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As I was leaving for the airport today, Nigel said that maybe our "huge" bike trip was going to go into the Guiness Book of World Records. When I told the guy at the bike shop that we were going to ride the Trail of the Coeur d'Alenes, he advised me to allow the full weekend.

Yeah. We're taking five days. But we're also TRAINING as we RIDE, a novel approach that means that nobody in the family has had more than 5-10 minutes of seat time on any given day in the last month.

Reminder to self: ask Tamsin if we can stop at a bike shop and buy some anti-chafing cream.

Trip Blog

The ten yellow rain ponchos came today from Monkey King.

They're *not* just like the yu yis from my mission. But somehow the smell is the same, and the feeling of the PVC on my arms brings back memories of water pouring over me in cascades as I rode through the inky blackness of typhoon season.

Western rain gear solutions are so...inferior. So expensive. So wasteful. And ultimately so disappointing. We'll see how the Monkey King fares vs. northern Idaho rain in just a week from today! And all for only $6.49 per cape, shipping included. I do have a few extra capes.

And man, do they put that WalMart rain poncho to shame! This is a serious rain solution.

On the flip side of frugal, I splurged for a couple of super light weight backpacker stools. Teri snorted and told me they were shaped exactly like a bike seat. Tom shook his head regretfully and told me that's how REI turns a cheap camping vacation into an expensive yuppy camping vacation without improving the experience. Camp stools: too small to be comfortable, too big to pack. And, he added, if I was planning to just toss those into the bike trailer HE was pulling I should think again. So they're going back to REI. I hope northern Idaho has some nice largish pieces of wood for sittin' around the campfire.

When he saw the camping towels, however, Tom became a big spender. I bought three and thought I would cut them in half. You know, save money, save space, save weight? When I lived in China, all I had for towel, wash cloth, and shower curtain was a little square less than the size of a dish towel. Tom voted that a 20 x 30 inch camping towel had already saved as much space and weight as needed to be saved and pointed out that I had plenty of extra space in my panniers.

Air Brundage Video

Raise Your Hand

Tim and Tom just got back from Mountain School. Had a great time. Thank goodness Tom went or we would never have known that....

One night the park ranger came and did a fireside program. She showed the skulls ("skull replicas" says Tim) of many intriguing animals, including bear, mountain goat, and cougar. After showing the skulls around, she asked what they all had in common. Tim's hand shot up.

"They're all charismatic megafauna," he said.

After several moments of stunned silence, she asked, "What does that mean?"

"Well," he responded, "they're large--mega--animals--fauna--in which people are unusually interested, so charismatic."

Tom told the story at the dinner table and Tim put in, "We saw some charismatic microflora too. Dad found yarrow root. It was so charismatic that everyone was distracted from the teacher while they chewed it up and discovered how it numbs the tongue."

Tom and Tim were naturally popular additions to Mountain School.

DisNitrous

Julia’s note: Tom arrived home a few minutes ago after a very difficult root canal. He was clutching a card on which was written: P=J*B, P*J*B= Love. He dictated the following bizarre stream-of-consciousness account of his morning, insisting that I type it verbatim and refusing to do anything else until I had done so. I’ve now put him to bed. The dental assistant said she had never seen anyone so affected by laughing gas.

Tom’s thoughts while coming out of a nitrous oxide induced state:

I could feel the gas penetrating my body from the outside in, just like you would freeze a fish. At first it was just the outside part that was just a little bit tingly, but deep inside I still had complete control, and I knew that anytime I wanted to, I could either tell them to stop the gas or rip the mask off myself. But because I trusted them, I decided to go deeper into the experience and see what would happen. I’ve felt that feeling before and so I had a vague recollelction, but the recollection went back so far and became so basic that I wondered if it was a recollection that I had from childhood or from a time when I got my wisdom teeth out at 18, or just the last time I had laughing gas. After a second it didn’t really seem to matter. I decided it was probably the last time I had laughing gas, but I couldn’t be sure if that was this time also, because time didn’t much matter at that point. The thought occurred to me that I probably was back in the dental chair in Bountiful Utah and that the whole idea of Zach and Alex and Tim and Nigel was probably just some dream I had about what the future might be like. And then the Beetles started playing “Yesterday” and I could hear Paul McCartney’s bass buzzing loudly and the problem when you’re in a state like that is that you can only think of one or two things at a time. Normally, there are thousands of things going on around us and we’ve trained ourselves to ignore them, but when you’re in an altered state, you have to consciously direct yourself to focus on something, and it can only be one or two things. So as I was listening to Paul McCartney’s bass buzzing, I noticed that the bass was getting louder, but it was the exact same tone and frequency as the dentist’s drill, and I thought that was really convenient, and I wondered how they worked that out, because later when he came back with Hey, Jude, the same thing happened again and I wondered if the dentist had re-tuned his drill. But then I realized that that hadn’t really happened at all because the music was only happening in my ears and the music was keeping me down. But there was a little tiny part deep inside myself that was still me, and I thought if only I could stop the music, I could hear what they were saying about me, because if I changed my focus, I could see them talking and laughing above me in the air as if I wasn’t even there, as if I were an object, a piece of meat, just another case. So I decided that even though they could take away my dignity, they couldn’t take away my ultimate power to choose and I decided to spy on them by reaching up with my hand, which took all my concentration, and unplugging my headphones. It was a mighty effort, but when I concentrated everything I could on that one motion, I was able to unplug the headphones and discover the great secrets that they were holding back from me as the world continued on without me. However, when their voices came back into focus after a brief rest, I was disappointed to hear that they were just talking about Von coaching his little girl’s soccer team. And after a little while of listening to the boring conversation, I mustered all my strength and plugged the Beatles back in, and that’s when I got to the end of Hey, Jude, the part that I normally hate, where the singer is screaming and the music is ugly. But this time I was glad that it was there because it showed me that someone was alive and I understood why murderers say that they have to commit a crime just so see that they’re alive because they’re so past feeling that the only way they can sense that they’re human is by taking another life because it gives them a temporary sense of being alive. And I comprehended in a moment this great secret: that in the end raw power is the law of the universe unless it’s mitigated by our higher sensibilities of beauty and truth and justice; that without those concepts, which we DO feel in the deepest parts of our being even when everything else is gone, the universe would just be raw power. But it’s not, because no matter what they take away, they can’t take away the yearning of the human soul for truth, justice, and beauty. And that’s how I came up with my formula: P = J x T (beauty and truth are the same thing, as we know from Yeats) and that the only way that we can have justice or beauty is when raw power allows itself to be tempered by the other countervailing force.

At one point, I remember the dental assistant coming in and talking to me, but I don’t remember much of what she said, except when she said my name I could focus for a minute. I remember at the beginning she asked if I wanted eye protection, and I said, “No, you can just leave my glasses on,” and she laughed because I didn’t have any glasses on. At one point she came in to do something and I was only vaguely aware of her presence and the only way I could communicate was to write with my finger, but I didn’t know her name, so I just wrote “What is your name?” with my finger. She ignored me, even though this was really important. Sometimes I think crazy people and Alzheimers patients are trying to tell us something with their spastic movements and crazy chanting. When she leaned over to take a picture of my mouth, I draped my arm around her waist just to be anchored to another human being. When I started waking up, I felt really bad and said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” and she said something back to me, but I don’t remember what it was. I could have been asleep for two hours or two days, I don’t really know. If they had come to me and said, “Tom, we just need to reach in your pockets so we can get your credit cards so we can make some online purchases for ourselves,” I wouldn’t have said anything. If they had asked me to sign a contract selling my house for one dollar, I would happily have done so.

I also realized that music is very powerful. Because when you’re in an altered state, if you can only focus on one thing, if that thing is music, the music becomes the definition of your whole existence: you literally are music.

I’ve never been a drug user or been addicted to any chemical substances, but I can understand now some of what they must feel. Every few minutes, I would get the urge to rip off the gas and stand up, but it was so much more comfortable to just let the experience wash over me, and I realized that I was passing up decision points and that soon I would not have the ability of my own free will to make that decision anymore. When you strip everything else away to the essence of who you really are, you’re left with a few basic elements that are probably the building blocks of the soul. Those are: truth, beauty, love, and being connected with other people. When you have no power, nothing else matters.

The end.

Clamming

This experience happened several years ago, but I was reminded of it yesterday while camping with the scouts on Lopez Island, so I decided to write it down.

A couple of years ago we bought some crab pots. I have never been much of a fisherman because my brother, Brett, got all the fishing genes in the family. But crab pots are different than fishing. You just put some salmon, chicken or turkey in the pot and throw it over the pier. Pull it up every 30 minutes or so, and you will have crab in the pot. You do have to check to make sure they are at least 6.25” and male, but that is easy. And to cook crab you just boil them. It is so simple. No tying knots or flies, no tangled line, no fish hooks stuck in your shirt of fingers. And crab tastes better than trout. So a few years ago we took up crabbing.

One beautiful morning Alex and I got up early and headed up to the fishing pier in Blaine – right on the border. We had all our crab pots and it was the first day of the season. We figured that we would get there first and catch our limit of six crabs each. We were therefore sadly disappointed to discover that the pier was closed, and that there was still one week until opening day.

What to do? We had gotten up early and we were so excited to bring home some crab for the family that if we returned home with nothing we would never live down the disgrace and failure. I had heard that there was a beach where you could dig clams, so we stopped at a hardware store and bought a shovel, and drove to Birch Bay. Some parts of the beach had people on them but we found a place where we had the whole beach to ourselves, and we walked out and started digging. There were clams everywhere!

