ecclectic mix. And don't ask me how I know he is a Dartmouth professor, it is just something one knows ... and the way in which he examines the wine, you just know it is for a dinner party in which something lofty and important (or just lofty) will be debated.

And with my renewed love of supporting the local economy, Dan & Whit's delivers on that too. Aside from a few Canadian tomatoes, most of their produce is local. They even carry a Vermont-made style of Wonder Bread, and some of the most incredible local dairy products from Cabot butter to New Hampshire's McNamara Dairy milk. Their chocolate variety is to die for. And when I can't make it to Killdeer Farm Stand, I can still get my organic blueberries and local maple syrup.

I am even begining to become a believer in their motto, which is printed on T-shirts and mugs they sell, that "If we don't have it, you don't need it." There was a time when we first moved in and I sent my dad there to get drawer pulls for my son's dresser since his were lost in the move. And, alas, Dan & Whit's doesn't carry them. I sarcastically scoffed, "See ... something I need and they don't have it. Where is the truth in advertising!" But I still haven't bought any drawer pulls, and have managed to get in and out of the drawers in my son's dresser just fine ... so, while they would be nice to have, I guess I don't need them after all. Long live Dan & Whit's!

A beautiful thing happened to me the other day

Shortly after I lost my baby boy, I was sitting alone in the livingroom leafing through the literature I had been given at the hospital. In particular, I found a pamphlet filled with information about what to expect after a loss, how to make wise decisions, and the importance of allowing one's self to grieve. It was peppered with beautiful quotes and poems about loss and love. One was a few lines from John Denver's song "Sunshine on my Shoulders." It had been written by someone who had given birth to a son at 38 weeks. He had died in the womb the night before his due date. I saw pictures of the parents holding the sleeping little one with a bittersweet mixture of pride and grief on their faces. As I studied the photos of those brave parents, I realized that I had just joined a very unlucky, but wonderfully compassionate community. No one else would understand what I was feeling except for them. Later that night, I was looking for something to post on my Facebook page. I wanted my friends to know that I had lost my son without having to say it. I had told them I would let them know somehow, and I knew that my close friends would get it without me saying anything. So, I googled the lyrics to "Sunshine on my Shoulders" and found exactly the passage I had been looking for -- something that I would say to my son if I could: "If I had a tale that I could tell you I'd tell a tale sure to make you smile If I had a wish that I could wish for you I'd make a wish for sunshine all the while" Today my living son and I were driving home from swimming lessons. It had been one of the first particularly sunny days in several weeks. As I drove alongide the Connecticut river, I was thinking how beautiful it looked with the sun playing on its surface. I was actually starting to see the beauty in my surroundings again and it felt good. My son started asking me to turn the radio on. I almost didn't since he sort of yelled it and we are working on developing manners. I asked him to say, "please." I waited a moment for him to say the word, and once he did, I turned the radio on. And what was playing? Sunshine on my Shoulders ... but not just any part ... the part right when my special verse starts. It was the first time I had even heard the song in years. I certainly couldn't listen to it after I lost my son even though it played in my head for a solid week. I began to cry, but this time it was with so much happiness and gratittude for having just been given this incredible gift--coincidence or not. I was so proud of both my sons right then--the one who gave new meaning to an old song and the one demanded that I play the radio at just the right moment. As I got out of the car, I looked up at the bright blue sky and blew a kiss to Jason, then whispered, "Thank you." And this time, I remembered to blow an extra kiss to baby Gem, who shall no longer be forgotten. It was an hour later when I realized that the song was playing exactly two weeks to the hour that I felt my son kick for the last time ... when I knew I had lost him.

