Toy Story

Getting ready for Christmas brings lots of memories of the years when David and John were young – years of excitement and wonder and magic along with icing drips on the Christmas cookies, interminable sessions at Children’s Palace, carrots for Santa’s reindeer and blizzards of wrapping paper, ribbon and boxes on Christmas morning.  This will be my first Christmas as a grandparent, an ideal role for someone my age because, at 60 plus, there is absolutely no way I could brave the tsunami of toys that used to engulf our house every November and December.

With Christmas plus a November and a December birthday (colossally bad planning), a host of loving thoughtful grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends inundated the boys with presents.  We had no idea that those adorable Fisher Price toddler toys like the school bus, the garage, the family camper and the schoolhouse were just the tip of a massive iceberg.  Soon, wave after wave of toys swept over us - billions of blocks, mountains of matchbox cars, legions of LEGOs, piles of PlayMobiles, an avalanche of athletic gear, a glut of games and a wealth of weapons. (See my March post, “Arms and the Boys” for more on that subject.)  This was in addition to big items like a toddler slide, a chalk board, a play grocery store, a red wagon, a bumper pool table and a tabletop ice hockey game.

While I was often the designated shopper for the grandparents, that didn’t mean I could control how much came into the house.  Everyone wanted to give gifts with the WOW factor, especially my grandmother, Nana K.  Her favorite year was when I chose Civil War battle sets as her gifts to David and John.  As a native of Alabama, a one-time resident of “the first White House of the Confederacy;” and, if you believe my dad, a personal friend of Robert E. Lee, Nana was as excited about those gifts as the boys were.  Each set had a cardboard antebellum mansion and more cannons, cannonballs, tents, horses and blue and grey guys than the boys could count.  All that was missing was Scarlett O’Hara so almost everybody was happy.  As for me, I can’t really reconstruct the thought process that led me to buy even one of those toys, not to mention two; but I do remember my shock at how many pieces came out of the boxes.

It quickly became apparent that resistance was futile.  The most appealing toys had the most parts.  Every Star Wars guy had a removable helmet and one or more weapons as well as props ranging from the Millennium Falcon and the Ewok Village to these gangly things that looked like intergalactic Tyrannosaurs.  The PlayMobile Western sets included a fort, a jailhouse, Indian tepees, covered wagons and, naturally, a saloon.  In the PlayMobile Castle set, even the horses had accessories – those skirts they wore in medieval times and silver helmets with plumes, detachable, of course.

What did David and John do with all that stuff? Well, if they had skipped school and bedtime and played 24-7, they still couldn’t have played with everything they owned; but they certainly made a good attempt.  With their fleet of heavy metal backhoes, graders and dump trucks, they moved enough earth to dig to China. When outdoor construction shut down for the winter, John kept his edge by digging in a big box of dried navy beans.

With their garbage cans full of blocks (including some really big ones my dad made for them) and their suitcases full of outer space and castle LEGOs, they constructed edifices rivaling the Great Pyramids, the Roman Forum, Windsor Castle, Fort Ticonderoga, the Empire State Building and the Space Station.  Their wooden and, later, metal train tracks and car racetracks could have connected the East and West Coasts.

With their armies of guys, horses, vehicles and weapons, the boys made what they called “Set-Ups,” recreating the Gallic Wars, the Crusades, the Spanish Main, Gettysburg, Little Big Horn, Pork Chop Hill and Star Wars, sometimes all at once.  A Set-Up would fill every corner of the room, sometimes lasting for a week or more.  The rule was that there had to be a clear path between the bed and the bedroom door although sometimes the path wouldn’t have let a garter snake through.  When I finally announced it was clean up time, there was always a lot of complaining, followed by gut-wrenching emotion of an intensity not seen since  Robin Hood, with an arrow in his breast, bid his Merry Men goodbye or Douglas McArthur gave his “old soldiers never die” speech.  To soften the blow, I took multiple photos before they conducted a no-holds-barred Last Battle – nothing like a gigantic shoot-em-up to ease the pangs of separation.

