Flights and Fireflies

Tuesday night, we were camped out on the front lawn waiting for darkness to claim the day.  Only then would the fireflies start to share their soft glow, illuminating our little part of the world. Bobby was asleep already. It was Mary's special time with Mommy and Daddy.

Is it night yet, Momma?
Do you see one yet, Momma?
How come it's not dark yet, Daddy?
It's hard to be patient, Daddy.

Finally, one by one, their lights came on. First gathering under the bigger trees that line the street and then spreading their sparks across the green canopy connecting our house to the others on the block.

It was the third night in a row that we were catching lighting bugs. And Mary was finally getting the hang of the soft cradled catch that it takes to scoop up a firefly without smashing it. She was so proud each time she grabbed one out of the warm summer air, feeling its little legs tickling the inside of her palm.

Momma, look! I got one! I got one!

She demonstrated even more joy though, when she loosened her clenched fist and watched the little bugs crawl up her finger and then take off, granting them freedom once again. Watching her, soaking up her blissful innocence, I didn't want the moment to end. But it was bedtime and I knew morning would come too soon.

It was another (very) early one too. At 4:00 AM the alarm went off, by 5:30 I was standing in O'Hare's security line being sniffed by the new K9 unit. I was on yet another leg of my ongoing fast food tour of the nation. The destination this week was Raleigh-Durham to make and showcase fried chicken. Last week, I was in Nashville tasting it (over and over and over again.)

Travel, whether it's one day out of the office or five, is the most taxing part of my job. Not just for me, but for my family. As much as I try to prepare them and myself for the Mommy gaps in their week, I know my road trips can take a toll. And whether in mid (turbulent) air or going to sleep in my (too) quiet hotel room, I tend to feel a little remorse at my company for sending me on the road so much.

But there are times, like last week, where I give in to the experience. Where I think, Daddy's got it; everyone's fine; I might as well enjoy this.

Last Thursday, I had woken up early, still full and a little bubbly from my dining experience at Hattie B's, Edley's Barbecue and Husk the day before. I was running along the Cumberland River in Nashville, Tennessee, when I stopped to reply to my Mom's morning request for news. I relayed the last 24 hours of Southern food sampling, and she responded, 'I think I would like that job.'

I paused to think about my reply, half torn between the guilt of being away from my family and the sheer ecstasy of my French 75 paired with Shrimp and Grits the night before. I started typing.

'I have an awesome job,' and I meant every character of it.
She replied,  'you are blessed to have the skills to do it.'

As I made my way back to the hotel, I thought about those words, reflected on their truth, but identified a significant gap in them. I am not only blessed to have the education and experience set that enables my employment, I am blessed to have a  husband and my kids are blessed to have a father that makes the ups and downs and delays of my weeks feasible and even fun.

I sometimes dread the email or conversation, letting Peter know that I'll be gone yet another two days next week. But he never flinches. Okay. You will be missed, he says. I wonder deep down if he gets stressed, but he showcases more pride and excitement in his solo parenting than worry.

The debate on whether women can have it all is still unsettled. I'm currently in the camp, that 'all' includes near exhaustion seven days a week. But I know one thing for sure; 'all' in my world - a rewarding job and a happy family - would not be possible without my husband. And one day, even one whole weekend, is not enough to showcase my thanks for him as a partner in business, care giving, and semi-stress free living.

    

Lo.

Care Packages

From the bluffs overlooking Lake Erie, I witnessed the forging of many summer storms. The natural drama of clouds colliding into an angry tempest would play out on particularly hot, humid days in July. As the first rain drops fell and the distant thunder rumbled, campers would scurry from electives stationed around the grounds of Calvary Camp into their respective, but identical small white, wooden cabins.

The counselors - the muscles of camp - would quickly, but diligently unfasten latches that released an extra layer of protection from the approaching gales and showers. As the wind would pick up, the flashes of lightening would become more vibrant, the thunder would reach a more frightening decibel, and the last cabin mate (number ten of ten) would burst through the door panting, soaking wet, relieved they had finally reached a measure of safety.

Tucked inside the dark cramped cabin, rain pummeling the roof, gusts of wind threatening the wooden boards that stood between us and nature's fury, I was always thankful for the stuff that had reached me in the past week from the world outside of camp, hundreds of miles away.

A postcard from my parents written from a lazy porch in Chautauqua; a letter boasting of operas, ballets and symphonic masterpieces that followed dry happy hours. A greeting card inscribed with my Grandmother's perfect penmanship, capturing the putting green, Mississippi River Catfish, lightening bugs, Hello Dollies, and heat indexes of Quincy, Illinois. A note from my Grandpa, decorated with exclamation marks that showcased his enthusiasm for this summer's crop of tomatoes. A mix tape titled 'Quite the Gentleman Caller' - a gift from a friend back home; a melange of catchy songs that became the soundtrack to the summer. And finally, my care package.

