Assumptions, Shoes, & Options

I assume too much and fill in the blanks with wild guesses, blame it on my Navy brat upbringing where every two to three years cultural shifts were the norm and newcomers were always in the mix. Now, I live in a small town. I notice when the milk man works at the bakery because it confuses me-- I thought he delivered milk. The milk man baker also works at the farmers market for yet another vendor. 

Instead of imposing order on the universe, I ought to let the world just be, but shiny things distract me. Meanwhile, my husband dead pans a line from Bill Forsyth's film, Local Hero, "we tend to double up on jobs around here." 

Here, unassuming neighbors walk dogs and have stage roles, a dad at the after school pick up awaits his kids and hearing if his reality show will be picked up for cable TV, meanwhile a few moms are concocting local products in pursuit of regional sales as entrepreneurs. 

My imagination needs an update; my fill in the blanks are falling short. I read a lot of, I'd like to write books, but it's more a combination of posts, articles, poems, and a book or two a month. The point is I try to fuel my imagination. I read stories and tell myself it never happens like that! Except that, lately I've begun to think, it does and so much more! 

Here's an example of assumptions versus reality.

"It was about shoes," my friend shared. She's kind of earthy so I was befuddled as to what kind of shoes had riveted her attention. The conversation shifted and then came back around to her shoe story. Meanwhile, I envisioned a pair of glamorous shoes that you only wear walking about in Manhattan on Sex in the City. Her story wasn't really about shoes though.

"I was outside Kroger. This guy was taking off his shoes and he threw his shoes into the trash can. Then he put on a pair of boots. I was thinking about these shoes I wanted so I was pissed that someone had new shoes, but then I decided to go with it. I asked him, 'Did you get new shoes?' He was like.'Yeah!' and I was saying 'Yeah!' back to him. It turned into a genuine feeling of happiness for him." 

I did not discover the secret shoes of desire but damned if I didn't learn a brilliant lesson from her-- you have a choice in which thoughts you express AND you don't have to pick the first one that comes to you. 

That same night another friend had challenged us to a choice of "A or B?" I impulsively blurted out, "A" before I realized she was talking to the group, not just me. We went with "A" anyway. We were all then instructed to fake laughter for one full minute. 

Ten seconds into it, I was laughing so hard tears spilled out. A day or so later, my shoe friend pointed out it was all there from the beginning. We weren't faking it until we were making it as we had discussed in the moments after on that night. Instead, we chose to bring another experience to the surface. With minimal effort, the nobler thought easily overtook the surface distraction to become a genuine and positive experience. To choose laughter and get it, for real, felt weirdly awesome. 

The "B" option was to say, "Oh yeah!" I resisted this expression as it felt weirdly like "you go girl" which feels like a chant for encouraging someone to strip themselves of class or elegance. Nonetheless, I got there a few beats later in an euphoric rush by choosing to say it, saying it, and, finally, meaning it. 

The power of words is that they reveal truths even if it takes a minute-- they might be buried below anger or frustration-- but the good is there with the bad and the ugly. We choose our paths when we choose our words. 

Try 2 timing your thoughts

Light of Day

An internet video of an university female's sexual experience on the sidewalk under the Chase Bank sign on Court Street has haunted me the past few weeks. Where was the friend that could say, "Bad idea. You're drunk, let's go!" What does it say about the world today that the first thing a stranger that comes upon two people engaged in sexual activity on a main thoroughfare does is to whip out their smartphone and post the scene to the world over? This is what keeps circling in my head-- not the sex on the street part, but the lack of concern and the alcohol fueled decision making.

My husband and I have come upon female students peeing in alleys, dodged males stumbling about the Court Street Shuffle, and wished for ear plugs for the yeowling, "You go girl!" calls that imbibers just can't seem to keep to themselves let alone maintain some form of normal voice modulation. 

Students that binge drink tend to make choices that in the light of day are embarrassing, and now they're documented by strangers and posted for the whole world.

Maybe it's all the years around the military's Safety Standowns to the eighteen to twenty-one crowd, but I expected the local university to have a big powwow with students about binge drinking, safety nets, or at least a discussion about poor decision making when fueled by alcohol. However, while waiting with another twenty or so of my fellow Athenians for a pizza at Avalanche, I perused a newspaper article about the university discussing "standby behaviors" of strangers in light of the recent internet event.  I found my pulse flickering upward. The university is talking about strangers intervening. Yes, I think several thousand views of the strangers' video confirm that an intervention occurred including documenting and posting it to the internet. 

Surely, this is an alcohol problem? Psst, alcohol strategies might be helpful. The bystander bugged me because the moment was only worth recording on their phone. The beauty of two human beings trying to connect was lost before the almighty glare of the internet and in the haze of alcohol fueled irresponsibility. And we're not the only place with this kind of problem, I read this quote in the New York Times, “We don’t have to look each other in the eye. An electronic barrier divorces us from shame and from the hurt felt by others.”

More gazing at real world is needed.

Clarity x 10

Tonight I had the opportunity to present a revision of my essay originally read at Women Speak in the spring of 2013. I called it Clarity x 10 because it needed to be read in under ten minutes. It was a wonderful program, a treat to see familiar faces, and an opportunity to hear some of the women of Appalachia speak. Thank you Kari Gunter-Seymour, Founder/Curator, Woman of Appalachia, for making it happen five years in a row.

Clarity x 10

“Where are you from?”

I’ve danced around this question my whole life. Do they want to know the last place I lived? Where I went to high school? Or maybe, where I was born but never lived? 

As a Navy brat, my childhood was dotted with permanent change of station or PCS moves. Norfolk, Virginia; Pensacola, Florida; Jacksonville, Florida; Rota, Spain; Patuxent River, Maryland-- were all home to me for a time. Later, I married a Navy guy and Bremerton, Washington; Manama, Bahrain; Washington, DC; and Kamakura, Japan were also home to me.

As a teenager in Spain, I envied the Europeans who had a strong sense of place and tradition. Surrounded by this certainty and combined with my own curiosity, I once asked my dad if we were English or maybe German. He rolled his eyes and said, “You’re a fifth generation hillbilly from Ohio kid.”

Ohio? Ohio was where we drove to visit family every summer. It didn't seem terribly romantic considering that some of my relatives in Ohio still had outhouses. I wanted to be from some place ancient and mysterious like Granada or Iona.  I didn’t want to be stuck to the vinyl seats of my dad's Chevy Nova on the marathon drive from Florida to Ohio. I wanted to take the Orient Express to Switzerland.