I must admit that David and John did really have some cool toys – things I would have loved as a kid. The only toys I never took to were Plug Uglies like the Masters of the Universe and the Transformers.  The Masters of the Universe were disgusting TV characters with squatty little legs and grotesquely bulging torsos that could only be the product of steroid overdoses, a probable explanation for their offensive behavior, clearly manifestations of ‘roid rage.  More than once I’ve skipped a session at the gym for fear I’d end up looking like one of those obnoxious, over-flexed hunks of flesh.  Transformers were jeeps and trucks and airplanes with aggressive names like Ravage, Double Punch, Scourge, and Grimlock - their appeal to boys was that they could be transformed into surly, leering, combative robots.   Need I say more.

For those of you who are experiencing your first toy invasion, all I can say is, it’s going to get worse – a lot worse – before it gets better.  I can offer a few pieces of advice.  Don’t expect Santa Claus to assemble the 795-piece PlayMobile Pirate Ship complete with lifeboat, crow’s nest, sails, riggings and pieces-of-eight.  Be aware that making space for two of everything is a steep price to pay to avoid sibling squabbles, but it's your call.  And, in a few years, set the stage for an October garage sale of toys, by telling the kids, “We can’t bring any more stuff into this house until some stuff goes out.” This at least slows the rate at which you get buried.  If it’s any consolation, before you know it, your kids will be asking for major electronics or cars for Christmas and you’ll look back on the Toy Era with feelings of nostalgia.

Eight years ago, Paul and I packed up the contents of the house where we had raised our family and prepared for our big move. Sorting through David and John’s old toys brought back lots of good memories, and we boxed up some (actually, many) of the classics “for the grandkids.” We had really loved that house and the years we spent there, but we didn’t feel any regret or sadness at moving.  Since the kids who had shared the house with us were grown up and gone, it really felt right for us to be leaving, too.  The only thing that gave us both a lump in the throat was when, at the end of the day, in the corner where the piano stood, we found one lone Star Wars figure.  We didn’t leave him behind.

Deck the Halls

Saturday we had a few inches of snow – the good kind that covers the bushes and grass but doesn’t stay on the streets – and today feels like the right day to decorate the house for Christmas. 

I don't remember doing much holiday decorating when I was a kid.  Somehow my parents got the idea that Santa Claus should bring our Christmas tree in addition to all the presents.  Once I learned the secret of Santa Claus, I also learned why my dad never had much pep on Christmas morning – after spending all night on Christmas Eve decorating the tree and assembling toys, who would?  Before Christmas, we did decorate little trees for our rooms divvying up a pile of gilt encrusted reindeer, aluminum stars and other ragtag ornaments that my mom had bought as a newlywed. But, frankly, we had bigger holiday fish to fry.  For one thing, we had to devote a significant amount of attention to the five-pound box of chocolates our great, great Aunt Annie always sent us from California.  We never actually met her; but, believe me, when you're a kid, a big box of chocolates would earn even Jack the Ripper a hallowed place in your heart.

We also had to play along with whatever fun, family holiday project my mom dreamed up.  The wildest was the time she decided we should pull taffy.  It sounded like fun, stretching it back and forth until it got hard, just like the pioneers did in the olden days. (Of course, the pioneers didn't have indoor plumbing, couldn't go out for Creamy Whip and never got to watch "The Mickey Mouse Club.")  The reality is that hot, gooey taffy is not that easy to hold onto, much less pull; and you definitely have to butter your fingertips both to keep the taffy from sticking and to soothe the burns and blisters.  Like most creative mother projects, this one tasted good in the end but it generated a lot of griping and groaning along the way.

