Guilty Pleasure

It’s becoming a guilty pleasure every time I visit Mom that Bea tells me I’m a good daughter and Newton strides over for a one-arm hug.  Mom is still having a difficult time adjusting to her new surroundings but I am seeing progress.  She is wrestling with her inner Girl Scout and calling up her can-do spirit.   The food is lousy but she eats it.  The room is spinning but she stands up.  She can’t remember she went to knitting but she will trust me if I tell her we did.

I thought dementia was simply about forgetting but apparently it is about a whole lot more and I am just beginning to figure it out.  It’s so painful to watch.  I’ve coined a phrase, “we don’t put our dogs through this,” but I don’t even know what I am saying.  Who is putting Mom through this?  Certainly not me.  Bea told me I’m a good daughter.

I know when I walk out the room, she doesn’t remember I came.  She can’t remember that she ate lunch in the dining room with her new friend Bea. She’s not even sure Bea is her new friend but she is starting to recognize her face. 

A Cat Scan (not a Dog Scan,) shows Mom’s brain has shrunk.  I wonder if this is the reason the room spins for her now.  I ask and I’m told that isn’t dementia.  Who knows why the room spins, I certainly don’t and neither does anyone else.  And just when I thought Mom couldn’t reason anymore, she tells me what she’s got to do.  She’s got to stop trying to figure out what’s what and get stronger so she can walk out the door.  It’s her guilty pleasure and each day she’s dreaming about it.

GRAND CANYON MULE FAIL

Listen to you heart

It’s pounding a message that only you can hear

Until tears spring your eyes, flood your face and you can’t catch your breath.

That’s when everyone finally knows what you’ve been telling them all along is true:

“I’m afraid of heights.”

This story begins in 2014 when I said to Eric, "Let’s get away.  I’m 50; you’ll soon be 50.  We need to do something big together." Then I suggested we go to Paris. 

Eric said, “I hate Paris.” (Don’t know why since he’s never been to Paris.)

I said, “You can’t just say no.  You have to make a counter-offer.”

A few months later Eric came back with his counter offer: “I booked us a two-night stay at Phantom Ranch at the bottom of Grand Canyon.  I’m hiking and you’re taking the mule.”

I looked at him calmly and said, “I’m afraid of heights; why can’t I hike with you instead?” 

In the month leading up to Grand Canyon, I started to feel a tourniquet on my heart.  I thought it was holiday stress... you know, Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat, how the heck will I ever get the halls decked, the presents wrapped and still manage the holy peace that comes with celebrating my faith and relishing the love of family and friends surrounding me.  As the time to leave for Grand Canyon got closer, the pain in my chest got worse.  Around Thanksgiving I realized I was having a slow-burning panic attack about riding the mule 4,800 feet down into the canyon by myself while Eric hoofed it himself.  First I talked to my hairdresser; she suggested Vitamin B’s to calm my nerves.  Then I talked to my college roommate; she suggested Ativan to calm my nerves.  Then I talked to my neighbor who actually gave me Ativan.  In the end, I took my doggie’s masseuse’s advice and booked a trail ride at Rock Creek Horse Center to get the feel of riding on uneven terrain.  The ride was nice but I wasn’t convinced afterwards that I had in anyway simulated a canyon mule ride and gotten over my fear.  Subsequently, my chest still ached.

On December 12^th, Eric and I boarded the plane, flew to Las Vegas, rented a car and drove past the Hoover Dam toward our final destination 4 hours away.  Eric booked us a cute little cabin; we ate at the bar and talked with a mountain hiker/biker from Flagstaff for the better part of the evening.  All was good until the next morning.  

After a quick breakfast, I showed up at the ring and mounted Mabel, the fourth Mule in line.  Then our guide gave us the low down:  

“The Mule ride is 5 hours.  You will have the opportunity to stretch your legs and eat after an hour and a half when we take a break.  No matter what, don’t let space come between you and the Mule in front of you or your Mule will run to catch up.  Use the Mule Motivator (also called a whip) on your Mule’s behind and not on your Mule's saddle.  Don’t ever lean or your Mule will lean the other way and mostly likely toward the thing you are trying to lean away from (read: the canyon ledge). Finally: the Mule ride is not for everyone.  After we have ridden for about 10 minutes, we’ll stop and see how everyone is doing.”  