Ohio wasn't like the places I'd been in Europe. There were Italian and Spanish restaurants in Ohio, but I had never seen an Ohio restaurant in Europe. The only Ohio culinary tradition I could think of? Pie for breakfast. In Europe, they had cathedrals and museums full of art found in my school books. In Ohio, we visited the county fair and toured livestock barns. In Spain, we ate churros dipped in thick hot chocolate. In Ohio, there were "elephant ears" served with paper cups of sweet lemonade. In Spain, they had the running of the bulls. In Ohio, they had tractor pulls, demolition derby, and the Tilt-O-Whirl. It was an existential crisis of sorts at that point in my adolescence. 

That is not to say that I didn't feel a nostalgic tug when my dad mentioned Ohio. Ohio summers were also dinners of vegetables just pulled from the garden, family lounging on freshly cut grass, canoeing down shaded rivers, and cousins in hot pursuit of lightning bugs. My parents always picked up just where they’d left off the previous summer with their friends and family, catching up on all the local news. In Ohio, friendships went back to first grade. In the Navy, you asked, “How long will you be here?” before making a new friend.

Another thing they had in Ohio was basements. I'd seen a dungeon or two in Europe, but no basements. In Florida, where I spent most of my childhood outside of Europe, a nice house might have a pantry.

My grandparent’s Ohio basement was a magical place for me-- a dark, cool, cave-like room fitted with work benches littered with pieces and parts, peg boards hung with tools, and dusty shelves filled with rows of my grandma’s canning jars. In the basement, my grandpa repaired machines, and my grandma reupholstered furniture, built lamps, and stored summer’s bounty in mason jars and in the freezer. In Florida, we bought things in a store. In Ohio, my grandma and my aunts “put up” beans, corn, peppers, carrots, beets, jellies, jams, apple sauce, and even mustard.

It certainly wasn't Europe, but there was something wonderfully stable about life in Ohio. As fate would have it, that Navy guy I married, was from Ohio. When people invariably asked the question that to me seemed like salt rubbed into an open wound, “Where are you from?” My husband never hesitated to answer, "Athens, Ohio." I usually resorted to a deep breath, and, "I don’t know-- my dad was in the Navy."

When the Navy assigned my husband to Japan, I took a break from my nursing career. Having just come from the work-equals-identity culture inside the Washington Beltway, I looked forward to a new focus on home life, children, and exploring Japan. 

From cooking lessons in Japanese, the Japanese names of vegetables like nasu (eggplant), daikon (radish), and engan (greenbean) came into my vocabulary and proved helpful at the farmer’s market. New textures and flavors like the umami of dashi stock, the chewiness of mochi pounded rice, and the sour surprise of the umeboshi pickled plum found their way to the table at home. From Ikebana, I learned to arrange flowers as they asked to be arranged.

When an American friend took time to teach a few of us beginners to use our sewing machines, we sewed the fabric backwards, sideways, inside out, and became intimately acquainted with the seam ripper. But, for the first time, the gifts I sent home were made by me.

Art, until then, had been a passive thing-- admiring the works of the masters. It was art beyond my capabilities. However, my experiences in Japan opened my eyes to another understanding of creativity and in a sense took me back to those summers in Ohio.

I think back to the things my grandparents did-- furniture given new life, a garden’s care and bounty, and the colorful glass lamps that lined the sunporch. Creativity was part of my grandparents' daily lives. 

In the Beltway and in the military, people could hide behind expensive cars, trendy clothes, or important titles. However, few seemed to have the serenity my grandpa had sitting with his pipe on the front porch as daylight faded, listening to the crickets chirp, the frogs sing, and watching the lazy flight of the summer lightning bugs. I wonder if in the pursuit of position, power, or prestige that others define for us, do we loose the connection to the imagination and the creativity that more truly defines us?

When our time ended in Japan and with the Navy, my husband and I asked each other where we should go. We arrived at the same place, Athens. Over the years, it was a place where we had regularly visited, and as my husband used to say we could "hear the air and smell the earth."  

My city friends might not understand the lure of Athens. There are no fancy restaurants touting an exotic “catch of the day” flash frozen in a faraway ocean. Instead, the waitress with her three pony tails and one nose ring, informs you that the seasonal vegetable of the day is “butternut squash with apples” from a nearby farm. Dressing up at times is simply a pair of clean jeans. Having your nails done means that you’ve checked for dirt after gardening. Instead of following someone else’s vision of success and hoping for the elusive promotion to the circles of power, people tend to follow their own vision and everyone seems to have an artistic alter ego.

Life in Athens is slower, there are fewer distractions, and with that, I have found clarity. I write, put up jars of jam and tomato sauce, string beads on necklaces, and trade loaves of bread for blocks of tofu. It’s about creating a life that feels good on the inside.

I have a porch where you might find me as the light fades, sitting with a mug of tea, listening to the crickets and the frogs, and watching my children chase the lightning bugs. 

I’m from the hills of Ohio now.

Trailing Spouses & Pickled Garlic

Small college towns like Athens, Ohio, can have a hard time recruiting professionals. Trailing spouses may not be able to find jobs, shopping, or some other such things. I listened to a recent conversation about the loss of a professional recruit due to a dissatisfied spouse with some amusement.

I've been the trailing spouse for a good while due my husband's Navy career. Settling down, anywhere, was my only request after twenty years. I've easily adapted to life in Athens just like I've done at every other place. Only now I can plan for longevity, whatever that proves to be.

What's not to love in Athens? We've got produce auctions, a local music scene, a farmers market, locally brewed beer, horses, gardeners galore, summer band concerts, a lake, hiking trails, and you can even walk uptown, depending upon where you live, and do something like watch an art film, take music lessons, go ice skating (in the winter), or attend a festival.

Today I worked on my Chesterhill Produce pile. I made nine pounds of Shiro Plums into jam and pickled eight bulbs of garlic, my first attempt. As I stirred the various pots, I have to admit that Shakespeare's Macbeth came to mind.

Double, double toil and trouble;
    Fire burn, and caldron bubble. 

Fresh garlic is sticky. I'm used to dry papery garlic bulbs that have sat on supermarket shelves. Dunking the bulbs into boiling water for less than a minute makes the cloves easier to peel. It also prevents fresh garlic from turning an unappetisizing green when steeped in vinegar. I also put some cloves of garlic into olive oil for future comparisons (both work). Now I've got to finish making pesto.