After gathering about 40 clams we walked back to the car, but as we did so we noticed a sign which read:

Warning: Biohazard – Beach Closed To Shellfish Harvesting

Once again were had been foiled. We could imagine the icy reception we would receive if we returned home with nothing, and Julia’s parting words: “Either return home with a bucket of Crab or don’t ever bother coming back.”

What now? We drove farther down the beach and we saw many people with buckets way out in a very low tide. Surely, this beach must be safe. We grabbed our shovel and bucket and headed for the water. I had heard that you could find a clam by stepping near a hole and looking for a squirt. Sure enough, we found some holes and some squirts, but every time we dug down over the hole the clam got away. We tried this several times with no success and I was beginning to think nasty things about Brett, who must have gotten all the clamming genes in the family too.

We were getting pretty tired and discouraged digging when we noticed an old lady with a baseball cap throwing large pieces of clam to the seagulls. She had a bucket and a shovel and seemed to know what she was doing, so we went over to watch and hopefully get some advice.

I explained that this was our first day digging clams, and asked for a few pointers. The lady was about 70 years old and had a big bucket full of clams and seemed to be enjoying herself out on the beach. She said she had already gotten her limit and would be happy to help us. She showed us a good clam hole and told us to start digging. We started digging right over the hole and lost the clam. “No”, she said, grabbing the shovel out of my hand. “This is how you go after your horse clams”. She then quickly removed several dump truck sized scoops of sand from around the clam hole, being careful not to disturb the hole itself. Then with a deft little jump and a twist of her shovel she threw a softball-sized horse clam up on the beach. Alex and I just stared at it dumbfounded. We had never seen a clam that big, and we had no idea what to do with it. Before we could speak, the old lady had picked it up and whipped out her knife. “Now, slide the blade in here and cut the muscle that holds the shell closed," she said as the shell popped open. “Be sure to cut out the scallop and cut this nice muscle off the back,” she said as she ripped the guts from the long neck and threw it over her shoulder to a waiting seagull. She then showed us how to slice the neck lengthwise and peel off the outer skin, leaving a large flat clam steak. “That’s the best part” she said. “I like to marinate mine and grill them, and sometimes I make clam strips.” She then explained how to make the breading and gave us several other recipes from memory. She talked about how she had been coming to this beach for many years and how she had a whole freezer full of clam steaks and chopped pieces for chowder.

Alex and I thanked her and with her new technique and several corrections we dug up our limit of horse clams. We also dug a few steamers and headed home triumphant. Alex and I sat out on the lawn and cleaned our clams and talked about what a great adventure we had. JB was not as impressed with our catch as if it had been crabs, but after she tasted the clam strips I made according to the old lady’s recipe she was converted. Later that night, after we had put the kids to bed I found Alex sneaking down stairs for a midnight snack. He had discovered that you could put a clam in the microwave and that after about 30 seconds it would pop open all ready to eat with a dash of salt and a little dab of butter. He had a clam in each hand and when I told him to go back to bed and looked at me with those sad puppy dog blue eyes and said, “Come on Dad, just one more. Please?”

The Muddy Muddy Middle

Triumph for Tim this morning in front of about 100 people at the talent show tryouts (American Idol at the Elementary School). He got up and set up his Cello, calmly cracking jokes with the judges like it was natural to interact with teachers while excruciatingly nervous and in front of a large group of peers. ("Yeah, there's a joke that says, 'A cello player came to practice, and by the time he set up, the practice was over.'")

Then, looking the judges in the eye, he said, "I'm going to play Rigadoon by Henry Purcell and my mom is going to accompany me." He proceeded to play the best performance of his life--sprightly tempo, no missed notes, great intonation. Normally a cello has a hard time competing with dancers, hula hoopers, magic acts, skateboarders, acrobats, etc., but Tim was hands down the most polished act of the morning. He rocked the tryouts.

Jump cut to Tim and me on a typical morning, afternoon, or weekend, in our usual exasperated fight over cello practice. He likes cello, he wants to practice, he's coming right away, just as soon as he finishes up the critical task of, oh, say, removing the lint from between his toes or lying on his bed contemplating what popcorn-type ceiling texture is made out of. Tired of having to physically drag him to practice sessions, I came within a hair of making him quit this fall. But he pleaded to continue, so the battle goes on.

And I call it a battle because it exhausts me, because I feel like I have fought when it is over, but with Tim there's no clear opposition. It's just endlessly pushing an inert object towards a distant goal. It's motherhood, I guess--the mind numbing repetition, the same tasks day after day, the monotony of getting up to do what I did yesterday and what I will do tomorrow, realizing that it is no easier to get him to practice today and it will be no easier tomorrow, realizing that we will work on little elements like his bow hold and his posture and see very little progress today, tomorrow, next week, or next year.

And then...today happens. And I watch that child, suddenly sparkling with confidence, with joy, with the knowledge that HE can really play, REALLY PLAY! That everyone knows it. A parent whispered as I left the gym, "He's got an incredible talent." I choked.

