Hip Hopping at the Grocery

On Sunday afternoons, I usually head to the grocery store to stock up on yogurt, skim milk and whole grain bread for the week. That is the giant yawn that has become my life here at 50 with children flown from the nest. Shopping these days is not nearly as colorful or tasty as it was back in the day when the cart was piled full with double-stuff oreos, fruit roll ups and Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

Until today, though, the most excitement that I had experienced at our local Hannaford was when a daughter who should remain nameless (but linked) was home for a few weeks in between college and the Peace Corps and was bemoaning the lack of social life in her home town. As we pushed our cart into the local grocery store where everybody knows your name, we noticed an older man and a younger man pushing a cart just ahead of us. We did not know these people and more importantly to daughter--the young man was quite handsome. I will admit that we did an admirable job of stalking them that day in the grocery store discerning all sorts of things about their lives from the items that they selected. Daughter and I still talk about that--she'll ask me if I ever saw them again and I'll say, "no, I think we dreamed it all."

But today, as I mindlessly walked up and down the aisles looking for low unit prices and no transfat, I noticed that my step was a little bouncier, my shoulders were a little straighter, and a smile was on my face. About that time, I realized that music was loudly playing over the PA system. The next thing I knew a youngish looking good old boy on the pickle aisle caught my eye and boogied a bit as he karaokied to Play that Funky Music White Boy. So, a note to all of my male readers in the 20 to 35 age range (I know you are out there) any time that you get an opportunity to dance to Wild Cherry with a 50 year old woman in the aisles of the local grocery store--you really should do it.

Grab bag

Is there a statute of limitations on stuff your kids friends have left at your house?

Would you say that if a friend of a daughter left a bag almost six years ago then the bag is up for grabs? Me too. So after six years of lusting for this bag as it hung on a peg in my hallway, I threw caution, patience and good manners to the wind and claimed it as my nature bag. It has pockets for guide books and binoculars and a big pouch for the camera and room for a water bottle on the side--I am OUTFITTED.

So with my new bag, I went off into the woods to see what I could see.

I found some British Soldier Lichen along the path and something that I believe is a lichen but that I have not been able to identify. Ideas welcome.

My mom felt up to walking with me and we made it down to the river. We found a few trees that looked like the beavers had recently been at work but nothing like the activity that we saw last fall and they have not repaired the dam. Their two lodges are still in the river, but do not have any noticeable fresh improvements. So, I don't know what to think about the beavers--the ice will be in soon but I'll keep checking over the next few weeks.

Where Have All the People Gone?

This morning walking to the Post Office I noticed an entire street full of empty houses. Walking along and counting I noticed that of the first ten houses that I passed, eight were empty. What is going on? Where are people going?

My business has slacked off over the last year but in the last few months it has practically gone into hibernation. The only piece of my law practice that is thriving is for clients with new bankruptcy filings.

Scary times.

Addendum: So, about 5 minutes after I hit publish on this, there was a knock on the door. A nice lady and her husband who are buying the empty house next door. Would I do the closing? Of course! Work and a neighbor all in one day! Brighter days ahead?

Shuffle Songs

It's a Sunday of nesting activities--cleaning the house and working on a baby blanket to send to a new mother in Estonia who translated for us and made us feel welcome when we visited in August.

I love days like this with no demands.

To set the mood, I set my ipod to shuffle songs and turned it up loud enough to function as my personal soundtrack. The random shuffle had gone through Pachabel's Cannon in D, Muleskinner Blues, Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy and Alan Jackson's version of The Old Rugged Cross--in the time it took me to do a load of laundry. As Welcome to the 60's from Hairspray began, it occurred to me that I really like every song on my ipod but there is probably not another list exactly like it. Our ipod lists are like snowflakes or fingerprints--unique--just like us!

Many years ago, I stayed up late talking to the man who owned a bed & breakfast that I was staying in in Wales. As we traded thoughts into the wee hours, he said something so profound that I think of it every day. It's all part of the tapestry of life.

Yes, indeed.

The Tippy Tops of New Hampshire

On Saturday, we hiked the Signal Ridge Trail to the top of 4700 foot Mt. Carrigain for my final New Hampshire 4000 footer climb.

