October is/was Breast Cancer Awareness Month

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition, Oct. 7, 2011

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about breasts. If you are male, I don’t need to hear you chiming in with something helpful like, “Yeah, me too.” If you’re even thinking that while you’re reading this, that’s probably sexual harassment, buddy. And my calling you buddy when your name isn’t even Bud is also harassment of some sort. Let’s stop harassing each other and continue. Shall we?

Last week I got a call from our friend on the West Coast. She had recently had a single mastectomy. Things went smoothly. The morning after surgery, she was home with the only real source of irritation being the drainage and discharge. To the alarm of her friends, she was up and answering her phone. You see, she is 83 years old. You’re right; that’s not a typo – that’s 83 as in octogenarian, not 38. Her husband is 80.


We’ve been friends with this couple since we met in California almost twenty years ago. We became friends despite our age difference, or perhaps because of it. I’m not afraid of aging, because there’s only one alternative, but I’m hoping you noticed there is an age difference.


In the ten years since we each departed the Golden State, we’ve only seen them once when they stopped to visit us in Ohio along a cross-country trip to see friends and family. Her husband attended his 60th class reunion in Kentucky just a couple of summers ago. The class has dwindled to about half of its size, but it’s amazing how they’ve kept in touch over the decades, even without the aid of computers and Facebook.


Our families were close, spending many an enjoyable evening and holiday together. She made the most amazing homemade Christmas ornaments and treats, and our young kids adored them. I loved to hear the tales from their youth. I have a deep and sudden longing to see them.


She relayed to me that when she was but a girl, her aunt after whom she was named, had also had a mastectomy. Or at least that’s what she thinks had happened. “You didn’t talk about a lot of things back then.” The aunt had often appeared to be in pain and had always seemed a fragile person.


I’m glad we can talk about all sorts of things nowadays. Not everything is necessarily appropriate in every context, but it gives us a newfound freedom of access, inquiry, and information. William Stewart Halsted, a professor of surgery at Johns Hopkins University, first performed a radical mastectomy in 1891 as life-saving operation for breast cancer patients. Before that time, breast cancer was not only a death sentence, but it also relegated the sufferer to a virtual quarantine because the stench and discharge associated with the disease made them pariahs.


Halsted was ”an almost excruciatingly slow, meticulous surgeon known for his gentle handling of tissue at a time when bloody slashing, and no thought of germs, were more common…” (Source: http://www.hopkinsmedicine.org/about/history/history5.html.) Incidentally, Halsted also introduced the use of rubber gloves in surgery. It was not so much for keeping the surgical site germ-free, but to save the hands of the nurse he later married. Caroline Hampton suffered from rashes as a result of washing with mercuric chloride. Halsted contacted Goodyear to make a thin pair of gloves, and it soon became the rage.


I heard a report that when the Susan G. Komen Foundation began its awareness campaign, there were many women who could not bring themselves to put the pen to paper to sign any petitions. The stigma attached to breast cancer made the stakes too high for them to have their names associated with the disease or its cure. We have come a long way. October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. We have a long way to go yet.


Last month, I finally got my buns (and other parts) into Fauquier Hospital for my first mammogram. Yes, they give women a free one on the year of their fortieth birthday, but somehow I didn’t get around to it even five years ago. I’m tempted to say I should have gone in earlier, because it was a smashing good time. But in truth, it was just plain smashing, even though very temporarily. My technician was absolutely wonderful. She didn’t make me feel self-conscious at all, and I kept jabbering away about the wonders of modern medicine and William Halsted.


Anyway, the images indicate I need to go in for a repeat exam, more thorough, with an ultrasound this time. I guess that makes up for all the years I skipped going in. I’m not afraid…yet. Best of all, I’m not afraid or ashamed to talk about it.

A fond farewell…sort of

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend Edition, 09/30/2011
September 30th was the last day of National Library Month. How did I miss mentioning that all month long? I have it on good authority, however, that you are still allowed to visit your local library, and your card will work, even after September ends. I have a little sad and selfish news in regard to what (rather, “who”) will not work at our library very soon, though.


Last night, I popped into our local Warrenton branch and was met with that unmistakable English greeting, “Oh, hallo, Love!” If you’ve visited there any time in the past 25 years, you know exactly which librarian I’m speaking of. She’s tall and slender and striking. (“Tall” is a relative term for me. As far as I’m concerned, if you’ve crossed 5’3”, you’re tall.)