Paul and I started our own holiday traditions the first year we were married, cutting a Christmas tree and decorating it mainly with homemade red velvet bows.  In a fit of holiday craftiness, I bought and painted a set of wooden ornaments which included a sleigh, a teddy bear, a gingerbread boy and a yellow camel, which you can find exiled to the back of our tree, if you look hard enough.  Our early holiday preparations also included handmade, wood-block printed greeting cards although, after repeated bloody accidents with wood cutting tools in our printmaking class, I was demoted from the cutting role to the inking role.

Our stock of purchased Christmas ornaments grew gradually – the first three were a mouse on a little red chair, a mouse on a piece of yellow, Styrofoam cheese and a dove from Frankenmuth, Michigan, Christmas capital of the Midwest. A fabric horse from our friends Tina and Rick, a needlepoint gingerbread house from my sister, a handmade ceramic pizza from Jeff and Mary Pat, a jewel-studded pig from my mom, a zaftig mermaid in a red, strapless gown (photo above) from Caroll and George, a bunch of fishing-themed ornaments from Paul’s office staff and many others followed.  We love the uniqueness and personal quality of our tree; but, as a kid, David was not impressed.  When he was three, he wanted balls on the Christmas tree so much that he made one out of wadded up paper and a pipe cleaner.  Finally Paul bought him a set of six pink balls which are still with us today along with the ball David made. 

Since then, we have collected a whole box full of kid-crafted ornaments – John’s pre-school wreath made out of dyed green, crushed up cornflakes, David’s construction paper chain and dough snowman, glitter laden snowflakes, an origami reindeer plus assorted items the boys made in their annual holiday craft sessions with Grandma.   I’m allowed to sneak a few out each year as long as they’re not displayed too prominently.

Our collection of holiday decorations has also increased over the years.  We have a lovely, hand carved, wooden crèche set, which Paul’s parents brought back from Germany, a few pieces at a time, over about ten years.  The boys took turns setting it up although we knew when it was David’s year, we’d probably find a sheep or a donkey perched on the roof.  Now Paul sets out those beautifully made pieces, but the job can be Willem’s when he’s a little taller and not drooling so much.

We also have fabric, ceramic, wood and metal Santas each of which brings us the memory of the person who gave it to us.  Paul’s sister Marti made us a big, fabric Rudolph head which always hangs in the breakfast room.  Paul’s personal favorites among the decorations are also the tackiest – a goggle-eyed tree that blares out a Christmas carol when you walk past it and a big frog that bops around and sings “Jingle Bells” when you shake its hand. I figure if that’s what it takes to put him in the holiday spirit, tackiness is a small price to pay. 

I myself never buy Christmas decorations, however, for fear of someday finding out that, instead of being able to decorate (and a month later, de-decorate) in under an hour, we might find ourselves spending days in the process.  I appreciate the beauty of other people’s houses graced by hundreds of Santas or multiple trees for the holidays; but I can’t do it.  Besides, it would not go over well with Paul who is truly a closet Grinch.  As we were getting out the Christmas boxes, the first thing he said was, “We don’t have to put all this stuff out.” He reminisced fondly about last year -  he was sick so John helped me cut the tree and I did all the decorating.  “You know,” he said, “My chest feels a little tight today.”

I told him to “man up” and handed him the lights for the tree.  For some reason, that job always brought out the worst in my dad.  Once my sister figured out the Santa thing, decorating the Christmas tree became a family affair, but we hid out until after the lights were safely installed.  While we might have gotten a few laughs out of hearing Dad’s muttered curses at the tree, General Electric, Cincinnati Gas and Electric, Thomas Edison and the holidays in general, it wouldn’t have been a good idea.  When Paul and I put up our first tree, I was braced for the all-too-familiar blow-up. It didn't happen.  Paul impressed me by arranging those light strands as nonchalantly as if he were brushing his teeth; and he has done so every year since.  It’s definitely more restful that way, but sometimes I do miss the fireworks.