I read a lot of mountain climbing books and blogs and it occurs to me that 4000 foot tall mountains aren't really that tall--Colorado climbers have their 14,000 foot club and Europeans have the Alps and don't even get me started on the Himalyas--but for we New Englanders who hit the trail near sea level, 4000 feet is the best we can do and doggone it, our trails are plenty hard enough for middle-aged weekend warriors like me! So yesterday on a picture perfect September day, we climbed up Mt. Carrigain. From the observation tower at the summit we could see 43 of the 48 peaks and we named them and remembered the climbs to reach their tops.

Ethan came up from Pennsylvania to share the hike. Charlie's sons Caleb and Jacob joined us, too. Net result of so much testosterone--I did not have to carry a backpack!

We ate our sandwiches on the summit and as we ate, I pointed out a beautiful gray jay keeping watch from a nearby spruce. He was so pretty and just weeks away from a long, long winter--so I gave in to temptation and shared a corner of my peanut butter and jelly with him.

Today, Carrigain

Today is the day to finish climbing the 48 New Hampshire 4000 footers. Caleb is driving up from Massachusetts to meet us at the trailhead, Ethan is here from Pennsylvania and Charlie will be at my side as we hike Mt. Carrigain.

See you at the top.

Scales of Justice

One morning last winter, our morning news reported a man dead after a train hit a car on the railroad tracks in the wee hours of the morning in a nearby town. At first blush, that sounded unfortunate but not out of the realm of sad but ordinary. As details emerged, it became clear that it was anything but ordinary. The car was down the tracks away from the crossing. More details--the train was only going 25 miles per hour and the man in the car had died from injuries unrelated to the train crash. Oh dear, this began to sound grisley--more like Law & Order than the bucolic life in the mountains.

A young man was arrested on circumstantial evidence.

One of my friends took the case as the defense attorney and yesterday the young man was acquitted after a week long trial.

There are lots of feelings in the community when something like that happens and I would not presume to characterize or minimize all of the emotions, but I am very proud of my friend. He protected his client and he protected the Constitution and he held the State to its burden of proof.

Mountain Trails

So, I turned 50.

It happens.

Others have done it and lived to tell the tale. Maybe it's no big deal, maybe it is--I guess that's something I'll have to think about. But whatever it is, it is a round number and round numbers provide an opportunity for sizing things up. So, size it up I will and I think it's ok. Life is full and beautiful and everything that my young self would have hoped for. No regrets.

But enough about age, let's go hiking.

After a miserable New England summer full of rain and cold temperatures, fall is turning out to be pretty darn perfect.

At one point, early in the season before the rain and before the super duper vacation, I had thought that maybe I would finish climbing all of the New England 4000 footers by the time I turned 50. That plan was de-railed by early July but I kept hiking whenever good weather and opportunity collided.

The hike to Bondcliff Mountain in New Hampshire was the one that I had the most trouble visualizing. There is no easy way to get to Bondcliff--it is in the middle of the Pemigewasset Wilderness and requires a long hike into the wilderness just to get to the mountain trail.

We finally settled on heading into the Wilderness on a Saturday afternoon with a tent and sleeping bags and camping 5 or 6 miles in, leaving our gear in the woods and summiting on Sunday with just day packs then returning to our big packs and hiking out Sunday afternoon. The plan worked like a charm--mainly because Charlie didn't mind carrying all the heavy stuff. Anyway, we hiked in and put our tent up in the woods off the trail, ate supper, went to sleep and woke up to head up the mountain that I had dreamed of the most.

When I first started hiking the mountains, I read every book that I could get my hands on and invariably the authors would talk about Bondcliff. It was at the top of almost everyone's list of favorite mountains and its inaccessibility added to its allure. So for the last four years, I have been wondering how and when I would experience it--the conditions had to be perfect for this most anticipated of mountains and on our weekend, they were. It was just incredible--like being on an island in the middle of a sea of mountains. A flat topped mountain with sheer cliffs dropping into the Pemigewasset.