In just two weeks, Jenny Lyons is no longer going to be there to greet and help us. This is in no way meant to demean or dismiss any of her colleagues, all of whom are wonderful ladies who always offer a smile and some help. (Correct me if I’m wrong, but I haven’t seen any men working there.) If you thought the library was the place to be hushing and shushing yourself, you have been deprived. You need to engage one of these ladies in a conversation.


In today’s highly mobile society, it is amazing to find someone who has not only lived in the same area, but also worked in the same place, for a quarter of a century. I didn’t get the full history last night, but horses and English saddles brought her to this area from England. Stop being goofy. I never implied that she rode on a horse here all the way from the seat of the British Empire. Seriously, your humor is getting down to the elementary school cafeteria level. Regardless, we’ve established that she has been here and been faithfully and cheerfully serving at the library all these years.


But now, Jenny has got some silly notion of retiring into her head. She says it’s time to let someone new have a chance.


Someone new? Someone new? What if this someone new doesn’t greet me as if I were the most special person to have walked through the doors all day? It may be too late to forward this urgent note to the Director, but I think she should carefully consider a few things before bringing in a new hire. Is there some way Maria Del Rosso could sneak in a question or two onto the employment application form?


Applicant takes tea in the:


a) morning b) midmorning c) noon d) mid-afternoon e) at tea time f) just before bed g) all of the above.


Two weeks is (someone will gleefully correct me to say “Two weeks are” but I’m treating this as one unit, so ha!):


a) the time between paychecks b) a fortnight c) annual vacation time for most working adults, except those who live in Europe and Asia, where two weeks is only sufficient time off of work to begin planning the other six weeks of actual vacation time


A boot is:


a) something you put on your foot b) something you wish you could apply to your child’s rump on occasion, when they can’t seem to get moving c) what the colonists refer to as “the trunk” of their awful motor vehicles


Okay, I can see where these might get sticky. But you get my meaning. Also, could they have the new librarian practice that wonderful greeting and try to exude love to everyone around?


Here’s a little secret: I didn’t even know her name until yesterday. She confessed she didn’t know mine, either. She calls everyone “Love” or “My Dear.” All these years, we have been greeting and gushing over each other like old schoolmates. Don’t get me wrong; I do know lots of our librarians by name, even though trying to subtly hone in on their nametags dangling down at the end of the chain makes you feel a little uncouth.


It’s going to be hard to have someone fill Jenny Lyons’ shoes. What will hers be doing? A “spot” of traveling now and then, and she’s also thinking of helping with rescued dogs in her corner of Fauquier County. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s going to be some reading in there too. Librarians do seem to be addicted to books. Hopefully, she will wander back into our branch now and then to feed her habit.


Jenny, we’ll miss you and your wonderful smile, but we wish you all the best in your retirement. Cheerio!

October is a happening month

Published in the Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Sep. 23, 2011

Wednesday, my husband took the day off to drive me into Washington, D.C. to the recording studio of WAMU 88.5 FM, http://www.wamu.org/. This station plays my favorite source of news from NPR, National Public Radio http://www.npr.org/.


I realize it’s risky to tell you what I listen to. Someone on Facebook commented that NPR stands for “Never Praise Republicans” so they prefer not to listen. For me, it’s not about the politics; it’s a window on the world with in-depth coverage. Watching the news on television, sometimes you have to wonder what got more coverage: the anchorwoman’s hair, face, and wardrobe, or the news? With radio, early in the morning, right in your kitchen or in your car, you can travel to a village halfway across the world. You can hear the voices of the locals and learn of their triumphs and travails. Granted, you have no pictures, but that’s where the reporter’s words and your mind collaborate together.


I read aloud my commentary on Halloween. It was brief. You know I’m not, by nature, brief. But they have an editor who can slash better than Freddy Krueger and Congress put together. So my humorous attempts have been limited to two-and-a-half minutes, which is a quick 150 seconds. For those seconds, my husband took a whole day off. Each minute that I’ll be on the air, he devoted an hour of driving time.


Plus, with his time management techniques, we got there with about an hour and a half to spare. It’s a good thing he accompanied me, because we don’t view time management in the same way. For me, that amount of free time could have equaled putting dinner into the slow cooker and dashing about the house to change the bed sheets, seconds before leaving in panic and disarray. Weirdly, the urge for me to do those things when there is no deadline is not as great. For him, it’s all a matter of setting priorities.