I am pleased to report that, even interrupted by a phone call from David, we completed our holiday decorating in 57 minutes.  As always, Paul’s inspiration came from his Christmas Manhattan in the special glass my parents gave him.  My inspiration came from “The Best of Christmas,” a holiday record album we bought in 1971 - the perfect background music for tree trimming. With that album, we bring Nat and Bing and Ella and Dino and Tennessee Ernie into our house every December.  True, we also bring in Wayne Newton's cloying version of “Silent Night”  and Marlene Dietrich's inappropriately smoldering rendition of “The Little Drummer Boy.”   However, when Lou Rawls tells you to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” you know you’re ready to do just that.

Thanksgiving - Post Mortem

I’ve never met a Thanksgiving I didn’t like a lot.  What’s not to like about a holiday that involves good food and good company without the hassle of hanging decorations, shopping for presents or sending out greeting cards?  When people ask, “How was your Thanksgiving?” what would make you reply, “Bad”? Underdone turkey? Butter-free mashed potatoes? Dressing with some funky ingredient like eel? No pumpkin pie left for breakfast the next morning?

After more than 60 Thanksgivings, it’s natural to compare this year’s model with those of the past.  I know, for example, that this one was not as aromatic as the Thanksgivings of my childhood.  Nana K. always spent the night before Thanksgiving at our house so she and my mom could get an early start.  We woke up, not to the smell of baking pies or rolls but to the smell of sautéing onions and burnt toast for dressing and boiling giblets and gizzards for gravy.  This Thanksgiving also wasn’t as informative as the year my brother hid his tape recorder under the dining room table and recorded every bit of dinner conversation, most of which involved Nana or Aunt Stella or Uncle Al complimenting the sweet potatoes or the gravy or the pumpkin chiffon pie and my mom reciting the recipe.

This Thanksgiving wasn’t as boisterous as the numerous holidays we spent with Paul’s extended family – his parents, siblings, nieces and nephews, aunts, uncles, cousins – as many as 30 or 40 of them around one huge table set up downstairs. With that many people, you definitely need two turkeys and can have a turkey carving race (Paul’s idea, of course.) It’s a welcome diversion from football games as long as the pit crew, who are in charge of removing of skin and bones and salvaging dressing, don’t have a run-in with an irrationally exuberant carving knife.  Also, a crowd like that makes for a colossal selection of side dishes and desserts at the buffet table. The only downside is that those at the bottom of the line-up are just rounding third and heading for home when the lead-off hitters are ready for a second at-bat. 

This Thanksgiving wasn’t as exciting as the one 29 years ago when two-day-old John was a late entry to the guest list.  Paul brought us home from the hospital that morning then went to get David who had spent the last two nights with Granny and Pa.  I had read a lot about sibling rivalry and was anxious to make the right first impression.  I fed John, put him to sleep upstairs in the bassinette and waited in the living room so David’s reunion with me wouldn’t be overshadowed by the new baby.  So much for child psychology – David ripped through the front door yelling excitedly, “Where’s that baby?” and raced upstairs to see John, without so much as a glance at me, his mother, aka chopped liver.

This Thanksgiving wasn’t as adventurous as in 1989 when Paul’s parents were in Germany visiting his youngest sister and the in-laws and out-laws came to our house for dinner.  None of us had ever done an entire Thanksgiving dinner but everyone had ideas on how to do some part of it, sort of like the story of the five blind guys and the elephant.  Marie made the cranberry mold and Randy made the mashed potatoes and Carolyn made the gravy and Faith assisted with the turkey carving.  We did it all in our small, narrow kitchen with its limited counter space - authentic family togetherness.