We spent time on the top taking pictures of the views and each other then we hiked out retriving our heavy gear along the way. With Bondcliff under my belt I only have one more New Hampshire 4000 footer on the list. There are still more in Vermont and Maine to check off but I should complete the 48 peaks in New Hampshire this month.

Sweden with Sara

Sara and I actually hatched the plot for this vacation in an early Sunday morning google chat conversation several months ago. We desperately wanted to see one another and she felt that she could use a restful respite outside of her peace corps posting. Charlie had expressed interest in the Baltics to follow his ancestry and shortly after I woke him up that Sunday morning with my jotted notes of prices, times and possibilities, it was a done deal.

So, the first week was spent in an incredible journey through art history and cultural history in Latvia and Estonia and then we flew from Riga to Stockholm. As we exited through customs, there was an adorable little American girl with a backpack, a sweet smile and a sign that said MOM. There is no picture because I was flying into her arms.

On the internet, we had found a little inn on the banks of Lake Siljan about 3 hours north and west of Stockholm called the Klockargarden. In our rented Volvo (oh yes, a Volvo--how can you not love Sweden?) we made our way out to the Swedish countryside. Charlie drove while Sara told us all about Macedonia and her experiences. We arrived at our destination just in time for dinner at the Inn. Reindeer! Yes, we ate reindeer! It was delicious and didn't taste anything like chicken. I could eat reindeer every day. Oh I love Sweden.

The Inn was just what we had hoped for. Everything was beautiful, restful and comfortable. Just the place for three people to spend time saying a year's worth of words to each other.

We spent 3 delicious, happy days in the Swedish countryside before heading back to the airport in Stockholm for one last night--and it was a doozy! Sara had found our accommodations for us. It was called the Jumbo Hostel and was located at the airport and was inexpensive and was inside a jumbo jet--yes, you heard right--a jumbo jet. I expect to post more about that some day when I am short on material.

After stowing our belongings in our overhead compartment, Charlie settled down to listen to a baseball game on the internet and Sara and I took a bus into Stockholm for one last mother-daughter evening until the next one.

The next morning, we flew off in our different directions--tears were easy for me as we headed back across the Atlantic but my ears are still full of her stories and laughter to get me through.

Last Days in the Baltics

Over the weekend we took our rental car and a good map of the Baltics and went off to see two churches that had paintings by Johann Maddaus over their altars.

The first church was in north central Latvia in a town called Tirza. Charlie had e-mailed with the pastor and he had invited us to their Saturday evening bible study. We attended and were treated like celebrities.

Charlie was asked to talk about himself and his great-grandfather which he did as we sat in a group with the pastor translating. I noticed an inchworm making its way across Charlie's lap as he spoke and gently removed it to my hand. During the bible study of I Corinthians which was entirely in Latvian, I tried to keep my inchworm within the confines of the cover of the Book of Common Prayer--it gave me something to do.

After the bible study, we went into the sanctuary and knelt before the altar for communion. Then, we did what must be universal--coffee and treats put out by the ladies of the church. We heard more stories through translation of the horrors of the Soviet Times. This church was spared the fate of being turned into a factory because the Soviet administrator in their district was kind but the church was used to store fertilizer. What I understood was that the Soviets did not actually close the churches, they taxed them at an extremely high rate and when the taxes could not be paid the churches became the property of the State. Bible study could only legally be conducted in churches and they were closely monitored by KGB. This pastor said that after he first attended church he was no longer allowed to travel.

After the lovely Saturday evening service, we drove up into Estonia for a Sunday service at a church in Paistu where there was another altar painting and another group of believers who have lived through times that I cannot even imagine.

This marked the end of our art tour and our reservation that night was in Otipaa, Estonia, which is the location of a World Cup race in Nordic skiing. We stayed in a guest house that used to be the old Soviet athlete dormitories--can you say ugly? But, it was definitely another experience to add to the mix.

Now, we are back in Riga, Latvia and heading to the airport soon for our flight to Stockholm where my beautiful daughter will meet our plane. She flew in last night and stayed in a hostel at the airport--we will all hop into a rental car and drive to Lake Siljan for a few days of relaxation, conversation and hugging. I can't wait.