Turns out that the professionals that stick tend to have some exposure to Athens, like my husband who grew up here and chose (plotted?) to return. They remember the laid back life style, the hills,  the time people have here to do things like pickle garlic. The joys of Athens.

Pickled Garlic

Makes 1 Pint Jar

New Garlic, 1 lb or enough to fill a pint jar (~8 bulbs)

Fennel Seeds, 1 tsp

Peppercorns, 12 (I'm guessing black ones, but I only had pink)

Bay Leaves, 4

Apple Cider Vinegar, 3/4 cup + 2 Tbsp

Granulated Sugar, 1/4 cup

Pinch of Saffron Threads

1. Wash a pint jar with a lid and screw band. Put jar, top up, in the oven with the lid off at 250ºF (121ºC) for 30 minutes. Lay out a clean cloth to wipe the jar.

2. Bring a pot of water to boil over medium heat. Plunge the garlic bulbs into boiling water for no more than a minute. Drain and pat dry. Separate the cloves and cut off the tips at each end. Peel the cloves.

3. Pack cloves into a sterile jar. Add fennel, peppercorns, and bay leaves.

3. In a non-reactive saucepan, boil vinegar, sugar, and saffron. Pour hot vinegar over garlic and insure that the garlic is completely submerged in the pickling liquid. Seal the jar with a vinegar lid. Refrigerate and mature for 1 month before using. Good for 2 years refrigerated.

Serving Suggestion: Use instead of fresh garlic or eat it on its own.

Pickled Garlic

Pickled Asparagus

As a small child you would not have found me lurking about a pickle barrel or snitching sauerkraut from the basement. The first time I ate a sweet bread and butter pickle, by accident, I took note and thereafter looked for them. The first time I bit into an umeboshi sour plum pickle in Japan, I stopped amid conversation to clarify what I had just eaten. Pickles have surreptitiously entered into my diet.

Exploring ways to preserve and keep abundant summer garden and farmers market produce, pickles and canning are a new pursuit. With the help of Well-Preserved: recipes and techniques for putting up small batches of seasonal foods by Eugenia Bone, I made Pickled Asparagus, and it is fabulous! See the book for details on the water-bath method of canning and for additional recipes. She also provides recipes for using the pickled items.

Canning is a lot about being organized in the kitchen. Start with getting your canning gear in place. By this I mean wash the jars and lids. Read up on technique. I've tried the water bath and the oven method. I prefer the dry heat of the oven method so far. Have a damp cloth for wiping the rims and labels handy. Please defer to an expert resource for canning tips.

Pickled Asparagus

Makes 3 Pint Jars

Asparagus, 5 lbs (2268 gm)

Water, 2 1/4 cups

Distilled White Vinegar with 5% acidity, 2 1/4 cups

Pickling Salt, 1/4 cup

Dill Seed, 1 tsp

Hot Red Pepper Flakes, 1/2 tsp

Whole Allspice berries, 1/4 tsp

Cumin Seeds, 1/4 tsp

Coriander Seeds, 1/4 tsp

1. Wash 3 pint jars with the lids and screw bands. Put jars, tops up, in the oven with the lids off at 250ºF (121ºC) for 30 minutes. Lay out a clean cloth to wipe the jars and an absorbent pad (silicon mat lined pan, towel, or layer of newspapers) to place the hot jars after processing.

2. Trim the asparagus ends off so that they allow 3/4 to 1-inch of headspace in the jars. Over medium to high heat, bring a pot with about 2-inches of water to boil.  Cook the asparagus, in small batches, until bright green, about 3 minutes. Remove asparagus and run under cold water or dunk them in ice water to set their color. Drain and set aside. Repeat with remaining asparagus.

3. Prepare the vinegar solution. Combine water, vinegar, salt, dill seed, pepper flakes, allspice berries, cumin seeds, and coriander seeds in a saucepan over medium to low heat. Stir to dissolve salt, but do not boil past the point the salt has dissolved. Remove from the heat.

4. Pack the asparagus into the warm jars tightly, tips upright. Cover with the vinegar solution leaving 1/2 to 3/4-inch of headspace above the vinegar solution. Distribute the spices amongst the jars. Wipe the rims, set on the lids, and screw on the bands to fingertip tight.

5. Process the jars by baking them in the oven at 250ºF (121ºC) for 15 minutes or use the water-bath method and process accordingly for 15 minutes.

6. Remove jars from the oven. Place them upside down to cool. Check the seals to be sure they sealed. Tighten the bands as needed. Label and date.

7. Allow the asparagus to season in a cool dark place for 4 weeks (or overnight). Refrigerate after opening. The asparagus will become paler and float in the vinegar as they do shrink during processing so pack them tightly. Using proper canning methods, you can store these for up to one year. They've yet to last a week around here.

Serving suggestions:
Eat out of the jar, add to salads with hard-cooked eggs and vinaigrette, or add to Chicken Piccata.

Pickled Asparagus

Mapu Tofu

If there is a season for Mapu Tofu, it is winter. It is spicy, warm, and filling. As summer approaches, cool days are in short supply. Try it after a chilly swim!

Mapu Tofu

Green Onion, 2 to 3 stems, sliced, set aside 1 Tbsp for garnish

Garlic, 2 cloves, smashed 

Fresh Ginger, 1 knob, diced (~2 Tbsp)

Shitake Mushroom, 5 caps sliced (discard stems)

Firm Tofu, 1 block cubed

Fry Oil, 1 to 2 Tbsp (varies with fat content of pork)

Ground Pork, ~1 lb

Sake, 1 Tbsp

Oyster Sauce, 1 1/2 Tbsp

Soy Sauce, 2 Tbsp

Dried Whole Red Pepper, 1 to 2 OR Tobanjon (Japanese) Chili Paste, 1 tsp

Water, 1 cup + Corn Starch, 1 Tbsp

Sesame Oil, 1 tsp for garnish

1. Prep onion, garlic, ginger, mushrooms (reconstitute dried ones in hot water until softened),  & tofu. Mix water & corn starch slurry.
2. In a wok over medium flame, heat 1 to 2 Tbsp of oil (oil varies with fattiness of the pork used). Add onion, toss and cook until fragrant, about 1 minute. Add garlic & ginger, toss & cook until fragrant, about 1 minute. Add ground pork, toss & cook until browned, about 6 to 8 minutes. Chop and break up  pork as it cooks.
3. Push pork to the sides, add 1 Tbsp of oil if needed to center of pan, allow it to come to temperature, about 1 to 2 minutes. Add mushrooms to oil in center. Toss & cook until softened, about 2 minutes. Clear center and add tofu cubes, allow to brown slightly. Toss & cook until crispy on all sides, about 3 to 4 minutes. Add sake & scrape bits off the bottom of the pan. Add oyster sauce, soy sauce, & dried chilis or tobanjon chili paste (vary amount to your taste). Stir the corn starch slurry again, add to wok. Toss & cook until glossy and thickened, about 2 to 3 minutes.
4. Garnish with sesame oil and toss once more.
5. Serve over hot rice & garnish with fresh chopped green onion as you like.