Yes, Tim won his Cello today, and I suspect the Cello won him, too, probably for life. And I won, in the way a mother always dreams of winning when she sets these little strategies in motion. But here's what motherhood is about--that the real triumph happened in the muddy middle, on that endless string of identical, impossible days when the original dream had faded to nothing and the exercise seemed pointless. The real triumph of motherhood lies, to paraphrase Jane Austen, in hanging on longest when all hope is gone.

Here's to happy endings, and long may we persevere in the muddy middle.

Dad's Last Class

Today was Dad’s last official class as a CES teacher. I know because I was there. Yesterday Brett and I were skiing when he mentioned that Dad would be teaching his last class. We both felt that we wanted to be there. Dad’s teaching of the gospel has shaped our family, and dad freely shares his experiences as a teacher. We have grown up with a great appreciation for the fact that Dad had lots of choices for his career and he chose to spend his life teaching the gospel to young people. I don’t think there is a more noble calling. So Brett and I called my legal assistant, Lindsay, and got a flight from Boise to Salt lake City the next morning. We drove to Emmett, caught 5 hours sleep and flew in to SLC where mom picked us up, unknown to Dad. We stopped for some bakery treats and then right before Dad’s class started we walked into the classroom.
At first dad looked concerned, and then confused. We cheerfully told him that we wanted to be there for his last class and he was very touched. The lesson was about the resurrection. The class started by singing “He Is Risen”, which I can never finish because I am always too overcome with the spirit of confirmation about the reality of the resurrection. Dad then showed some of his slides from Israel, and He described the pain of the crucifixion and asked the class to put themselves in the role of the early Christians, Mary, Mary Magdalene, Peter, John. He recounted the events between the crucifixion and the resurrection and as he did so everyone in the room was transported to the places of those miraculous days – the garden tomb, the road to Emmaus, the room with the apostles. Every student in the class was listening intently and the spirit of the lord opened our understanding of the scriptures and we felt joy and hope in the reality of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Dad finished by expressing his love for the class and bearing a sweet and sincere testimony of the Gospel and of the divinity of the Savior.
I was moved and uplifted, and wished I could have taken the whole course. After the closing prayer, Dad visited with his students, many of whom had not realized that they had become participants in the conclusion of a long and successful teaching career. I was impressed with how easily Dad was able to relate to and interact with his students, and with how much they respected him. I later reflected that it was a shame that more students would not be able to experience what I did that day – a brief yet beautiful glimpse into the eternal, and a confirmation from the Lord about the truth. Dad once taught me that it is not so much what the students learn in their heads that makes a difference, but how they feel in their hearts.
The good news is that even though Dad will no longer be teaching full time classes, he will continue with the legacy of doing good in the world as he begins a new stage of life. He will have the freedom to choose how to create the capstone to such a life well lived.
After class we took mom and dad to a seafood restaurant for lunch and Mom, Dad and Brett all had raw oysters on the half shell for the first time. They are kind of slimy and fishy and you put a little Tabasco and lemon juice on them and just slurp them down the hatch. Mom and Dad bravely met the challenge, and I think it was symbolic of going forward with new adventures and challenges as they begin a new stage of life. For those of you who have not yet tried raw oysters on the half shell, I urge you not to wait until retirement. If you come visit us I will take you to a place where we can shuck and eat them right on the beach. Congratulations Dad, on a great teaching career and on the new adventures to come!

Generating Electricity

I know, don't faint. I'm blogging. I had the most hilarious experience today. Daytime enrichment. We bought new wonder tablecloths just for this meeting, so I wouldn't constantly be ironing tablecloths (the bane of any enrichment counselor's life). These are just like Mom's gorgeous no-iron, hydrophobic water beading ones. I love 'em...but this is the first time I personally have used them.

Now let me set the background here by explaining that static cling is not an issue we have here in Bellingham. High humidity leads to limp clinglessness most of the time. I still have the dryer sheets mom bought me when we moved into this house. Over Christmas I washed and dried the new table cloths without taking any anti-static measures. Unfortunately, because they're packed up hot off the rollers, they have pressed-in creases that have to be removed before they're truly no-iron, and I hadn't gotten around to that. So this morning I ran down to iron them for the FIRST AND LAST time. I had left about 15 minutes for this job, but I only needed three tablecloths so I thought I was pretty safe for once.

It's a very cold and snowy day today, completely atypical for Bellingham. Static cling is in the air. And a little more than static cling, as I discovered when I picked up the first tablecloth. It literally leaped into my arms and wrapped itself around the polyester UnderArmour-like under layer I'm wearing today. I peeled it off and attempted to stick it to the ironing board instead, combing it off my arms with my fingers. It stuck to everything it touched like saran wrap, and when I tried to move it I was getting painful static shocks! As I pulled it along the ironing board, a piece of it trailed on the ground and by the time I got it up to iron it, stubborn dog hair that had escaped a thorough vacuuming earlier in the week was plastered to the edges. Before I was half done with a single table cloth, my 15 minutes were up and I had to run to the church to beat my sweet little old ladies. If I don't get there first to set up, THEY'LL do it and it's scarier than a day at the skate park. We've nearly put a couple of my determined, fragile, celestial 80 year old friends into the hospital setting up and breaking down those three tables and 21 chairs, and no, they DON'T think it's acceptable to watch me do it!