This Thanksgiving wasn't as inspired as the Thanksgiving of 2005, the first one we had hosted in 15 years.  My dad had passed away that summer so this was also the first Thanksgiving my mom had spent with us for some time.  I wanted everything to be perfect so I consulted David and Megan's friend Steve, the TurkeyMeister, on fixing a brined bird. His words of wisdom came down  like Moses's stone tablets from the mountain - well, actually, they came from Washington, D.C. via an email, which I still have in my recipe file.  Among Steve's suggestions: "The first thing you should do is grab a glass, fill it halfway with ice, then pour the glass 3/4ths full with Maker's Mark" and "attack that bird repeatedly with a can of Pam and a hunka-hunka burning attitude." I wondered how much Pam spray to use but, again, Steve was helpful:  "Make like Miss South Carolina with a can of AquaNet and coat that thing."  The meal turned out great, especially the turkey, and my mom has been a welcome and enthusiastic Thanksgiving guest ever since.

In spite of all the things it wasn’t, this Thanksgiving was very, very good.  Now that we have Thanksgiving at our house, everyone in the family contributes something to the meal, which works out okay in a kitchen like mine where you can make seven or eight messes before you have to clean up anything.   John made pumpkin pie and paid homage to the ghost of Julia Child by tossing a whole stick of butter into his mashed potatoes.  Megan garnished her roasted sweet potatoes with lime syrup and chives - a great alternative to marshmallows.  In addition to making pecan pie and cranberry sauce, David took over quality control, nixing new dishes that violated holiday tradition – no mashed root vegetables, no sweet potatoes au gratin, no cherpumple cake.  Fortunately he did approve the gravy from my butcher as I have yet to scale the heights of gravy making.   In addition to arranging the flowers, setting the table and helping me with preparing the turkey and dressing, my mom played the piano which set the mood, although opinions vary as to what kind of a mood her piano playing sets. (See my July post, “The Sound of Music.”) Paul kept us all supplied with homemade bread and homebrew.  All I did was provide the ingredients and act as oven traffic controller.

This year, Willem, at 6 months old, was in bed before the turkey came out of the oven. While he did sample applesauce and sweet potatoes, he found  his shoes more palatable.  Although no one from Paul’s side of the family was in town to join us this year, we enjoyed sharing the holiday and a little Irish whiskey with our good friend Pam’s father.  As with any ideal Thanksgiving dinner, the turkey was cooked perfectly, all the side dishes hit the finish line at about the same time and there was enough pie left for breakfast.  Everyone was in good spirits and good health.  It doesn’t get any better than that.

At this point, I have checked off everything on my Thanksgiving lists.  My refrigerator is recuperating from holiday gridlock which was worse than usual since Paul’s keg of homebrew has taken over 1/3 of my second refrigerator.  John took the left-over shrimp creole and the last two pumpkin Whoopee Pies home to Nashville leaving us with a smattering of dressing, a dab of cranberry sauce and one ziploc bag of turkey that didn’t make it into Saturday night’s pot pie.  My washer and dryer have held up well under 6 loads of sheets, towels and dishcloths.  The baby bed, bathtub, bouncy chair, diapers, wipes and Banana Man (see my September post “Guess Who Came to Dinner”) are all in storage until Christmas.  It’s pretty quiet around here.

Monday, I felt so buoyed by that wonderful Thanksgiving week that I recklessly dipped my toes into the treacherous waters of holiday shopping.  At Macy’s, 30, 40 and 50% off signs lunged at me from all sides.  Even though the store wasn’t full of people, it was so crammed with tables and racks of merchandise that it was just a matter of time before my purse would take out  a Kate Spade plate or a Waterford knickknack. (It’s probably not okay to call something that expensive a knickknack.)  As always, my descent into Buyers’ Paralysis was rapid and irreversible.  At least two dozen sales people offered to help me during my aimless, glassy-eyed slog through the Men’s, Housewares, Bed and Bath and Jewelry (a wrong turn) Departments.  I didn’t stay long and I didn’t cross anything off of my “After Thanksgiving” list . . . yet.