Mapu Tofu

Clarity, an Essay on Where Are You From?

I know why it takes years to write a novel now. Friday evening I read my work to a public audience for the first time at Women Speak with Women of Appalachia. Every time I read the piece in preparation for the event, I changed something. Reading to an audience partly obscured by the bright lights wasn't like standing at the podium in Coach West's speech class at DGF High School back in Rota, Spain, but I managed. I wanted to catch an eye and latch on for dear life, but the glare prevented me from locking in on anyone. Listening to others' stories and poems, I found myself moved by a tale of sibling rivalry with it's inherent quest for acknowledgment as well as swimming in the loss of control by a mother grappling with a son's war experiences through cooking and baking recipes in her kitchen. It was a privilege to have the opportunity and it was worth all of the time spent writing and tweaking to have the chance to read aloud. Without further ado, here it is.

Clarity

“Where are you from?” This question was often asked of me because my dad was in the Navy. When people asked, I wasn’t sure because we moved a lot. By the time I was a teenager, we had spent years living in Europe surrounded by ancient cities, cultures, and traditions. The people I saw off base every day knew where they were from, and I longed to know where I was from. I had a feeling I wasn’t Spanish or Italian, but when I asked my dad if we were maybe English or German, he rolled his eyes and said, “You’re a fifth generation hillbilly from Ohio kid.”

Ohio? Ohio was where we drove to visit family every summer. It didn't seem terribly romantic considering that some of my relatives in Ohio still had outhouses. I wanted to be from some place ancient and mysterious like Granada or Iona.  I didn’t want to be stuck to the vinyl seats of my dad's Chevy Nova during the marathon drives from Florida to Ohio reading Archie comic books and asking, “Are we there yet?” I wanted to take the Orient Express to Switzerland.

Ohio wasn't like the places I'd been in Europe. There were Italian and Spanish restaurants in Ohio, but I had never seen an Ohio restaurant in Europe. The only Ohio culinary tradition I could think of was pie for breakfast. In Europe, they had ancient festivals and town parades with relics of long dead saints. In Ohio, we visited the county fair and toured livestock barns. In Spain, we ate churros dipped in thick hot chocolate. In Ohio, there were "elephant ears" served with great big cups of lemonade. In Spain, they had the running of the bulls. In Ohio, they had tractor pulls, demolition derby, and the Tilt-O-Whirl. It was an existential crisis of sorts at that point in my adolescence. 

That is not to say that I didn't feel a nostalgic tug when my dad mentioned Ohio. Ohio summers were dinners of vegetables just pulled from the garden, family lounging on green grass, canoeing down shaded rivers, and cousins in hot pursuit of lightening bugs. My parents picked up where they left off with their friends and family, catching up on all the local news. In Ohio, friendships went back to first grade. In the Navy, you asked, “How long will you be here?” before making friends in hopes of finding some that might be there until the end of the school year.

Another thing they had in Ohio was basements. I'd seen a dungeon or two in Europe, but no basements, and we certainly didn't have them in Florida which is where I spend most of my childhood outside of Europe bouncing between Navy bases. 

The basement was a magical place for me as a child. These dark, cool, cave-like places were fitted with work tables, peg boards hung with tools, flat surfaces littered with pieces and parts, and seemingly endless rows of my grandma’s canning jars filled with this and that from the garden. In the basement, my grandpa repaired machines and my grandma reupholstered furniture, built lamps, and stored summer’s bounty. In Florida, we bought things in a store. In Ohio, my grandma and my aunts “put up” beans, corn, peppers, carrots, beets, jellies, jams, apple sauce, and even mustard. In Florida, we didn’t make much other than dinner. The brief sojourns to Ohio contrasted with the rest of my childhood, spent in Navy towns more notable for the presence of topless bars, pawn shops, and suburban sprawl than gardens or lighting bugs. 

It certainly wasn't Europe, but I’d always sensed a stability in Ohio that I didn't feel elsewhere. As fate would have it, I married a Navy guy, from Ohio, and continued the nomadic existence of my childhood. I worked as a hospital nurse and at every new duty station, people invariably asked the question that now seemed like salt rubbed into an open wound, “So where are you from? What do you do?” My husband never hesitated to answer, "Athens, Ohio," but I usually resorted to a deep breath, and, "I don’t know, my dad was in the Navy."

When children came into our lives, negotiating work and home created a tension between where my heart was and where it wanted to be. Work provided financial compensation and a sense of accomplishment-- people sought out my advice and expertise and often followed it. Home was full of people and things that had unending needs. I had it my head that there was some kind of balance I could achieve that looked like my neighbors and friends--  perhaps a part time job, a new position, a schedule for home life, a meal plan with shopping lists? I longed for short cuts that covered all the bases if performed at some unattainable level of efficiency. While my Capitol Hill neighbors put on a good show, the constant numbing fatigue, juggling of schedules, and dining on takeout was not how I had imagined living my life.

When the Navy assigned my husband to Japan, I took a break from my nursing career. Having just come from the work-equals-identity culture of the Beltway, it was not an easy decision. But, I looked forward to the new focus on home life, my children, and exploring Japan. 

We ignored every bit of advice from our fellow Americans and rented a house forty-five minutes from the umbilical of the Navy base. With our children enrolled in a local Japanese yochien preschool, it dawned on me that I had a job. The title of which I still hear repeated throughout the day: “Mama.” Being a Japanese yochien preschool mama is a full-time occupation. As with other jobs in Japan, you are expected to be completely devoted to your work and give one hundred percent. There are obento boxes to make, smocks and bags to sew, and mandatory “volunteer” events, meetings, and activities to attend, weekends included. 

My willingness to show up, even though I couldn’t speak Japanese, meant that I, the gaijin (a foreigner), was included. And so, we “band of mothers” collaborated. We read library books to the children (I in English) and then went for coffee. We wrote, practiced, and performed our requisite “fun” skit for the children for weeks and then celebrated our grand finale with an all-you-can-drink-for-ninety-minutes party at a local Izakaya (a pub), just like Japanese men in the corporate world do after closing a deal. 