So I ran to the car, tablecloths stuck to all sides of me, carrying and frantically trying to fold my ironing board. I was at the car before I remembered that Nigel or Tim had tried to surf on it last year and I had saved it with wire ties. No more collapsing. Throwing open the doors and folding seats one handed while still battling the predatory tablecloths, I managed to cram it into the car and race to the church. With Alex's help (he had an ortho appointment, but this is the only time I'll mention it in order to simplify the story), I got the tables and chairs set up and two tablecloths ironed, but the process was so painful I was almost in tears. Every time I reached down to smooth out a fold, I got a sharp and painful shock. And you wouldn't believe how many people shed hair in the foyer! The tablecloths were collecting it from several feet away like a magnet collecting metal filings.

I rolled some of it off with gobs of ancient masking tape out of the closet. The tablecloths looked very nice stuck to the tables, but the static situation was getting intense. I got out the third cloth and started on it just as my dear ladies started to arrive. One of them looked at me strangely and suddenly I realized that my hair was no longer lying docilely on my shoulders. I was having my own unintentional Van de Graaff moment stuck to a tablecloth in the foyer of the church!

Life so often gives you the chance to make others laugh. On a sunny, static filled day like today, that's cause for celebration. And a blog!

Personal Crisis

I don't really, 401 K to the contrary, care much about the stock market. But like some people I know, I keep feeling drawn to check in on the financial debacle nervously, as if those shifting S & P numbers were tea leaves for my own future.

I'm a worrier, and I always have worried about the second great depression. I read every word of War and Peace when it was assigned, ditto for Crime and Punishment, but to me Tolstoy in a funk could never terrify like Steinbeck. I used Cliff Notes for The Grapes of Wrath because the scenes were more than I could bear.

I've always seen images of my greatest fears in the Great Depression, and I've always felt that someday I would have to live through it myself, in penance for every egg shell I carelessly tossed into the garbage unscraped and every Little Caesar's Hot & Ready I bought in a moment of overscheduled weakness. If waste not is want not, then surely someday all of us who have wasted will have to want.

So this has been a tense week for me. On Friday, I happened across an article on the internet that changed my perspective, though. It involves Plato, but stick with me here. It discusses Plato's distinction between faithful images that are true to the original, and "another, more insidious image that is intentionally distorted in a manner to make the reproduction itself appear real to those who see it." Plato refers to this type of image as simulacra.

This article goes on to discuss the concept of simulacra in the current economic crisis, and the idea that we are entering an era of devaluation that is also revaluation--we discover that what we hold has no real value, and we remember that out there somewhere are things which are both real and valuable.

I thought suddenly of a radio interview I heard a month or so ago where a professor of Islamic studies calmly asserted that no western person of intelligence seriously believes that God is actively involved in daily life. That comment jabbed me a little. I thought, "Maybe we really are ripe for destruction here."

Then on Friday after reading the simulacra article, I started to think about the prosperity cycle in the Book of Mormon. I had always assumed that the cycle of prosperity was a kind of graph that the Lord used to watch and see when society was ready for a little calamity.

But it occurred to me that usually these cycles, these choices and consequences, causes and effects, are simply the result of natural laws playing out. It suddenly seemed obvious to me that the cycle of prosperity is really twin, inversely related cycles of prosperity and faith, and that as prosperity increases, we create our simulacra. They, whether in the image of a golden calf or credit default swaps, are simply distorted images of faith, warped man-made security blankets to comfort us in our selfishness and greed and insulate us from the prodding of the spirit and the nagging of our own consciences.

And perhaps this is not the day of doom that I have so long feared, but really the day of reckoning I have prayed for, when we will all repent and revalue, and the world will become a temporally harder but spiritually easier place to live.

Or perhaps not--not for everyone. Last night we went to the Temple though, for the first time in a long time, and as we walked through the door and up the escalators, I felt peace and security wash down over me. It was an amazing feeling, and it reminded me of President Eyring's words, "The great test of life is to see whether we will hearken to and obey God's commands in the midst of the storms of life. It is not to endure storms, but to choose the right while they rage. And the tragedy of life is to fail in that test and so fail to qualify to return in glory to our heavenly home."

I guess instead of watching the S & P or checking my food storage, I had better look to my faith and remember that my great challenge is not to survive the second great depression, but to learn to trust in the arm of the Lord. I know, an exceptionally religious blog, but then I'm starting to think that maybe that kind is the only kind that really matters. And inspiring those thoughts in all of us may be the natural--and critical--consequence of the current crisis.