Getting It Together

A few weeks ago, I had a trial run on my physical and mental fitness for Thanksgiving and the upcoming holiday season. That morning, I  changed the bed, cleaned up the previous night’s dinner dishes, ran a load of wash, made quiche and lemon bars for a sick friend, and played two games of Spider Solitaire (yes, it sneaked back here inside our new laptop and I can’t figure out how to get rid of it) and, when I checked my watch, it was only 8:09.  I would say I passed with distinction.  It’s very nice to know that, at sixty-something, I can still wake up with a tiger in my tank since I mostly wake up feeling like I was run over by a herd of elephants.

After a delightful weekend in New York with the most adorable baby in the universe, I'm now ready to get serious.  My actual preparation for the Thanksgiving holiday started early this week with lists.  I now have 6 lists and I'm not done yet.  I have a list of menus for Thanksgiving week from Sunday night when my mom arrives (lamb stew) to Tuesday night when Megan gets in to Wednesday night when we have our annual pre-Thanksgiving dinner (shrimp creole) with close friends to Turkey Day itself.  I have a general list of things to do like getting flowers, ironing napkins and picking up the turkey.  (That has to wait until my mom can walk into the butcher shop with me and hear the guys behind the counter call out, “Hi, girls.”) There’s a list of what to do each day between now and Thanksgiving - we’ll be picking out a dressing recipe Monday morning, if you want to offer your opinion.  I have two grocery lists, one for this Friday and one for next Monday, both of which are works in progress. Finally, I’ve drawn up a list of things to put off  until after Thanksgiving, like planning Christmas. 

All of these lists are in a steno pad which I probably should chain to my wrist like a briefcase full of diamonds.  I had my second pre-holiday brush with disaster when I was pulling out of Kroger’s parking lot and happened to see my steno pad still sitting in the baby seat of the grocery cart.  Whew!  If I lose my lists at this time of year, the holidays are toast.  In case you’re wondering, my first pre-holiday disaster happened that same day, just before I entered Kroger’s, when I discovered that a BIC pen had blown up in my car spreading ink all over me, my cell phone and the car.  Ink is surprisingly sticky and a little goes a long way.  Naturally, the soap dispenser in the restroom was empty so I had to go up and down the grocery aisles looking like Mama Smurf. When I got to the check-out counter, a cashier took pity on me and offered me her bottle of hand sanitizer which did an outstanding job on my hands and face.  They say bad things come in threes so I don’t know what’s next, but I’m definitely not driving Paul’s car this month.  (If you’re wondering why, read my October post “Why Can’t We Be Friends.”)

My holiday list-making might sound a little compulsive, but lists give me peace of mind.  First, when I write something down, I don’t have to wonder whether or not I’ll remember it in five minutes, although I might wonder where I put my notepad.  Second, I’m less likely to have to send someone out (or go myself) at the last minute for chicken broth or cinnamon sticks.  A long time ago, I stopped having the dream about turning up for an exam, being unable to find the classroom and, in fact, being totally unprepared for the test, plus having no clothes on.  Now, in my anxiety dreams, I am expecting dinner guests in half an hour, have no idea what I am going to serve and, in fact, have no food in the house, plus I can’t find a bathroom.  Lists keep my nightmare from becoming a reality.  And, finally, after I check everything off my lists, I know I can relax with my family and friends which is the best and most important part of any holiday.

Let’s face it - with or without lists, the holiday season can be hectic, demanding, and excessive and it’s not always easy to keep the focus on fun. In the next six weeks, if you lose track of the fun because you’re up to your elbows in cookie dough or onions to be chopped or shrimp to be peeled and you wonder “Why am I doing this?” click the link below for some answers from The Designated Celebrator.  (You can read this piece but, if you have time, click “Listen.” After the NPR introduction, you’ll hear the author read it herself, which is much better.)
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=6741965

P.S. Have a Happy Thanksgiving!!

P.P.S. Thanks to Megan for the photos of our grandson, Willem, who is too young to even lick a drumstick this year

Anchors Aweigh

If it had been up to me, our sailing adventures would have been limited to occasionally tootling around a state park lake in a sunfish – one of those cute, little ironing boards with a sail.  Like he always does, Paul led me to bigger and better things.