The night before, as we were finishing up with dinner and the disarray of dishes, and homework papers, my husband very coolly set up a big microphone, chair, and headset connected to the speakers in the living room for me to do a few practice runs. It was like a scene out of “The King’s Speech.” Once again, you might be horrified, but we thought it was such an exceptional movie, that all of our kids have seen it. We just had the little discussion about what words are not considered appropriate first.


In reading it aloud, I was initially slow, deliberate, and hesitant and then, as I sensed the time crunch, rushed through the delivery. (I think this is how I operate in life in general.)


“No, Mom. That doesn’t even sound like you,” my thirteen-year-old son objected. My husband suggested that our son, a natural orator, have a go at the read-through. (He is the one who used to continue his soliloquies, even when left alone in the bathroom during potty training.) I had to add that little tidbit in, just in case he’s getting too big for his boots. As Niles delivered the script, his hands developed a life of their own. They automatically twirled, outstretched, and performed all manner of gesticulations while his eyebrows danced up and down on his forehead. You could see his suppressed smile as he delivered my tongue-in-cheek words. Ordinarily, it can be a little annoying to be in the same room with someone who is obviously more gifted or talented (are they the same thing?) than you are – especially if they are younger. But not now. You cannot feel anything but pride when you are outshined by any child, and more so when it is your own. Can there be any joy greater than this?


I’ll let you know when the commentary is supposed to air and how you can hear it if you and your radio refuse to travel to WAMU, 88.5 FM. I only wish you could have heard Niles deliver it. That kid is a natural.


Two other quick notes: if you don’t have plans for next weekend, you do now. Learning Tree Farms in Delaplane is hosting its Annual Picnic on Sunday, October 2nd from 11 am until 4 pm. Everything is absolutely free: food (from 12:30 – 2:30), hayrides, kite flying, fishing, reenactments from the Civil War, artillery range, face-painting, a hay bale maze, and live music. We went last year and got to meet owner Mary Collins as she handed out t-shirts (also free). I hope to meet her other half, David Collins, this year. I can’t think of a better way to bring in the fall. Visit their website, http://www.learningtreefarms.com/ or call 540-364-0484 for more information.


Also, I’ll be speaking at the Forum for Women at Lord Fairfax Community College on Saturday, October 8th. It’s hosted by Fauquier Women. Call Marsha Melkonian at 540-270-5434, or visit their website at http://www.fauquierwomen.org/. The event runs from 8:30 am until 2:30 pm, and there will be a vendor fair concurrent with the seminars. Pre-registration is $10 including breakfast and a boxed lunch. Hope to see you there!

Words, words, words…what are a few words?

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition 9/16/2011

“It’s not that I mind refilling your prescriptions,” I said to my husband as I speed-dialed the pharmacy. His medications were aligned before me like candidates hoping to be re-elected. “I just want you to see how easy it is to do. That way, if something happens to me, you can still keep up with your medications.”

“Vin,” my husband began in that way that always leaves me wondering, even after 25 years, how serious he’s being, “if something happens to you, I will just crawl into the coffin, right next to you.” At the risk of sounding morbid, that is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.

He’s telling me that, despite his efficiency and time management techniques (which are very noble except when he tries to apply them to me), in spite of his extensive reading and numerous hobbies, his wizardry with computers, and his unequivocally superior intellect, he doesn’t feel qualified to handle life without me. Just a few words - sometimes, that’s all it takes to make a sad and silly person happy. (I do accept flowers and candy too, of course.)


I was elated for days. I waste time. I procrastinate. I live in clutter. I’m not a great housekeeper or cook. Of course, I have my good points, but they happen to be buried in the clutter at the moment.


My husband is not a man of flowery speech. He has a Ph.D. in physics. Need I say more? If he wants to tell you something directly, he just does.

Many readers have asked about him since his massive heart attack in November. He is doing really, really well. Thank you for your concern and prayers. My husband’s cholesterol levels are superb and he has lost 45 pounds. But nowadays my husband constantly mentions how easy it is to lose weight – not in a bad, hinting sort of way. You have to remember that as a scientist, he is simply making observations and stating facts. Repeatedly.