As my children’s school days grew longer, there was more opportunity for me to participate in Japanese culture. From cooking lessons in Japanese for five years, the Japanese names of vegetables like nasu (eggplant), daikon (radish), and engan (greenbean) came into my vocabulary and proved helpful at the farmer’s market. New textures and flavors like the umami rich savory dashi stock, the chewiness of mochi pounded rice, and the sour surprise of the umeboshi pickled plum found their way to the table at home. From Ikebana, I learned to arrange flowers as they asked to be arranged.

An American friend took time to teach a few of us to use our sewing machines. We were a group of beginners, and we made every mistake imaginable. We sewed the fabric backwards, sideways, and inside out, and became intimately acquainted with the seam ripper. But, for the first time, the gifts I sent home were sewn by me.

Living in a country with a language I could not speak and time devoted to the needs of others, left me with things to say but no outlet. I started a blog. The internet connected me with readers, a blog widget dutifully counted the clicks of those who stopped by, and the surprise when an idea transformed into a story kept me coming back to the keyboard. In pursuing these “simple” things that too often get pushed aside in the bustle of modern life, like cooking, sewing, and writing, I discovered the wonders of creating.

Art, for me, had been a passive thing-- admiring the works of the masters. It was art beyond my capabilities. But, my experiences in Japan opened my eyes to another understanding of creativity and in a sense took me back to those summers in Ohio.

I think back now to the things my grandparents did-- the furniture given new life, the bounty of a summer garden, the jars lining the basement shelves. Creativity was part of my grandparents' daily lives in a way that I had not experienced until I landed in Japan. I thought back to my time in the Beltway, to those movers and shakers I had once envied. I wonder if in the pursuit of position, power, or prestige that others define for us, do we loose the connection to the imagination and the creativity that more truly defines us?

In the city, people could hide behind expensive cars, trendy clothes, and important titles. I had never found that simple serenity my grandpa had sitting on his porch as daylight faded with his pipe, listening to the crickets chirp, the frogs sing, and watching the lazy flight of the summer lightning bugs.

When our time ended in Japan and with the Navy, my husband and I asked each other where we should go. We arrived at the same place, Athens. Over the years, we had regularly visited. It was a place where, as my husband used to say when we came back, we could "hear the air and smell the earth."  

My city friends might not understand the lure of Athens. There are no fancy restaurants touting an exotic “catch of the day” flash frozen in a faraway ocean. Instead, the waitress with her three pony tails and one nose ring, informs you that the seasonal vegetable of the day is “butternut squash with apples” from a nearby farm. Dressing up at times is simply a pair of clean jeans. Having your nails done means that you’ve checked for dirt after gardening. Instead of following someone else’s vision of success and hoping for the elusive promotion to the circles of power, people tend to follow their own vision and everyone seems to have an artistic alter ego.

Life in Athens is slower, there are fewer distractions, and with that, I have found clarity. I know now what I didn't understand all those years ago when I asked my Dad where we were from. It’s about creating a life that feels good on the inside. 

I haven't worn pearls in a long time, and I don’t worry about what to wear opening night at the opera anymore. Here, I write, make Japanese recipes for the American kitchen, restring beads on a broken necklace, and trade loaves of bread for blocks of tofu. I focus on the work of my hands as it comes to fruition. 

Here in Athens, I have a back porch where I can sit at the end of day. This summer, as the light fades, I will be sitting there, sipping a mug of tea, listening to the crickets and the frogs, and watching my children chase the lightning bugs. I’m from the hills of Ohio now.

The Hills of Ohio

Fair Winds & Following Seas

My husband chose to wear his dress blues for a final farewell to his active duty military service in church today. His active duty service officially comes to an end on new year's eve. There is no threshold to cross. There are no hoops of fire to jump through. At last they have left him to fade into service to others. I haven't seen him wear that uniform for some months with him finishing up in Japan and the kiddos and I settling into life here in the hills of Ohio.

To me, that suit represents a hell of a lot of sacrifice. I sat in the church pew next to him listening to the music, the sermon, singing songs, and them BAM! It hit me. I am so very grateful it is all over-- the separations, the long hours, the unrelenting demands. I suddenly found myself fighting back the tears. I might love a man in uniform, but I have come to dislike seeing him in this uniform that he wore most days into the office. 

I am grateful for the opportunity to have traveled, the adventures we had, the friends we made, but I am ready to have time together. Dinner, I just want to have dinner together every night except when we choose to do other things. Some constant to our day that we decide, a small wish. However, I'm bracing myself for this not to happen, but it is my most fervent hope for the new year. 

The sight of this uniform that once stirred my patriotic heart, instead sent it into a nose dive. These past few weeks I've had to adjust to having him around night and day, day and night, as he has whiled down the last days of his leave, but they have returned him to me. It's been a happy transition.

As tomorrow comes to pass, as we enter into a new year, we come full circle to life in his hometown, together. There will be no speeches, there will be no party, but there will be a hope. A hope for presence. It's the best gift I can think of.

Fair winds and following seas my love. All roads lead to home.

This is where your life has arrived,
After all the years of effort and toil;
Look back with graciousness and thanks
on all your great and quiet achievements. 

You stand on the shore of new invitation
To open your life to what is left undone;
Let your heart enjoy a different rhythm
When drawn to the wonder of other horizons. 

Have the courage for a new approach to time;
Allow it to slow until you find freedom
To draw alongside the mystery you hold
And befriend your own beauty of soul. 

Now is the time to enjoy your heart’s desire,
To live the dreams you’ve waited for,
To awaken the depths beyond your work
And enter into your infinite source. 

John O'Donohue, A Blessing for Retirement

21 years of service come to an end

Hey, I Remember That!

"Hey, I remember that!" said the Moose in response to seeing his dad on the floor doing sit ups. We haven't seen much of his dad or his dad's routines for several months, until recently. The sight of his dad on the floor crunched over his knees stirred a memory and the comment has been reverberating around in my head the past few days.

Barring any last minute snafus, my husband retires from twenty-one years of active duty service at the stroke of midnight on New Year's eve, not that we're counting down.

Becoming a family again has meant that we have undergone some recent transitions including a move from Japan to Ohio, a change of residence from a rental house and a room in a barracks hall to our own house, from active duty to the civilian status, and from being singularly in charge of priorities, plans, and menus for the day to accommodating spousal needs, priorities, and extra curricular activities.