End of Summer

Poem by Tom

Summer is like that double thick chocolate malt you waited for.

The first few sips, when all the flavor hits your dry taste buds
and the sugar sends signals of pleasure coursing through your body
like the diluted drug it is,

are the first warm days of spring. You know what is coming and it is only getting better.

BY THE FOURTH OF JULY ALL THE WHIPPED CREAM IS GONE AND YOU FEEL SATISFIED.

As the hot August days drag on you wonder why you ordered a double.
You wonder if it would be better to stop now so you don’t get fat, or whether you should finish what you started
-- there are starving children in Africa -- and who knows when it might start raining.

You vow that next time you will order a small – without whipped cream.

And then in September, something strange happens. As you realize as you are down to the last syrupy dregs, the shake you were so tired of only weeks ago starts to taste … better.

And as the mornings start to feel crisp and you pick the last apples
and feel the heavy dew soak through your shoes,
you begin to savor each ray of sunshine
and hope to bask in just one more warm day at the beach
before summer is all slurped up.

One small step for Tim...

Conversation with Tim 9/7/08

Tim: Dad, when I'm just starting my career I'll need some money, so I think I'll go into advertising.

Dad: OK

Tim: Dad, What is the most endangered species?

Dad: The blue whale

Tim: If I could just get a small blood sample we could use cloning technology to prevent extinction

Dad: Are you switching to cloning? What about your other goals?

Tim: You mean the energy project? Well, cloning probably requires a lot of energy... hey I know! First I will solve the nuclear power problem and then I will be very famous and I can probably get a lot of sponsors for my cloning project.

Dad: What about after that? A lot of people think the ultimate project would be colonizing outer space, starting with the moon.

Tim: Yeah, I am going to need a lot of sponsors for a project of that size.

Dad: There is also great potential in geothermal power.

Tim: Yeah, and if you could figure out a way to get to the exact center of the earth, you would feel no gravity. I have aleady started working on a plan for that ... [pause] Dad, I have to go to the bathroom. But I WILL solve the world's power crisis. First I'll save humanity and then I'll save nature.

I've now heard of three incidents where marriages ended on vacations. I thought that was bizarre until we took this vacation. Now don't get me wrong—we've had a great vacation and I still love my spouse, but I can see how a long vacation to a novel place can strain a relationship.

A major problem, obviously, is the fact that two customarily autonomous adults are suddenly stuck in the same rental car going 70 down an unfamiliar freeway. Tom justifiably has so little faith in my sense of direction that he politely declines to allow me to either drive OR navigate, meaning that during portions of this vacation he was going 70 down an unfamiliar freeway while manipulating a map in one hand, google directions in the other, and talking on his cell speaker phone to someone trying to explain bits of the map.

I spent those moments sitting on my hands, biting my tongue, and trying to focus on right mindfulness, right thinking, and the seven fold path. When Zen failed, I shrieked out utterly incorrect advice in command form.

The invention of the GPS, by giving couples a scapegoat for bad navigational choices, has undoubtedly saved quite a few marriages. Too bad our rental car was not so equipped.

Actually, the first day of the rental car was MOSTLY fine. We went to Gettysburg, one of my favorite stops of the trip. Thanks to the Booths, we had a terrific Auto Tour which really brought the battle to life, but we ran out of time to tour the huge new museum and visitor's center. We had just 30 minutes there, and I ran from display to display as I realized that all my questions would be answered if I could just get to them all... Sigh.

I was moved by a display of letters and journal entries from former slaves who fled the south to fight for the Union. At Gettysburg the futility of the Civil War is on display. Monuments to fallen soldiers from each side stand together, and stories of comrades and friends who sorrowfully faced and killed each other there fill the display cases and tour narrative.

Of all the purported causes of the war, none seem to justify that kind of carnage between friends and brothers. Except slavery. We bought a book of speeches, so I'll let Lincoln argue the case for preserving the Union, but until he's convinced me, I'm hoping that in our hearts the real truth is that we fought to abolish slavery.

That night we stayed with Dan and Mandy, Melanie's friends in Hershey. As Tom said, of all the amazing things we saw on our vacation, Mandy was the most amazing. She had her father-in-law, Mel and kids, and all of us spending the night, and she just kept on throwing out fantastic food and wafting cheerful welcome around the house. I discovered that in addition to being the hostess with the mostest, she also has a Masters degree, is an opera singer and excellent pianist, can operate heavy machinery, won a Wii in a cooking contest, and put darling gift bags on each of our beds... Let's just say that Nigel informed me on Saturday morning that he'd decided to make Mandy his new Mom.

We went to Hersheypark Saturday—it was crowded but fun. The wildest ride, however, was driving into New York at 2:30 am. When we lived in Costa Rica, one of the things I loved was seeing the green freeway sign in San Jose that said, “Nicaragua” and pointed to the next exit. It was equally fun to see signs saying “Broadway,” “Manhattan,” “Bronx.” Tom followed Mel (amazing driver, perfect navigation, and all at 3:30 am by the time we got through the tunnel) right to their apartment on Long Island.