My name, as well as my brother's and sister's had been called over the loud speaker earlier in the week. The announcement summoned a dozen other lucky campers and us to the camp office to pick up their respective miniature treasure chests of branded packaged goods. Walking back to my cabin, arms wrapped around my brown parcel, I felt a little more loved, a little less hungry, and a little closer to home.

Back in my cabin I unwrapped a tube of Pringles, Oreos, Goldfish, Life Cereal, Trident, two rolls of Certs, a Mad Libs, my In Style magazine, a couple extra pairs of Hanes, the long sleeve GAP t-shirt that I had forgotten to pack, and a note from my Mom and Dad sealing the gift with love. 

Atop my bunk, my fear of thunderstorms turning to tornadoes was assuaged with a stack of Oreos and a sheet of Mad Libs fielded by the more verbally provocative in the group. Despite their distance, my parents always knew how to make me feel better. 

***

Huddled in the plastic wrapped safety of the Peggy O on Saturday afternoon, Stacy's Pita Chips making their rounds, Revolution brews cracked, famous tales getting taller, we watched sails unravel, skyscrapers disappear, and white caps form as a massive storm system descended upon the Windy City. With one of my fellow Calvary Campers on board, I flashed back to the stormy scenes of Camp that I remember so well.

This past weekend, I felt like Calvary was back in session. My campers, two special new ones included, gathered in the Midwest for Arts and Crafts, Skits, Swimming, Boating, Banquets, Campfires, and laughs that echoed across Lake Michigan and back. 

While there were some changes ... the outfits were trendier ... 

The food more craveable, the bug juice more potent, and the ice cream at canteen sweeter. 

The electives more colorful ... 

And the news a little quicker to reach home. 

A lot was the same; campers got R-O-W-D-I-E,

More seasoned campers watched out for the newbies.

Girls passing boys' tables in the dining hall paused to flirt. 

Rest hour was mandated. 

New friends were made while old ones were nurtured.

And the hugs on the last night of Camp had to last another year.

A special thank you to my wonderful Aunt and cousins for making their way all the way to Chicago to show how much they cared. I hope you had as much fun at Camp 2015 as I did.

Lo.

Free

Two hundred and thirty nine years ago, a group of patriots signed the Declaration of Independence, setting themselves free from the British monarchy and their unruly taxes ...

(I was going to go into a little more detail at this point, but after debating facts and figures and an unknown order of events with my husband, I realized my knowledge of American history is painfully flawed, so I'll stop and fast forward to present day.)

... In the Play Pen, a notorious spot for anchoring and partying in the shadows of Chicago's historic skyscrapers, thousands of people celebrated Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, John Hancock, and quite a few other lesser known signatories yesterday. Among the masses, I doubt I was the only one who didn't know the finer details behind the founding of our great nation. Nonetheless, everyone seemed to have good reason for toasting to America's 239th birthday. Decked from head to toe, bow to stern, in red, white, and blue, revelers partied from morning to an hour far past my bedtime.  

There was certainly an aura of life, liberty and an ultimate pursuit of happiness bobbing and floating in Lake Michigan's calm waters. And despite a predominantly foggy understanding of the reason behind the regatta, there were universal freedoms that everyone seemed to be partying for.

The freedom to eat one more doughnut.

The freedom to live a little dangerously.

Freedoms of press and speech.

The freedom to raise the flag.

And wear it if you so choose.

The freedom to party with as many people as possible.

The freedom to take selfies and share them with the world.  

The freedom to bend the rules. Even in the presence of the Chicago Police.

The freedom to eat, drink and be merry.

The freedom to marry whoever you want. Especially if you've found that person who completes you.

In all seriousness, I felt very thankful to be an American yesterday. To live in a country free of war; where my kids can play and embrace their youth as long as possible; where hard work still pays off; and where there's always a pursuit that advances the status quo. Yes, our country still has it's flaws and yes, there are still inequalities rampant within our civic structures, but we have made a lot of progress over the past centuries. And I'm optimistic that my children will see a day and age when everyone is truly treated as an equal. 

A hearty thank you to our founding fathers, to our war veterans, to the brave soldiers who have fought battle after battle for the advancement of civil rights on our home soil, and to the millions of people who make our country work (harder) every day. Thank you for letting my children sleep soundly tonight. 

So they can dream big tomorrow. 

  
Lo.