The way Paul got hooked on bigger sailing is a perfect illustration of our different approaches to new experiences.  If I had been met with 20 below temperatures, 50 below wind chill and blizzard conditions, my first ski trip would have been my last.  Likewise, if my first camping trip had included driving rain and clouds of relentless mosquitoes, my tent would have been knocking on the door of the Goodwill Store first thing Monday morning. On the other hand, the highlights of Paul’s first real backpack trip were icy rain, sodden wool clothing (this was the pre-GoreTex and Polypro era), Powerbars for dinner and sharing a shelter with mice who scampered over his face while he was sleeping. On the drive home, however, he was planning his next big hike.

Anyway, Paul had his first major sailing experience one April when his friend Tom, aka Captain Blood, invited him and two other guys for a day of sailing on a Hobie Cat at Brookville Lake.  If you’re a landlubber like I was, you might not know that there are two basic types of sailboats, mono-hulls and catamarans, like the Hobie.  Mono-hulls come in lots of sizes but they all are a variation on the rowboat with a mast and sails theme.  Catamarans have two hulls with canvas stretched across them and, again, a mast and sails.  You sit inside a mono-hull and you stay dry; you sit on the canvas of a catamaran and you stay wet – it’s just that simple.

On this chilly April day, their sailing expedition started with the sound of breaking glass when somebody dropped the thermos of hot grog on the concrete boat ramp.  Tom wanted everyone to learn to use the tiller so the boat capsized early on. (No, Paul wasn’t at the tiller but he could have been.) Tom, in a wetsuit, stayed reasonably warm unlike the other guys in their sweat shirts, corduroy pants and wool sweaters which stayed wet and cold all day, despite the stiff breeze.  Only after they got home were they able to defrost themselves with Texas barbeque and about a quart of Polish vodka.

If that had been my first big sailing experience, I wouldn’t have had any further contact with a sailboat, not even in the bathtub.  Paul, however, couldn’t wait to go sailing again.  Next thing I knew, we had developed a group of friends with boats, Paul and his friend Chris bought a used Hobie together, and our family spent lots of wonderful weekend days with a crowd of adults and kids at Brookville Lake, picnicking, swimming and taking turns on each other's sailboats, often followed by pizza and lots of red wine back home.

When the boys were in late grade school or junior high, the big group sailing parties ended, so the four of us would go to Brookville ourselves.  Our scariest sailing adventure happened late one afternoon when we were close to our docking point but not close enough.  Thunderstorms with 50-mile-an-hour wind gusts moved in very fast, and Paul struggled to get the boat to turn and head for shore.  (Because of one of those perverse laws of Physics, you can’t just go straight in but have to do these zig-zaggy things called tacking. What IS it with Physics?)  John’s shoe washed overboard and, in a moment of either inspiration or desperation, David threw his body across the boat, which re-balanced our weight and kept us from tipping over.  Once we were pointed in the right direction with the full force of the wind in our sails, we hit the shore in record time, and I do mean “hit.” Luckily we landed fairly close to the marina and our car; unluckily, we landed in a huge patch of poison ivy.  Well, you can’t have everything.

For our 25th anniversary, Paul and I went to the Bitter End Yacht Club, an island resort in the British Virgin Islands.  The Bitter End is my idea of paradise – it overlooks a sparkly, Caribbean-blue bay, has charming little thatch-roofed villas built into the hillside, offers wonderful food and service and has a romantic island ambience.  The Bitter End also turned out to be Paul’s idea of paradise – the price of the room included use of every water toy imaginable from wind surfers to kayaks to little motorized Boston Whalers to more varieties of sailboat than you would think possible.  Add that to world-class snorkeling and mountainside running trails and it’s no mystery why I often caught him dozing off over his mahi mahi and mango salsa at night, which did detract somewhat from the romantic island ambience.