Scientists love to repeat things. They are all about doing experiments and repeated trials. Listening to him repeat himself is becoming a trial for me. While he has been shedding pounds, I have been finding them and trying them on for size: A bigger size.

But don’t feel bad. He’s talking about calories consumed versus calories expended – it’s so beautifully simple, you see. He usually does this when we are walking up the hill together, which is a good thing, because don’t expect me to be walking and talking. I guess, when it comes to calories, I’m just a conservative spender. I’m banking them away in case times (or I) ever get too lean. He claims I don’t need to lose any weight, even though the weight charts say differently. He likes my plumpness, but I’m not sure if I want to be mistaken for a prime roaster hen. But I’m not afraid; if I thought he wanted me to lose pounds, he’d just say so, directly.

Sometimes I think he’s too direct.

When we lived in California, we had an unmarried couple for neighbors. With them lived the man’s teenaged daughter, because her mother – I can’t say if she had ever been his wife - had been killed in a car accident when the girl was just four years old. On alternate weekends, his elementary-school-aged son would visit. That boy’s mother – I’m not sure if she was the man’s wife, ex-wife, or had never been his wife – lived in another town nearby. I hope you were able to follow that. I’m sorry; it’s a little complicated without names.

Let me make clear that despite the complications, we liked our neighbors. I would often help the teen with her math homework. She would often help me out by “playing” with our young daughters and managed to get them to clean their room in the process. We had dinner together.

The woman who was our neighbor was beautiful and kind. She sewed matching sunflower outfits for my girls and made me a maternity dress when I was expecting my first son. Whenever she saw me looking frazzled, she would invite my daughters over. Upon their return, they always sported something new that she had “thrown together” – in duplicate, of course. Maybe it was a tiara with a veil. Once it was a long tutu. You know the kind? You have to beg and bargain with your daughters to remove these before bathing, bedtime, and public excursions. Otherwise, they wore those tutus so much they might as well have been tattoos. How could you not like this woman?

Anyway, as the teen grew older, she moved away to live with her mother’s relatives, and then ended up cohabiting with some unsavory character. At least, that’s what I gathered from the lamentations of our neighbors that day as they stood outside wringing their hands. “Oh, that’s too bad,” I said, sympathizing.
My husband was more direct – too direct. “Well, where do you think she learned this from?” Ouch.

Now you see why his few words thrilled me so much the other day.

Remembering our lives one decade ago

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend on September 9, 2011


Is there any question whatsoever of what is on the collective mind of our nation this week? Is there any doubt where our hearts linger and lie? The anguish and dismay, and for many, the bitterness and anger are as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.


In a moment, in several long, slow motion moments on that sobering morning of September 11, 2001, our lives and our iconic landscape were utterly devastated. That was a decade ago: ten long years, gone in a flash. Where have they gone, and what have we done?


Don’t we all remember that stunned silence? The watching in horror as the events unfolded and as one was foiled. Whether or not we were there or lost a loved one or feared losing a loved one, we were all affected. Our hearts were one in grief and in courage. We were united as a nation. We were not Anything-Americans then. We were under attack. We were hurting. We were helping each other. We were one.


All of us, those who are old enough to remember, know just where we were and what we were doing when we got the news. Those images are indelibly etched in our minds.


When I visit the elementary school to have lunch with my youngest children, I look at our bustling and chatty young population. Very few of these children were born on September 11, 2001. Yet, they have all been touched in some way or the other.


A classmate of my son tells me his dad is in the military and that he will have to go far, far away in just a few days. This child is in second grade. It makes me wonder about the children a world away. What have their lives been? What has the entirety of their existence and experience been? And what will they grow up thinking and believing?


An innocence has been lost. Once gone, it can never be reclaimed. Just longed for, and wept over. We are older and wiser and more cautious. We are more guarded. Do we love as easily and trust as much? Or do we do more so now, knowing that life is but moments linked together. At any point, those links can be broken. So we hang on to each moment, and we live life fully.


Ten years ago, we were newcomers to a suburb of Columbus, Ohio. It was September 11th, and the only significance it had for me then, early that morning, was that the next day was my birthday.


I had only the four children then, and the thought of turning 35 made me feel old. After the day’s tragedies unfolded, there was no thought of silly birthdays. There was the eeriness of those silent skies for days afterward. There were the scenes of plumes of dust and ash and terrified people running through the streets.