Day one. Newly arrived husband announces, "It's too warm in here." All thermostats are lowered. My eyes rolled slightly. I put on a sweater. Later, I started complaining (my circulation stops in my extremities when I am chilled). He explained, "With the temperature lower, we can use the fireplace." I had stacked a cord of firewood earlier in the fall so that it would be ready for the resident pyromaniac. Problem was we have a energy efficient Canadian fireplace with which he was unfamiliar. It took a few days to work out the kinks meanwhile I shivered. Now there is some kind of schizophrenic weather fluctuations nullifying the need for heat just when he's earned his fire building badge.

New priorities aren't always easy to accommodate. He tried renegotiating pizza night (he wants all of his favorites at once).  I replied, "Talk to the Moose, but be warned it's been done and it was u-g-l-y." We ate pizza.

Holiday lights and evergreen garlands adorn our front entrance. The Christmas tree twinkles merrily in the living room. A small santa collection adorns the Korean chest. With my husband is in his decorating trance, it's possible that our children could left to starve or stay up all night. A friend reminded me, "Just because there is help at home, doesn't mean that the other spouse has the responsibility for taking ownership of the home routines." Things like meals, schedules, and making homework happen stay with the primary homebody which in our house is mama.

I really like being a mom, but sometimes I want a break and after not having a husband around for several months I was thinking it would be easier with him home at last. I didn't account for the need to adjust to those different priorities or for how quickly he would begin the implementation stage.

I've had to account for a scrape on the car's front bumper, darned parking garage pole; a rather large pile of books on the living room table, I was sick of hauling them upstairs and asking and sometimes yelling at certain children to do it; the state of the leaves in the yard, the front yard looked ok; the dinner menu, there are a lot of spinach and potatoes, not together of course. You get the idea, he was questioning everything. I had to remind myself to be cheery, pleasant, and that the inquisition was a long time ago. He's adjusting too.

In the military this is called reintegration. We should be experts by now, but we're not. The good news is that this is likely the last time it is forced upon us and that we're making headway toward finding a new even keel again.

We've hung pictures, planned a holiday party (theoretically), and he's using the industrial chemical gloves from the hardware store to help with the dishes (water removes the skin on his hands when it comes out of a kitchen sink faucet). Life is beginning to feel more sorted, more settled. He's getting the rhythm of munster meals, you know what the kiddos will actually eat versus what he wants them to eat which always ends with a lot of requests for yogurt, apples, and cheese for dessert. He's even been moosed out of bed (remember we live with a Moose). We're learning to account for each other and as new memories are made about where things go, how things work, we dance around instead of into each other. Were working on checking in with each other before committing to new activities.

I thought about the Zen Buddhist aesthetic in Japan of irregularity and imperfections. A flaw is left by a master as a reminder that in nature things are never perfect-- the cloud in the sky, the grain in the wood, the shape of a rock-- nature is irregular. The Zen master strives to be no better than nature; the mistake is a reminder to be humble (that's why I leave all of the spelling and grammar errors!).

Perfection is over rated.

We are negotiating our way back to ordinary times around here, but the bumpy ride is ultimately better than the solo flying we've each been doing. I'm trying not to jump to conclusions, and I'm working on my assumptions, but I do like having a roaring fire, sparkly lights on the bannister, and the sound of two kiddos and one husband laughing over Bugs Bunny cartoons again.

It's all good, even the crack.

decking the halls

Decompressing

I wanted to move to the States for more than a year. I longed for it so much that it sat like a wet blanket around my shoulders. I pined for a house in the sun. I cursed the damp uninsulated house with my frost bitten toes three years in a row. Japan could not last. Uprooting my life was more a gamble for a forever situation. Though I may be staggering amongst the hills of Ohio, in a warm and sunny house, my soul has yet to settle here. It waits and, surprisingly, it mourns.

My friend with impeccable timing called to check on me. She who knows too well these things about moving and military life reminded me that these losses of place and of friends take time. We need time to mourn the life we had which is now different. It takes time to make new friends but they come, they always do, some will be easy, some will hard, but with so much awesomeness, she assured me it is inevitable. I gladly drank at the trough of friendship. 

Thankfully, she helped me name my feelings and gave me the sense that this is a normal part of moving, of loss. It was a balm to my confused spirit which has been busy dancing through the day, but is struggling at night in the face of so much good. It's like jet lag when your body has arrived in a time zone that the rest of you has not quite made it too, yet. I'm decompressing from military life abroad on my own timetable.

Having named this confusion though has helped to free me from it. It is miraculous that comprehension of and naming that which stirs at the soul should be its salve.

And so with a swizzle stick I stir the glass and see that I'm neglecting my priorities-- reading, writing, and the real people present in my day. That's when a freshman in college shared a time management tip with me-- create a schedule and spend only the allotted time on each project. 

Setting Up House, Again

You arrive to four walls, generally white ones. The rooms lack life, but you will provide that soon enough. Sometimes you can paint, sometimes you can hang pictures, but it is only for so long. I used to wonder what color carpet would be in my room. Now, furnishings are sorted and placed. Beds are made and clothes are put into closets. The dishes are unpacked, put away, and reshuffled as I try to find the best place for each thing. There is no carpet in the house, just rugs and I know where they go as I've been carrying them with me for a while.

I still wonder as I did when I was a kid if a friend will be nearby or faraway and when I will meet them and why does it take so long to make a new friend.

My husband teases me for my ability to be lost in a conversation and thus oblivious to my surroundings. I could care less about where I am or where I'm going when I am happily conversing. Lately, I've been finding my way about a small town realizing how much of it I haven't noticed over the years because I was usually happily conversing with him. Now he's not here to chauffeur me about on summer vacation.

I'm organizing the shelves, winnowing the keepsakes, and starring at this house. When I met my neighbor, I reached for his hand to shake it and said, "I'm going to be your neighbor for a long time. I'm not moving." He laughed and responded in kind.

I don't know what it's like to stay. I'm so tired of change and  movement and activity, I just want to stay in one place and get really bored for once. After a little low level boredom, I get ancy, which is a call for a change of pace, some new tunes, a different perspective.

I added some labels to the spice rack. I put more shelves into the pantry. The little neighborhood boys followed the Moose into the house in search of a treat. They gave their seven year old approvals, "It's pretty nice in here." They liked my homemade peach jello too. One of them asked, "How do you make the clear part of it?" I asked, "Have you ever made plain jello with gelatin?" I showed him the gelatin box. He shook his head no, but continued to eat the jello. He told me it was good and that he liked our trays. The Moose had shown his friends how to carry the tray from the table to the counter when they were finished.