Right then and there I knew I had an out, but nevertheless I made a deal with myself to give it the old Girls Scout try despite never having been a Girl Scout.

So far so good.  The saddle fit and my vintage 1991 ACL repair didn’t scream at me.  I’ve been taking English riding lessons for the better part of three years so I tested my still-beginner knowledge on Mabel the Mule and discovered Mabel knows balance equitation too despite my only being allowed to use one hand on the reigns at all times.  Then we lined up, walked out of the ring, and turned onto Bright Angel Trail to begin our descent.  The first 50 feet was just like the trail ride at Rock Creek Horse Center but after the switch back, I lost what little nerve I had.

“Don’t hold your breath.  Exhale.”  I told myself as we rounded the first curve.  On the straightaway, Mabel took the outermost edge of the trail in order to see where she was going.  More self talk:

“Exhale.  Don’t lean."  I paniced some more because I can’t stear with one hand. "Don’t stear!!" I tell myself. "Mabel knows where she’s going.” 

Soon I realized I wasn’t breathing I was only exhaling.  So I took a breath, then another shallow breath.  It wasn’t long before I was hyperventilating.  I kept my eyes up. I faced the wall.  I pulled Mabel off the weeds; she ran on the icy trail and caught up with Mule Three. We stopped. I looked down, saw Eric, burst into tears then put my head in my hands while Mabel enjoyed the view.

I watched Eric slowly ascend the trail.  The trail guides were beside me now wondering what I was going to do.  Not once did they try to talk me into continuing the ride down the Canyon.  Imagine I Love Lucy on the Mule only it’s not funny.  Rider Number 5 gave me an out when she said, “Mabel was riding rather close to the edge; I was afraid my Mule would follow her.”  I mouthed thank you and promptly dismounted.

Eric and I never made it to the Canyon Floor.  In December if you don’t get an early start on the trail, you lose light.  Instead Eric let me collect myself over an early lunch and big bag of salty potato chips before hiking the Kaibab Trail on South Rim. 

Honestly, I am so glad I didn’t ride the Mule.  The disappointment of letting my fear run rough shod over me was eventually replaced with a sense of pride.  That day, December 13^th, was probably my steepest hike to date as we traveled South Kaibab Trail about 2 miles, 1200 feet down into the canyon and enjoyed a simple turkey sub on O’Neill Butte.

The next day we hiked another 1.5 miles, 1200 feet along Hermit Trail down to Waldron Trail Junction and enjoyed a vista still verdant and full of birds feasting in the brush.  It was here, along the Waldron Trail, that I discovered proof that one time, a long geologic time ago, water flooded the canyon when I picked up a piece a sandstone revealing a near whole, fossilized mollusk.      

I am a Mule Fail and proud of it.  And even if I can’t hike to the canyon floor and back in one day like our bar fly can, I have discovered there is still more miles and elevation in me.  I don’t know if I will ever get back to the Grand Canyon because there are so many wonderful places to see.  But I do know that maybe this year, 2015, will be the year I tackle Old Rag in the Shenandoah Mountains.  But before I do, I will have to get this video clip out of my head or my heart will pound me into submission again.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CBeCB831mug

BTW, cell phone pictures don't do the Grand Canyon justice, but if you ever find yourself on the Hermit Trail, look to the Rock Face for courage.

Cricket Crawl DC Baltimore 2014

August 22nd, 2014, I participated in my first-ever citizen science project.  Cricket Crawl DC Baltimore 2014 is a project started by ANS* insect teacher Cathy Stragar for the Natural History Society of Maryland.  What follows recaps my adventures including the scope of the project which was simply this:

Pick a place to listen to crickets and katydids singing after 9 at night and in one minute record what you hear on the official Cricket Crawl data sheet. Submit your findings via email, twitter or instagram.  The study tracks 8 species whose calls are uploaded to SoundCloud and available for listening on the Cricket Crawl DC Baltimore 2014 Facebook page and website.  

Cricket Crawl was fun, and despite not following the instructions completely, I'm happy to report that I heard more than I thought I would. I don’t tweet and I don’t twitter so when I re-read the instructions the next day, I discovered too late that I needed to email my results immediately. I felt badly.  I emailed my teacher hoping for the best... the best being that my data was included in the study.  Like the insects I was listening to, all I wanted was to be counted.

