Cindy on July 15th, 2009
“You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance.” — Franklin P. Jones
Special Note: On break from blogging, I’m running favorite pieces from my essay collection, Writing Home. This one recalls my first attempts at camping when my son was younger. Share your own camping memories in the comment link following the essay …
Thanks to my previous career as a travel editor, I know how to rate a mattress and a motel bathroom. I’m right at home in a wicker rocker on the porch of a quiet country inn, sipping a tall glass of Long Island iced tea while watching the sun dip behind a mountain range.
But until my son joined Cub Scouts two years ago, my getaways did not include wilderness adventures. To me, communing with nature meant reading Thoreau or potting begonias on the patio. Spending a weekend in the woods of rural Michigan — with a chorus of bull frogs, sundry snakes, ticks, two dozen little boys and their suburban-Detroit mothers — didn’t sound like my idea of a good time.
Like most parents, however, I’ve learned to adapt. And while I am not exactly what you’d call a happy camper, the Scouts have taught me to appreciate the Great Outdoors. In fact, this fall I’ll embark on my third annual “Mom & Me” camping weekend with Nate’s pack. These weekends were designed to encourage mother-and-son bonding, and to refute the theory that women will not sleep with insects.
I’ve also learned that the travel writer’s motto, “Always pack light,” doesn’t apply to north woods camping. On our first outing, for instance, Nate fell into a bog within fifteen minutes of our arrival at the camp site. He had to borrow my hiking boots until his own dried out the next day. Meanwhile, I had no choice but to tour the swamp in soggy tennis shoes.
“This weekend is an endurance test for parents,” one mom confided, half-seriously.
The following year I stuffed half a dozen pairs of boots into the back of our Jeep, but forgot my own raincoat. Of course, that was the weekend it poured and poured … and poured. I’ll never forget the sight of six devoted moms building a campfire in the evening drizzle. (We were determined to do this thing right: We were going to roast every single hot dog and melt every marshmallow we’d hauled along with our Dura-flame logs.) Our boys, however, were smart enough to hide from the rain. Searching the campground by flashlight, we finally found them in one of the cabins playing Life, the board game of the moment.
“Bring the hot dogs in here,” one nine-year-old demanded as he scooted his car-shaped marker across the board. “I’m getting ready to sell one of my houses and I’m having a midlife crisis!”
If we’re very lucky, the hike to the public restrooms is only 15 minutes (uphill) from our campsite. The trick, I found, is to keep a spare flashlight in your sleeping bag so that you can grab it quickly if nature calls at 2:00 a.m.
Nobody sleeps much on these weekends. The kids are buzzing on caffeine, having consumed several gallons of Pepsi and Mountain Dew. The moms, smelling like a bonfire and desperately wishing for one hot shower, toss fitfully in their sleeping bags while the boys play flashlight games and tell ghost stories.
“Did you hear the one about the one-eyed man who went berserk in the north woods and was NEVER FOUND…?”
After two nights like these, the long drive back on Sunday is tolerable only with a mug of instant coffee and the promise of a warm bath. Completely exhausted, Nate and I usually ride home in silence. But last October, on the way home he mumbled, “Thanks for the weekend, Mom…Great weekend.” It was a rare moment of sincere, unprompted gratitude.
Catching a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, I remembered I wasn’t wearing makeup. My eyes looked older, and in an instant I saw the years racing past me like the cars on the expressway. My boy looked older, too, his lanky body slouched on the seat next to me. Suddenly, that weekend — my endurance test — seemed awfully short. I was proud of myself for hiking swamps and building fires in the rain. – Cindy La Ferle
– This essay orginally appeared in The Plain Dealer Sunday Magazine (Cleveland) and MetroParent (Detroit). It is reprinted in Writing Home. –
Cindy on July 6th, 2009
“In summer, the song sings itself.” — William Carlos Williams
While June 21st was officially our first day of summer, I think the Fourth of July is the real kickoff for the season. So much to do under the sun until September !
I won’t be posting new material quite as often this month, but starting this week I’ll be running favorite pieces from my essay collection, Writing Home, while I take a short break. And before I forget — soon I’ll be posting news of fall writing workshops, as well as a couple of speaking events and writers’ conferences…. . So please stay tuned when you can. Meanwhile, look for me outdoors — in the garden, at my favorite cafe downtown, or riding my bicycle. Here’s to summer — hope you’re savoring every minute! — CL
– Garden photo by Cindy La Ferle –
Cindy on March 5th, 2009
“It is in playing, and perhaps only in playing, that the child is free to be creative.” — D.W. Winnicott
Mattel’s Barbie turns 50 this month, and her devoted fans are throwing birthday parties right and left. Even her biggest critics are giving the iconic doll extra points for longevity. Barbie was a huge part of my life back in the 1960s, and I’ve written a tribute to her in this week’s MIDPOINT column in The Oakland Press.* I’d love to hear from readers who want to share some happy (OR not-so-happy) memories of Barbie or other toys that populated your world when you were small. — CL
*Previous Midpoint columns are archived with links to The Oakland Press (look under CATEGORIES in the “Browse” panel at right). These columns focus on issues of special interest to women between ages 40 and 65.