I guess the house is set up well enough. I'm not sure it feels like home yet. I think my husband has to come back for that. I wondered a bit at the thought: What makes a home? After all of these years of setting things up and thinking when I get this picture up or unpack this last box, then it will be home, only I don't think so anymore. I put all of these things in place and it feels nice to have the house in order, but it is always lacking people. Just when I get all of the people sorted and known, then I usually have to move or they do. Except this time, but I can't quite comprehend that just yet.

I offered to drive to Virginia, without knowing how far away it was, to help a friend unpack. She asked me if I was kidding. I didn't reply. I was thinking, I don't care. I just want to be with someone who knows me, who I don't have to explain everything to, and who doesn't ask me a gazillion questions I don't care about. I would drive a long way to do that.

I don't relish setting up house as much as I relish having it ready so that when little boys come over and eat homemade peach jello on a wooden tray that they will enjoy the experience. They made it nice for me today.

What really matters is not where we are, but who-- what real beings- are with us.
Robert Farrar Capon, The Supper of the Lamb

Hometown Lure

Not long after we were married, we moved from the east coast of Florida to the west coast in Washington Sate, yielding a diagonal drive across the United States. At one point on the journey and unsuspecting waitress asked, "Where are you from?" It was my tipping point, "We're homeless!" I replied. My husband scrambled to tell her, "We're moving cross country at the moment" not wanting her to think we couldn't pay our bill.

I've long struggled with the question, "Where are you from?" My parents always had an answer, later my husband. As the years went by, I settled with, "I was a military brat so that's a tough question." I usually countered with, "Are you asking, 'Where did I go to high school?' or 'Where did I live the longest?' or 'Where did I live before here?'

Living between duty stations often unhinged this feeling of unbelonging, of homelessness. Untethered to a place, I felt at a loss. I belonged no where yet anywhere. The problem was I desired connection, roots, a place to call my hometown.

After departing from Spain in eleventh grade, I couldn't claim I was from Spain. I went to university in Florida only to realize I wasn't very southern anymore after my years away. I was born in Ohio, but I had mainly visited in summers.

Five years abroad in Japan where every town seems to have a mascot, an official souvenir, and a unique food, I appreciate hometown questions now like, "Are there any special foods it is known for?" This time though the hometown questions aren't undoing me because this time I'm headed for a place I plan to make my hometown so I can answer, "I'm going to find out."

Hometowns aren't for everyone, but when you haven't had one, it's a faraway carrot dangling on a stick. This is the adventure I've long wanted.

Our children are sad to leave Japan, but they can come back and so can we. This time we rooted into not just a military community but to a neighborhood, a culture, and a language. When we return there are many friends to find and places to revisit. There will be changes, the landlord now in the hospital may not be there, some friends may move on, some may change jobs. Still it will be familiar and comforting to return, to stroke surfaces, to revisit gardens, to walk familiar paths, to experience a known place of comfort like home and cite the changes.

In my childhood I listened to my parents commentary about their hometowns. My husband noted business failures, paint jobs, home restorations, and building moves in his hometown. Directions and explanations include history lessons.

I'm finally heading to my hometown. I've never lived there, but like any relationship, I get that it is for better, for worse. I suspect the next part of this chronicle will have something to do with acclimating to American life and taking in this new territory.

We rested our weary bodies in a hotel in Tokyo last night. The Moose had a few tears seeping from his eyes when he was at last bathed and in bed. He said, "I'm sad, I'm going to miss Japan." I told him, "It's ok to miss Japan, it just means you have people that love you here. Do you know how special it is to have people love you all over the world with people that love you from Florida to Ohio to Japan? That's a special thing, and you'll come back. It means you love people all over the world too. It's a good thing to have all that love in your heart." I paused my monolog and noted his sad face did not appear comforted. I wanted to reassure him, I said, "Your tears mean that your heart is so full of love that the tears have to come out to make room for more love." He told me, "Hearts full of love are different tears than tears from pain." I laughed. He's right. The Mule asked, "Can you move your feet from my leg?" We tickled away the rest of the sadness and slept soundly.

I do think hearts full of love make us cry not out of pain but because of their fullness. I left Kamakura full of love.

A hometown beckons, and I am an intrepid explorer.

An Edsel

Kamakura Departing

We arrived in Japan five years ago this month. Today is our last day to be in our house here in Kamakura. We had to go to the Daibutsu for one final shot.

Mata ne Kamakura.

July 2007, Daibutsu, Kamakura, Japan

July 2012, Daibutsu, Kamakura, Japan

Falling, Cooking, Saving

As these many goodbyes have come to pass, I have been surprised, at times, with whom has shown up, who has touched me more than I realized, and who I have touched more than I realized. It is humbling.

Embedded in Japanese life and illiterate, the journey has had its moments of grandeur, like Mt. Fuji at sunrise with friends at my side, and despondency, staring at the garbage and realizing that I can't even get something simple right. Every smile, each hello, it all helped- and just maybe on the journey of life, of motherhood, it went both ways. Meaning that sometimes, maybe, my hello or my smile helped someone else too. We are all so necessary, more than we think.

Today, late to my last cooking class, I arrived anxious and in a flurry of activity with my phone ringing and my iPad pinging. It took effort to focus on the food, the class, but slowly the hundreds of move related details settled out and down to the bottom like sediment falls out of the water once it's still. I could pretend for another few hours that my life is normal and that this was a routine cooking day.

Cooking is not so much about fun as it is about the need to put dinner on the table nightly that is healthy for the body, interesting to the palate, and hopefully, easy to prepare. Easy to prepare requires knowledge on my part. It means that I have shopped for the ingredients, have recipes on hand, and can whip up a dish in a timely fashion. Cooking class helps me. We learn five recipes every month so after five years of this, I am more comfortable in the kitchen than I used to be.

However, meals at my house are still more hodgepodge than anything else. My children have different tastes. My husband rarely eats dinner with us because he is at work. The why bother making fancy adult food when the kids won't eat it any way thought reigns. I have some meals that are routine and work for everyone, ok, one night, pizza night. I make four different pizzas. My husband will eat anything, but my children will happily starve themselves to death. My daughter won't eat meat for the most part. My son won't eat tomatoes or pasta despite having a fair number of Italian genes. I make a variety and some how they grow and dinner is eaten. Our meals are part Japanese, part Italian, part French, part Indian, part American; it depends on the day. We eat a lot of tofu, a lot of potatoes, a lot of salad, a fair amount of miso soup, and a pinch of this and a tad of that.