I've stared long and hard at bugs before, whether I knew what I was looking at or not, because I find bugs interesting.  (Who doesn't when you consider that insects comprise 75% of the animal kingdom?)  Since taking Insect Life at ANS this summer, I've learned a little more about identifying insects, sorting them by class and have started paying closer attention to who's playing "summer's symphony" day and night.

When all the insects sing, it's difficult to distinguish individual calls and name each one properly. Oh the noise, noise, noise. But when I stepped out my front door to begin cricket crawling, I singled out the Lesser Anglewing immediately.  Amid the cacophony, this crisp sound came from across the street. In fact, it probably came from my neighbor’s towering oak trees. But my target study area was Ayrlawn Park at the end of the street; it was time for me to move on. 

When I reached the top of the park, I put down my paraphernalia which included two field guides, a clip board, flashlight, smart phone and a fancy-schmancy messenger bag to carry all this stuff and set up my chair.  I pulled out my smart phone, opened Facebook and began to listen for crickets.  But all I could hear was the “damn” sleigh bell ring of the tree crickets – sleigh bells drowned out all the other singers and they aren't on the Cricket Crawl SoundCloud survey.  So I grabbed my chair, packed my stuff and headed further into the open field where I set-up a new camp. That's when I really began to tune my ear and record my findings.

The first note I heard came from the Japanese Burrowing Cricket.  The second call was a Common True Katydid. As I trekked further into the 9-acre woods that flank Ayrlawn Park I heard the rest of the band play including a Jumping Bush Cricket and Fork-tailed Katydid.

However, I did not hear the common Field Cricket's classic chirp, nor the Greater Anglewing which sounds like a geiger counter, and neither did the Oblong-winged Katydid sing for me.  Its call is too high and out of my hearing range.  Like Goldilocks, I need everything "just right."

Since that night I have heard the Greater Anglewing sing in my neighbor's tree.  And last Saturday this Fork-tailed Katydid pictured below spent the evening with me.  I hoped it would tell me the story of how it lost a leg but instead it remained silent on the subject.

The good news is this: the crickets will continue to sing as long it's a dry night and the temperature doesn't drop below 60F.  If you want to tune your ear now for Cricket Crawl 2015 you can! Just follow this link to hear the species sing:  https://soundcloud.com/cricketcrawl2013

*ANS is short for Audubon Naturalist Society located at Woodend in Chevy Chase, MD.

THE LITTLE PERP

I didn’t know his name 

but the Perp was black,

and had six legs.

One set spread out

long and wide

                at his side.

And he used them like paddles, canoeing the tide pool at Ocean City, NJ where we were vacationing.

So I did what anyone would do...

I picked him up. 

I could tell the little bugger was uncomfortable in my hand because he went slack.  Not wanting him to get away so fast, I secured permission from Tommy and Anna to let the bugger swim in the moat they had built for their Hermit Crab collection.  By now they had amassed over 100 little crabs and created three warring states.  My guy swam among them, diving down every so often for what I don’t know but he seemed happy enough.

Then along came three little boys who wanted to see what we were up to.  The oldest was curious and liked the idea of holding my bug so I let him.  I told the kid I liked how he held the bug; that he was kind not to kill him.  Then I suggested he let the bug swim again.  He didn't, instead he said,

“I want to show him to my… OW!”

Then he cried… really loud too.

Now I’m in trouble.

Who knew the bugger didn’t like being held so much?  (I guessed as much.)

Who knew the bugger could sting like a bee?  (I certainly didn’t; he never stung me!)

How was I going to explain this to the kid’s Mom?  The only thing I was certain of was that my bug was a True Bug, Order Hemiptera, Class Insecta, Phyllum, Arthropoda.  Beyond that, I wasn’t certain whether his sting was poisonous like a scorpion or spider, also both arthropods but not true bugs.

In the end, his Mom took it well; his Grandpa laughed.  When I got home, I looked the bugger up and discovered my paddler is a Water Boatman, Hesperocorixa vulgaris. 

How appropriate. 

And in the National Wildlife Federation Field Guide to Insects and Spiders of North America, it says on page 116:  “These insects will deliver a stinging bite if handled carelessly.” Need I say more? J

A HUG FOR ONE ROCK

Can you imagine what it feels like to work at a place where everyone wants to hug you? I can and it's wonderful.