Our first morning at the Bitter End, Paul hustled me through breakfast and cut me off after one mimosa so we could take a short sail before our 10:00 sailing class.  For our maiden voyage, he picked a laser, the smallest mono-hull in the entire fleet, figuring the smaller the boat, the easier it would handle.  Faulty logic.  If you can visualize the two of us sitting in the kitchen sink, you get an idea of the laser which, we found out later, is actually a one-person racing boat.  We took on water almost immediately and were maybe 40 yards off shore, still clearly in sight of the entire waterfront staff, when we capsized.  Oh well.

After a few lessons on port and starboard, jibs and jibes, sheets and cleats and a bunch of other important sailing stuff, Paul knew enough to captain Hobies, bigger mono-hulls and even the laser (by himself) while I picked up enough sailing lingo to fake my way through as his first mate. We spent lots of relaxed hours sailing around the inlets and coves in the Bitter End’s bay on that trip, and we learned a lot.  For instance, if the navigator (me) says “The water below us is an odd color,” and “I haven’t seen any other boats go this way,” the captain should pay attention because the next thing he’s probably going to hear is, “SSSKKKKRRRRAAAAAPE,” which is the sound a sailboat makes when it is hung up on a reef.

We made a number of return trips to the Bitter End, and John joined us for several of them.  Each time, we added to our sailing repertoire. I took a lesson so I could sail a little, one-person Hobie, but my first (and only) solo voyage ended with the boat, its riggings, its sails and me so tangled up in one of the docks that the waterfront staff had to come and rescue me. Paul really got into racing and John joined him in the casual, end-of-the-day races organized by the staff.  In real sailboat racing, there are lots of rules about crossing another boat’s path and yielding the right of way; but, at the Bitter End, people were on vacation and two racing rules were all anyone could handle.  First, no matter what happens, heed the rule of FRA – Fiberglass Repair Avoidance.  Second, it isn’t over until the cooler is empty.

Almost everything about Caribbean sailing is fun; what isn’t fun is docking the boat after you finish.  There are mooring balls anchored throughout the harbor and the idea is to get close enough to a ball to pick up the rope attached to it, and then hook the rope over the front of your boat.  Sounds pretty straightforward, right.  Well, as the division of labor shook out, Paul stayed in the boat and steered while I got to climb out on the front of the boat, let down the jib sail, stretch out on my stomach and use this harpoon thing to grab the mooring ball line. There is about one nanosecond when the positions of the boat and ball are just right for this maneuver to succeed; and, to top it off, the sail falls on top of you so you perform the entire operation smothered in the equivalent of a shower curtain.

One time, John and his sailing instructor watched from shore while Paul and I made four passes at the mooring ball before finally securing our boat.  At lunch, John couldn’t wait to tell us, “Melody said everything you did was wrong.”  That was no surprise to us.  I always thought the legend of the Flying Dutchman, the ghost ship that could never make port and was doomed to sail the ocean forever, was sad and poignant; but, after our experiences mooring a sailboat, I’d say the Dutchman’s crew was onto something.

After the warm water and reliable winds of the Caribbean, I got pickier about sailing in Indiana. During the spring and fall, the wind was good but you often had a wet, cold ride.  In the summer heat, the wetness felt good; but, when the winds died out, you spent the afternoon doing “Shake and Bake.”  Many people, especially young, adventurous ones, put up with the Hobie’s wetness and other issues because, above all, a Hobie is FAST AND FUN.  (I don’t ordinarily pair those two adjectives – in fact, FAST AND FUN is an oxymoron to someone like me who dislikes fast golf carts, fast skis, fast amusement park rides and, actually, fast anything.)

Anyway, I lost interest in sailing, the boys were busy with friends and school activities and eventually biking, golfing and gardening took the place of sailing for Paul.   The Hobie has been in dry dock for a number of years now and won’t be out anytime soon unless it can find a new owner.  If  Paul wants to get back into sailing someday, I’ve decided to play the age card and hold out for a dry mono-hull with seat cushions and maybe a wet bar.