Cindy on February 27th, 2009
“Silly is you in a natural state, and serious is something you have to do until you can get silly again.” — Mike Myers
Who knew? Who knew that in the midst of a grim recession, someone would dream up a bizarre blanket with arms and other people would actually buy it? Yeah, I’m talking about the Snuggie. Everyone in my family has a wonderfully warped sense of humor. For weeks my son and I have had fun mocking the Snuggie infomercial, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when he mailed his dad and me a mystery package containing two sage green Snuggies.
On my Facebook profile, several friends goaded me into posting a photo of myself in my new Snuggie. But since I have no pride whatsoever, I’ve decided to share it here with everyone. My only regret? I don’t have the red Snuggie, which would surely make me look like a member of the Emperor’s Royal Guard in Stars Wars. Maybe I’ll order one, and while I’m at it, I’ll get myself a Shuffles Shoe Mop. — CL
Cindy on February 4th, 2009
“The imagination needs moodling — long, inefficient, happy idling, dawdling, and puttering.” — Brenda Ueland
Right now, the landscape outside my office window looks more like the moon than southeast Michigan. Even when the sun shines, my seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is always at its worst in February. Meanwhile, several of my friends are heading to Florida this week. And I’m not.
When SAD strikes, I find it hard to concentrate or to get motivated. I get crabby and impatient and fed-up with people I’m usually fond of. But after years of battling it, I’ve learned that the best antidote — barring a trip to Bermuda — is a long afternoon of guilt-free puttering.
Cheaper than air fare or psychotherapy, puttering lets your mind wander while your body hangs out around the house. And unlike fall housecleaning, which involves physical energy and high-powered appliances, puttering puts you in a Zen-like state of bliss. Not to be confused with slacking, fidgeting, fiddling, or piddling, puttering is good for mental health. In fact, Brenda Ueland, author of the classic If You Want to Write, insisted that long periods of “moodling” (her word for puttering) are essential to the creative process.
Sadly, ours is a goal-directed, work-till-you-drop culture. And since most of us like to boast about how terribly busy we are, puttering is never easy to pull off.
For those who practice on the sly, like I do, puttering styles are varied and highly personal.
Puttering can be the act of sorting through a box of college textbooks in the basement; tinkering under the hood of an old Chevy; or rearranging things on a shelf while you listen to jazz on the stereo. In other words, puttering is a way of clarifying life’s myriad details, especially when it’s done with reverence for the objects at hand. It’s an opportunity to reconsider what we most enjoy in our homes, and to make a mental list of what we’d like to edit later.
Feeling sluggish and blue last week, I decided to putter in the kitchen. Taking inventory of my good china, I lost myself in happy memories of the two grandmothers who had actually used all the serving pieces for holiday dinners. I marveled, too, at how both sets of dishes have survived several moves and kitchen renovations – and somehow outlived their original owners.
If puttering still sounds like a chore you’ve postponed, it’s only because you haven’t found a method that cheers or relaxes you. One man’s notion of drudgery, after all, can be another’s idea of soul craft.
“I can’t explain it, but I enjoy doing dishes,” writes Thomas Moore, a former Catholic monk and author of Care of the Soul. “I’ve had an automatic dishwasher in my home for over a year, and I have never used it. What appeals to me, I think, is the reverie induced by going through the ritual of washing, rinsing, and drying.” Thomas Moore can come over to my house and wash dishes any time he visits Detroit (especially if his visit coincides with another power failure). Meanwhile, I’ll keep loading my dishwasher.
Still, there’s merit in savoring the ordinary tasks of daily living.
A lot of us spend our lives reaching for lofty goals, or at least trying to look productive 24/7. This wouldn’t be such a bad thing if so many of us weren’t scratching our heads and wondering what’s missing even after we’ve won all the trophies. (Consider all those baby-boomer executives who can’t wait to retire.)
“My life has no purpose, no direction, no aim, no meaning, and yet I’m happy. I can’t figure it out. What am I doing right?” observed Charles M. Schulz, creator of Peanuts. Charlie Brown, after all, was pretty good at puttering. — Cindy La Ferle
– Parts of this essay are excerpted from Writing Home –