At the end of volunteering for Audubon Naturalist Society’s Unplug and Play Afterschool Program on Wednesday, the students swarmed me for wanting more pieces of me.  I swear.  And all because I had just given them a rock... or two as the case may be.  And then I told them a story that went like this:

“I got a rock…

That you can choose for your very own but please, when I see you next, tell me what you did with it.

In my family, rocks are special.  Not just because they come from deep beneath the earth but because when all else fails, it’s something to play with.

Sometimes, when we are walking along a river or creek, my kids will pick up a rock, skip it and count the rings.  But if their rock isn’t flat enough, they will simply throw it as far as they can and say “Look, Rock Fish!”

If we are walking along a wooded path, sometimes I’ll see monuments made out rocks that others before me stacked up.  In that moment, I will find my own rock and add it to the pile so everyone else knows I was there too. 

Sometimes my kids will paint their rock and add it to my garden. 

One thing they never do is throw it at another person.  It would be disrespectful to the rock.

So enjoy this river rock, and the next time I see you, whether it’s next week or after Spring Break, tell me what you did with it because I want to know.”

See.  Getting hugs is that easy.  So on the way home, I crafted this poem which reflects just how I feel right now…

I am playing the part of a naturalist

And the woods are my proscenium.

If you all be my audience

Then you’ll be my muse too

Because I need you.

“BITE YOUR HEAD OFF”

Until now “bite your head off” was just an expression.  No one does that really.  It is a metaphor for “stay out of my way.”  An expression of anger… at you… at me… at something…  The what doesn’t generally matter.  No “wrong-doing” need actually occur between biter and bitee.  To bite your head off is an act of displacement, transferring aggression between brother and sister because mom just scolded one of you.

Until now... when I yelled at my dog Rover to "COME HERE; BAD BOY!” The next dog (her name is Addie) to get in his way after being duly humiliated by me got more than just a show of teeth.  I was shocked.  Rover is usually so quiet.  I used to call him a beta dog until someone corrected me and said that isn't a term.  But alpha dog is a term and Addie is an alpha dog until Rover set her straight by barring his teeth and growling then lunging at her face to bite it off for simply sniffing and welcoming him to the dog walk.

Bite your head off.   I get it.  Even dogs pass it on.

THE MERITS OF SCOUTING

Camping

If Tommy wasn’t a Boy Scout, I might never learn to pitch a tent because my husband refuses to camp with me.  He fears I’ll make him do all the work.  In Boy Scouts, the boys have to do all the work so I’m good to go now!

Birding

Eric finds birding boring.  Tommy signed up for Bird Study two years ago and now he wants to finish it.  Since summer started we’ve gone biking and kayaking together and identified at least 10 birds.  He needs 20 birds for the badge.  You know what that means?  Tommy and I are going hiking soon.

Laundry

No Scout becomes an Eagle Scout without completing Family Life.  And no Scout earns Family Life without doing laundry.  Tommy earned Family Life; I made sure of it.

Lists

It’s come to my attention that making lists is a girl thing.  Not a boy thing.  However, making lists is an important life skill.  So when it was time to pack for Philmont, do you know the first thing Bobby did?  He made a list.  It’s a start and I’ll take it.

Ga-Ga, Murder & Mafia

I still haven’t figured out what the rules of play are but one thing is for certain – when the boys are playing Ga-Ga, Murder & Mafia they are unplugged.

Stories

Boy Scouts leave their electronics behind when they go camping, including cameras.  And as much as I would like to see some of the places they go without me, the stories they come home with are even better.   

Beef Jerky

Personally, I won’t touch the stuff but at least I know Tommy won’t starve on the trail as long as he has a bag of beef jerky.

Less is More

When Tommy came home from Seabase with a bag full of laundry, I knew he didn’t over pack – he took only what he needed.  Isn’t that how traveling should be? 

Speaking of Scouting          

Boys Scouts speak all the time.  They speak at weekly meetings; they speak at Court of Honor; they speak to one another when they are camping.  In fact, you’d be surprised how much a boy has to say when you don’t ask them, “how was your day?”

Badges

Earning Merit Badges is fun and they look good too.  Even Tommy thinks his uniform looks better with 13 badges adorning it.  And I think the look of pride on his face every time he earns a new badge is beautiful.  But badge or no badge, the real merits of Scouting are the experiences gained every time the boys are camping, hiking, biking, skiing, rafting, caving, volunteering, orienteering or just plain cheering.  No one can take that away from them; they earned it.