Today getting to church involved more tongue biting as we missed a turn, had to pick a freeway, and searched fruitlessly for a way to get back as each exit turned into an Escheresque new freeway entrance. Finally on the third or fourth of these, Tom pulled off a daring U-turn and unravelled the tangle, putting us right back where we started (in spite of three or four utterly misleading directions from me) and ultimately getting us to church half way through sacrament meeting.

It's great to be here with Dave and Mel, and we're looking forward to more NY adventures tomorrow, hopefully diminished somewhat by the fact that we're turning in the rental car in the morning.

Today was clean up day.

We went to the Phillips Collection this morning. Great art. I loved the El Greco. We all loved Renoir's Boating Party. Tim asked for a pencil and a mirror so he could do a self portrait.

We Metroed downtown for free choice afternoon, and the boys returned for the third and last time to the Museum of Natural History. Mom meantime hit the DAR (a little dry unless you have Bryan to curate you through all those nice American period antiques), the Renwick (yaay! Real crafts! But boo! Only four rooms! And Mom's bank account needed in the Museum Shop), and the Archives Shop (a little museum of education materials in its own right where I got rushed before).

We all met up at 4:40 for the "Monsters of the Deep" Imax, where Nigel said, "Dad, I need to move over by Tim because all the Monsters are coming straight at me!"

Last Metro ride home (sniff, sniff) and now it's time to clean up at the HOUSE! But fear not, Mom, the adventure isn't over. Gettysburg tomorrow, Hershey, PA on Sat, and then on to New York to stay with Dave and Mel. If I have internet access, I'll keep blogging. Thanks to all you comment makers! You inspire me to get this written down.

Several guides and experts had told us to skip the Washington Memorial, but our kids were absolutely determined to go up. We had tickets for 9:30 am yesterday, and we'd also planned to bike the monuments. We had three bikes here and were planning to rent three more downtown. Then logistics kicked in.

No bikes on the Metro until 10 am. The bike rental shop opens at 9 am. You have to pick up will call tickets at 9 am for a 9:30 ticket. Don't forget the Metro parking rules. We can split up, but at least one adult has to go with each group. Three people have to ride the bikes to the Metro and take them on. Neither adult cares whether or not they go to the top of the Monument, and Nigel can be coerced into almost anything, but the remaining three children are all passionate about this experience. Oh, and we have no bike locks, so the bikes can't be left unattended at any time.

We worked on that knot for quite some time, and our ultimate solution had every child in tears. Fortunately this vacation seems to be blessed, because although Alex, Nigel, and I arrived at the Washington monument at 9:30 with me desperate to use the bathroom, we still got our tickets and made our group. And just as we were sitting down in line, I heard the ranger telling a grandma and her two grandchildren that they needed to go over to the 10 am line. I ran up to her and asked her if she would trade her 10 am tickets for 9:30 tickets and she went along with it.

I did have to leave the tickets with a nice family at the end of the 10:00 line, but they successfully found Tom (he's about 6 feet tall with a goatee and a red Cougar hat...) and we made it back down seconds before they had to leave the bikes. All this for an attraction we thought would be dumb. Fortunately, it turned out to be beautiful, and the kids were excited to see their vacation laid out at their feet.

The Air and Space Museum (where we went after picking up bikes and extra locks, lest any of you remain distracted by our bike problems) was as advertised. We've gotten into the rhythm of turning the older two loose and splitting the younger two between us. Nigel has been Tom's leech (as you would be if you were normally stuck with Mom every day), so I got to trail Tim around as he discovered the Wright brothers, the Space Lab, Apollo 11, and the forces of flight. We were both amazed to discover all the Wright brothers' experiments. Their motto was PLAN TO FAIL! LEARN FROM IT! THEN SUCCEED! Tim wanted to sketch the flyer on the back of a Washington Monument brochure. I told him we could save time by buying a copy in the Museum Store. He replied, "But this is cheaper. And they might have left something out."

We decided to skip the Spy Museum in favor of more time at Air and Space, so we let the kids go on the flight simulators. Tim was floating afterward. "Sorry if I seem weird," he said. "I'm just a bit giddy from flying!"

Biking Washington was one of our very best decisions. Yesterday was cool with a fresh breeze, and it was heavenly to float around the tidal basin, to Jefferson, to FDR (kids named it best monument), to Arlington. It was like escaping a cloud of gnats, leaving the crowds behind. People clump up in these things, and I guess we tend to clump with them. If you can get into your own rhythm, the monuments can be quiet--almost deserted.

Well, except occasionally when we had to pass through the crowds of pedestrians. Then I was riding on Tim's back tire, spattering him with word globs, 90% of which I later discovered he never heard. "Tim, TIMTIMTIM!! Nononononononono!! Right! Keep right! Other right! Go over! Watch that man--TIMTIMTIMTIM!! Stop! Walk your bike for a sec! Okay, honey, we've got to keep a careful eye on the pedestrians." ("Aren't we pedestrians? We're pedaling!")