One thing I miss about California

Not being Catholic, I don't know much about patron saints except that they are associated with certain life situations. They intercede to God for us. We can take our special needs to them and know that they will listen to our prayers. I have one of those in my life and her name is Maria de Jesus Flores Sanchez. But everyone who knows and loves her calls her one of two things: "Mami" or "Chuey". I don't think she qualifies as a "real" saint though, as she is still alive and is raising for children of her own. (But, I think that sort of qualifies anyone for sainthood, don't you?). She likes a beer once in a blue moon, has great taste in clothes and furniture and can make a meal to feed twenty out of a few grains of rice, a tomato and whatever else might be in the fridge. She sings while she works, can get any stain out of any piece of clothing (and I am talking black magic marker on white jeans ... I have seen her do it) and can fold three loads of laundry while cooing a fussy baby on her hip. Her only dreams are to steal away to a beach in Mexico where no one can find her for a day ... or four ... and to send her children to college. And for two amazing years, she was my son's nanny. People used to ask me how I found her. My reply was always the same. "By the grace of God," I would say. And it was true. There is no other way to explain it. She and her sister showed up on my doorstep offering to clean my house for a great price and I took them up on it. I asked the sister, who spoke fluent English, if she knew of anyone who would take care of children and she looked right at Maria and said, "She can and she needs a job." The first day she came to work, I was dead tired. My 3 month old wasn't sleeping through the night, much less a few hours, and I was starting back to work at my marketing job that I did from home. I knew she was experienced. Her four children were well dressed, well behaved and seemed to be doing just fine. I also knew that her oldest had been born at 2.5 pounds, several weeks premature, and was expected not to make it. He was now in junior high and dreaming of joining the high school footbal team in a couple of years. I must have looked like a wreck in my mismatched pajamas stained with breast milk and my hair uncombed. I nervously handed her the baby and said, "He doesn't sleep and he hardly naps. I am just warning you." She said, "You no worry" and she wrapped him up tighter than a tacquito, pulled him to her chest and began singing to him as she disappeared into the livingroom. I didn't know what to do with myself, so went into my office, shut the door and booted up my laptop. After checking email, I fell asleep in my chair. Almost three hours later, I went out into the livingroom to find my entire house cleaned top to bottom, the second load of laundry in the washer and my son happily napping in his crib. Maria looked bored sitting on my sofa leafing through a magazine. When she saw me, she jumped up and asked, "You hungry?" "Uh ... I don't know .. I mean, yes. But there is no food in the house." 15 minutes later, I had a plate with a quesadilla, fried potatoes and a neatly sectioned orange on my desk. Had I just died and gone to heaven? I remember being warned by my more childcare-savvy friends not to let her children come to the house. But it turns out they were as fabulous as her, treating my son as if he were the fifth duckling. Teaching him how to play soccer, sharing their candy and letting him have a turn at all their toys. He soon began going to her house every once in a while. It wasn't long before my son was calling her "Mami" and me "Mama". Her husband became "Papi" while my husband was "Dada". He even had a surrogate grandmother who loved him like he was her own. I remember picking him up at their house and seeing him perched on "Abuela's" hip while she sang a Mexican folk song and stirred a pot of chicken stew. One friend asked me, "Aren't you jealous when he cries for her?" No, I was not jealous. I was elated. So it went for another year and a half, like a very sweet dream. Not only did she take impeccable care of my son, she did ... well, everything ... and never once raised her voice or was in a bad mood. The one time she couldn't work (her daughter had broken her finger) she sent her sister in her place. I felt like I was experiencing what a close knit family was really like. Something my husband and I had always wanted for us and for our son. And, then, I learned I was pregnant with my second child. Maria couldn't have been happier for me and began cooking more and more meals and urging me to keep my feet up. I wasn't even allowed to get my own water. On the morning when I miscarried the baby, I couldn't stop the bleeding. My bathroom looked like a murder scene. Every towel and rug had been soiled, so I shut everything in the bathroom door before I left to go to the doctor. "Please don't go in there," I said to her, sternly. When I came home, there was a giant plate of my new favorite food, potato tacos, on the table and a very worried Maria sitting on the floor playing cars with my son. I immediately went to the bathroom to start cleaning only to find it spotless and all the linens washed and put away. "Maria! You shouldn't have done that. It was awful in there." She looked right at me and said, "For you .." That was all the English she knew to explain her actions, but I could complete the sentence for her ... "For you I would do anything." And the feeling was mutual. During those two years, there was almost nothing we didn't do to help each other. Sometimes we even cried together, and many times we laughed together. We hit all thre thrift stores and garage sales together, but no one could possibly understand how we could sit for an hour (when I should have been working) engaged in deep conversation when neither of us spoke the other's language. And to be honest, not even I know how we did that. She helped to give my son the best start in life possible. And she took care of his parents too when we most needed it. I paid her as much as I possibly could, translated for them, wrote her husband's resume and remembered each of her children's birthdays. At Christmas, we all baked cookies together and exchanged gifts. We were family.When it came time for us to move across the country, it was telling Maria that would become the hardest part of the process. I was worried for her. I offered to find her work, but she refused. She said she couldn't take on another nanny job because she just got too attached. All she wanted were some pictures and a chance to see him again. I promised her both. The pictures are in the mail and we just spoke on the phone for the first time in two months about some potential times to visit each other. Then I passed my son the phone and he talked to his "Mami". He was so excited and when she said his name the way she always said it ... like no one else could, he patted his chest, jumped up and down and said, "Yes!!!! That's me!!!!" We all exchanged heartfelt "I love you's" and hung up the phone. I can't wait to see her again.