In cooking class I have the luxury of eating food that has been thought out to compliment other tastes and to reflect the season. The menus never quite work for me at home, but they offer inspiration and a road map. Today my heart was a bit drained, my mind at a slow simmer, and my tastebuds unsure of fresh scallops and tandoor chicken, but as ever, Nansai Sensei pulled it off.

Saying goodbye one last time proved fatal. Tears sprang to my eyes as my heart and brain flashed back and bounced along memory lane at lightening speed recollecting my first nervous day, my first photo cookbook unveiling to the sensei, my children bearing the rings down the aisle of her daughter's wedding, the words of sustenance, the food of substance. I rushed for the door.

I'm all cried out. I keep thinking I'm all done. There can't possibly be any more tears left and, yet, they keep coming. I think it's the surprise factor.

Sometimes someone catches you at that moment in life when you are falling, heading straight for doom. The thing is, they think it is a small adjustment, but to you, it's life saving. Then one day you realize this is it! It's all a surprise, at least to me-- I never quite realize I'm falling or recognize endings until they are fully upon me. Then I'm so grateful that I can't put it to words, instead tears come and I feel like a big puddle.

The past few days I have felt like a lava lamp, a blob of puddles floating up and down, grateful but in liquid motion.

Thank you my Kamakura friends and cooking classmates for catching me when I was falling, again and again, even when you didn't have a clue that I was on a downward trajectory. Thank you Aki Nansai for the warmth of your kitchen, the kindness of your table, and for all of the lessons, some of them unspoken.

Mata ne.

My Cooking Sensei

Fresh Hotate Scallop Salad

My favorite sweet beans!

Tandoor Yogurt Chicken

Oranges filled with gelatin-- slice & serve

None of these kiddos were here when I started!

The Bridge Between Two Cultures

I've been asked, "Why did you choose to live in Kamakura?" As well as, "Why didn't you live on the base?" And recently, "If you had to do it over it again, knowing what you know, would you still do it?" I realized with this bundle of questions that I mainly saw the choices along the way as opportunity. Choosing Kamakura was an opportunity to tip destiny in the direction of learning about Japanese culture.

When we found a house to rent in Kamakura five years ago, I told the agent, "I'll take it if you can find a yochien Japanese preschool that will enroll my children." As agents go, he was motivated and called back with, "You have an interview scheduled." Having arrived in Japan from Washington, D.C., I was not surprised at needing an interview for preschool. My husband's new co-worker supplied us with a contact for a translator and so our adventure in Kamakura began. Choosing yochien was an opportunity to learn another approach to childrearing.

Our daughter took to Japan like a fish to water. It was if we had been depriving her of rice, tofu, and giant concrete slides her whole life. She had previously spent a year, at the fine age of three, attending the French Maternal Preschool in Georgetown so immersing in Japanese was hardly cause for alarm. She hadn't known any French when she started.

I was pretty clueless to the ways of yochien. Months went by before I finally asked at the bus stop one day, "Why do they keep bringing their shoes home on Fridays?" The laughter was because I was supposed to be washing them every week. Tissue and handkerchiefs were supposed to be tucked into the children's smock pockets. I meant to sew velcro buttons on the pockets to hold stuff in, but never did. No one commented on the obento lunch box meals I packed and sent off daily. Over the years as I learned more and was schooled by my ever wiser daughter, I learned that putting packages of any type into an obento was verboten. I had been putting packets of tofu into her obento for two years at that point.

After yochien graduation, we expected to enroll our daughter into the local shogakko elementary school. Being American, I thought every child in the neighborhood was entitled to a local education, but being here under the sponsorship of the U. S. Navy meant that we were supposed to attend the American elementary school at Yokosuka Naval Base, forty-five minutes away. Explaining our desire to send our blonde, blue eyed daughter to the local elementary school in the end resulted in a meeting with the Kamakura City Board of Education. Other Navy children that attended local elementary schools either had a Japanese parent or were in the school district near the base. Kamakura had never had a Navy family, without a Japanese parent, attend a local school. Choosing shogakko was an opportunity for our daughter to expand her Japanese.

The Yokosuka Navy Base, around this time, had created a job for a school liaison coordinator. She suggested that I contact the base legal office to discuss the issue with the base Japanese lawyer. He told us that the city was not obligated to educate our daughter, thanks to the S.O.F.A. (Status Of Forces Agreement for you landlubbers), but that they might consider it if we asked. We went to the school board meeting knowing we were going against the tide.

My husband and I put on our darkest suits, de rigueur in Japan for any formal event. A good friend and fellow yochien mother, who knew us and more importantly our children well, offered to translate. Another friend had insured we got the meeting scheduled in the first place. It was all about a little girl with pigtails who had earned the chance, nothing more, nothing less. I was nervous but earnest.

There were four members present for that first interview with one being a translator. I was sweating inside my suit. They asked us if there was a bus to take our daughter to the American school. "Yes," we replied. They asked us if there was a school for her to attend on the base, "Yes," we replied. They asked us a lot of stuff that had me confused because it wasn't about our daughter. Sensing that the point was being lost I spoke up and told them that we were there because our daughter deserved the chance to go to school with her friends and neighbors, that this wasn't about money or funding or transportation, but it was about a little girl who came to Japan, learned Japanese, and took to Japan like a native. One member looked up at me and said, "She is a bridge?" "Yes!" I replied, "She is a bridge, she is the link between Japan and American already and in the future." I knew then that they got it. Not long after we received the all important post card in the mail; her entrance ticket into shogakko elementary school.

That little girl, the bridge, is what has carried me across the cultural divide, the obstacles of being a gaijin in Japan. Turning back was never an option. Though I have not made a great effort to learn the Japanese language, too overwhelming, I have sought mightily to learn the ways of the culture. I will never blend in here, with my pink skin, blue eyes, and unmanageable hair. I do love the connection this bridge has made even if building it has meant that I lost touch with some of my own cultural comforts, the main one being the chance to be smarter than my children for a while, but I can't read, write, or correct their manners or homework.

I have often thought of myself as somewhat of a pioneer here in the wilds of Kamakura, which excepting the spiders, bugs, and green plant life that take over, is quite civilized. The term pioneer may not be entirely accurate as there are plenty of other gaijin about, just not mothers at school, and I never intended to blaze a trail for others to follow.

I played a small part in building a bridge, and I can't take back one iota of this experience without dismantling that and so, no, no regrets.

1st Day of Dai Ichi Shogakko for "the bridge"