There was only the sudden and sobering realization that we have no guarantee of anything. We ought to embrace the day – today is the only day we have, and even that, we don’t know fully.


I look back ten years ago, and wonder how I was so foolish as to feel that old age, parading as the number 35, was encroaching upon me. Even though it’s trite, it’s true: Today is the youngest we’re ever going to be. For the young people who can’t wait to grow up, it’s a consolation. For those of us trying to cling to our former figures and fresher faces, it should make us joyful. Today, we are younger than we will ever be. Today we are alive. Today. That’s what we have. That’s all we have. Let us make the most of it.

Let us not forget, but let us forgive, and move forward. Let us bring healing to those with hurting hearts. Let us honor the memories of all who lost their lives on that horrifying day and in those days that followed, and in the many years since.


Tomorrow, should our Maker allow us to dwell here on His footstool for another day, will be new and fresh and bright with hope and promise. Let us be a part of that. Lord, let us be peacemakers.

A Rough and Rocky Start to the School Year

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, September 2, 2011

Yesterday, I earned a dollar. It was from my own child. He is six years old.

I have offered to drive any children who miss the morning bus – specifically, my own offspring - to school. Just because I’m posing as a writer, doesn’t mean I can afford to work for nothing. I have to charge something. When you don’t want a behavior to be repeated, you have to inflict some form of pain or discomfort on the offending party. This pain varies from person to person. For some, it is being deprived of the next good thing, whether it is a social activity, some form of junk food, or just plain old money.

I have threatened to charge a dollar per ride. So far, I have earned three dollars. Two are from a repeat customer. You guessed it; the little guy is my big spender.

The first week of school was rough, by anyone’s standards. There were some unsettling things, like an earthquake on the second day of school, leading to an evacuation that brought students home without their backpacks or belongings. Midweek was a day off for students so officials could ensure facilities were safe. By the weekend, there was the threat of a hurricane. Not your typical first week.

In light of this, I should be a little patient with my children and make allowances, but look where patience got me. I don’t even get an allowance either.

The first week concluded with me driving the two youngest to school, and me with $ 2 more in my pocket. It served as an effective deterrent for the one child. The next morning, she was dressed and ready, had her backpack on, with the loaded lunch bag clamped to her bag, and breakfast well settled into her belly, all with about 35 minutes to spare. Could she just go ahead and walk up the hill, now, she wanted to know. She didn’t want to run the risk of running late. Meanwhile, the little brother was stumbling about in his pajamas, claiming he just needed to stretch out on the sofa for a few more minutes.

She, on the other hand, was not going to engage in this sort of risky behavior. She was not going to endanger her dollar. She was giving herself enough time, half an hour, to cover the space of five houses. I believe that even if she were suddenly transformed into a mollusk along the way, she would have had enough time to snail up the hill and make it back for a quick goodbye hug. But still, it’s noble. She learned. Unfortunately, the other child did not.

The whole problem with the other child is that I don’t understand his psychology. He would rather pay the dollar and have the extra time with Mom. Huh?

As flattering as it is to have people I don’t yet know come up and introduce themselves to me and tell me how much they love reading this column (thank you, Ginger Schrank for your sweet, kind words!), it is far more flattering when it comes from someone who actually has to live with you and put up with all of your shortcomings. See that picture of mine? It’s always smiling. See me? I’m not.

Sometimes I yell. I have to, because I live with children, and I don’t have that effortless philosophy of people who can get children to do whatever they need them to do by speaking in hushed tones all the time. The only times I used hushed tones are when I have gone hoarse with yelling. Frankly, this hissing-whisper-control seems like the skill set possessed by a snake charmer. The other reason that I have to yell is because no one has purchased me that bullhorn or even the megaphone yet. (My husband keeps threatening to buy one for me to improve the efficiency of our household.)

So, I am overall terribly flattered that this child is having some separation anxiety. It’s sick and selfish, I know. But he’s my baby. Who else is going to be interested in sticking by my side? And how long will it last, anyway?

It’s young children who actually like the company of their parents. I don’t want to paint older children out to be some sort of evil villains. If you have them, then you will already know that for yourselves. Just kidding. Older children are the ones who have discovered other things and other people who are more entertaining than we are, which is a little bruising to our egos.