At one point, a brusque man yelled "On your left!" and sped past me. "Tim!" I yelled! Keep over!" He immediately started to drift left. "No! Tim! No!" I yelled. "Nononononono! Keep over! Tim! Turn!" He later said that "Turn!" was the only instruction he heard. Which was made obvious when he DID turn right into the guy's path. The guy yelled at him thoroughly, which he fortunately mostly disregarded, although I was tempted to yell at the guy, "Can you see he's a nine year old kid?!"

I will do a flash forward to 10 pm, us pedaling our weary bodies into the gravel drive at 8005, and just let you know that no sightseers, locals, or Metro riders were harmed in the making of this vacation. It was close at moments, though.

Arlington, 6:45. Last changing of the guard, 7:00 pm, and this place runs on military time. We threw our bikes in a pile, wrapped the krypton cable around them, and moved off crisply up the hill. I rode the tour bus last time I went to Arlington and I STILL remembered that it was a ways. We were moving fast, and in fact our sweaty, drooping bodies were in sight of the tomb when the clock bonged. I hope I didn't ruin anybody's experience with my last minute stage whispers--"Tim! (pant) Run! (pant pant) Runrunrunrun! (pant) C'mon Tim! You can do it!"

The changing of the guard is a precision operation, as most of you know but I had forgotten, so all that running at the end was extreme. We made it fine. And the kids definitely got a feeling of solemnity and reverence, as well as the sense of the human toll of war, from Arlington. Our exit was solemn, reverent, and much slower.

And, though we didn't get to dinner (our first dinner out, which I view as a digestive as well as financial blessing) until 8 pm, violating all rules of touring with five boys, somehow we got away with it, though there was nothing to take home in the doggy bags.

Our trip home with six bikes on the Metro was hair raising. We learned a lot. Pick the wide ticket lanes. Move to then end of the train. Dismantle trail-a-bikes before attempting the escalator. Hang on to all screws, nuts, and essential parts before re-assembling said trail-a-bike. Metro platforms are slick and you really don't want to go down onto the tracks looking for a nut. If you choose to box in a whole bunch of tired Metro passengers, make sure it's in DC, where the locals have an astonishing tolerance of tourists.

I also choose not to remember pedaling home in the pitch black, through a local park and past some slightly questionable local hang-outs. All's well that ends well, right? Last DC day today!

Sorry--I only have access to one song! Quick--send me a .wav file! Narrative follows.

Smug

Standing in the line to see the Declaration, Constitution, and Bill of Rights yesterday about 11:30 am, I noticed a family behind us doing the dash and check. They had out their map and the father said, "Okay, okay. Run up and take a look, and then we've got to get over to Lincoln."

Tim stood by my side holding a color copy of a military message sent by carrier pigeon in WWI. It said, "To C.O.306th Infantry From: 1st BN 308th Infantry WE ARE ALONG THE ROAD PARALELL 276.4. OUR AR ILLERY IS DROPPING A BARRAGE DIRECTLY ON US. FOR HEAVENS SAKE STOP IT. WHITTLESAY MAJ 308th."

We had spent the morning digging through the Hollinger boxes in the ReSource Room, exploring patents, photographs, and shreds of history, and finding such treasures as a letter from a 12 year old Fidel Castro to FDR (expressing his love of the USA and asking for a ten dollar bill), Lady Bird Johnson's typed diary entry of a certain day in Dallas (changes annotated in pencil in the new First Lady's own hand), and full sized copies of the charters of freedom (including the hand print on the Declaration). We'd paused at the Magna Carta to admire the king's seal.

After lunch, we were to spend another couple of hours in the Archive's public vaults, and then we were off to Lincoln's Cottage to spend a quiet afternoon in the shadow of the great man himself, not on the crowded steps of his memorial, but in the peaceful cottage he loved best, where he spent a quarter of his presidency! (Side note: I really do love this tour, and you should make time to come here if you find yourself in DC. Its restoration has just been completed, and the tour was wonderful--it brought Lincoln the man to life in all his brilliance, determination, humanity, humor, and pain.)

I was so pleased with myself as we left the visitor's center. How brilliant my strategy was, how masterful my planning! Unlike the other visitors to Washington DC with their long faced, moaning children, I had left the beaten path! My children were reveling in history! Inspired by fabulous art! Fired up by treasures of the past! Appetites whetted by exposure to source materials, they now hungered for the feast of information! This trip, perfectly designed and brilliantly executed, would fuel their future studies and open their tender minds!

Then Alex grabbed my hand and, turning his anguished face to mine, proclaimed that if I forced him to go to one more museum, he would stick his head under the wheel of the car.

Well, we can't all be museum lovers. Or smug mothers who plan the perfect vacation. I think we might go biking today.