And I guess his separation anxiety is understandable. It’s a long day to be away. We spent the last two years traveling and going to school together – the first year in Reston, and last year to Vint Hill. No wonder this waving goodbye to board the giant yellow school bus is a strange model for him.
 He’s still small and he’s still young. If I blink my eyes, it will be gone. And so will he.

Then, I will be the one peeling out the dollars to try to get in a little bonding time. I think I’ll stop charging a fee for now.

Remembrances from the other earthquake zone

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, Aug. 26, 2011

I have recently met more readers than I dared to suspect I had. Thank you for stopping me. I love meeting you, because our dialogue is so often one-sided. When you stop me at the post office, pool, grocery store, school, or even at the polling station, it leaves me ebullient. The only time I ask that you don’t stop me is if you are an officer of the law - in the line of duty.

Who can forget our earthquake last week? We lived in Northern California for nine years, and I don’t recall one. But when I was sent on a weeklong business trip from Long Island, New York, to Los Angeles, we experienced one then.


My husband, being a creature of higher intelligence, always accompanied me on business trips. We had a single toddler in tow. When he had business trips to exquisite destinations, I was always the idiot who felt compelled to stay at work. Then, I would suffer pangs of jealousy and regret as he described sunken tubs of black marble in posh hotels. I know. You didn’t think they let scientists out of the lab, right? He was serving as an expert DNA witness in court.


When I started my life of stay-at-home-dom (which equates to martyrdom for some), I longed for another such opportunity to escape, but it never seemed to appear. Or perhaps, my husband, being the creature of higher intelligence, never let on to such opportunities.


There was the one trip to Santa Barbara when the three kids and I tagged along. It was a gorgeous holiday, despite my being newly pregnant, and the youngest, a two-year-old boy, insisting on wearing a girl’s bathing suit to the beach. He was having none of this trunk exposure stuff. We acquiesced, realizing we couldn’t get to the beach otherwise. We coached our girls, then five and seven, not to hint as to gender of their sibling. We didn’t know anyone there. What would it matter?


It is the same liberating anonymity as when you go camping, know no one, and feel fine walking around with Einstein’s hairdo. Who will know? Who will care? Perhaps this is also the danger with out interactions online. It is easy to become too friendly with people we have never met – “e-quaintances,” I believe they are called. Who will know? Who will care? Trust me, someone or Someone knows and cares.


We had barely set foot on the beach, when our second daughter squealed, “Hey! Why is he wearing a girl’s bathing suit? He’s a boy!” She then dashed about, delightedly repeating this to random, arbitrary strangers. It was the nineties’ version of sending out a public tweet. She’s in college now, and surprisingly, she isn’t pursuing journalism.


When we went to rent the quadricycle, the girls were thrilled. Each child had to be helmeted, which seemed a simple enough business. The two girls donned their headgear. The man went through his entire inventory of children’s helmets, but our little XY shrieked the moment any helmet approached his head. We couldn’t get that thing near him. It was like an invisible force field around his body that inflicted pain or an electric shock every time the helmet approached him. So, he retaliated by inflicting pain on us, in the form of piercing screams and embarrassing public tantrums.


This is why I avoid any joining in of eye rolling at stores when someone’s child is having a fit. I realize that we all think we are smarter and more astute than the inept parent who doesn’t understand proper parenting techniques the way we do or did, whether we have children or not. But some kids are just different. Way different, and we need to be as thankful for them as we are for the ones who help us believe we are sane and competent.


The shrieking and body writhing never stopped until I walked, defeated, back to the hotel room with the creature still struggling, and got out his sister’s bright pink bike helmet (odd, why HAD we packed that for the trip?), and put it on him. Putting that helmet on him was like the tranquilizer dart hitting home on a charging rogue elephant. Ah, peace. All was well with the world. I trudged back to the quadricycle, fatigued and annoyed. If this was peace, it was a disgusted sort of peace.


If I recall, my husband had to do all the pedaling for the whole family. He fixed me with accusatory glares. Me, the mother of the contented boy who could finally be calmed by that glaring pink helmet. The girls were oblivious to our tension. (It’s so nice when they are young.) They gleefully enjoyed the fruits of their father’s labor and delighted in everything the beach had to offer.

Maybe that’s why this was the only business trip I was invited on as a stay-at-home mom. And maybe that’s why we never experienced earthquakes as Californians. We always seemed to have our own built-in version, right at home.