I time traveled to the 1800s today. We visited the Laura Ingalls Wilder museum in Walnut Grove, Minnesota. We visited the banks of Plum Creek and saw the location of her sod house and picnicked and played. I didn't wear a bonnet or dress -- shorts and tank top were my attire in the 90 degree heat -- and our picnic didn't consist of 19th century foods -- unless they had Pringles and Chips Ahoy cookies and individually wrapped cheese sticks.
So. How did I time travel? What part of my experience made me feel as though I had left the 21st century behind? Well, see, apparently there is this tiny pocket of land in southwestern Minnesota that receives no AT&T coverage. None. Nada. Zilch. We were driving along through the quaint little towns of Hutchinson and New Ulm and my iphone would drop to a half bar or, even worse, flash Searching. Not that I was checking it while driving, of course. Goodness, no. Only at stoplights.....
I was OK with it at first. I drove past the endless corn fields and prairie, thinking I'd be fine once we got to the next town. But, no, things did not improve. In fact, the closer we got to Walnut Grove, the dicier service became. I think I actually gasped out loud when my phone read No Service.
I'll admit it. I panicked. Completely freaked out. Not because I was alone in the middle of nowhere without cell service -- we'd traveled down with three families, a nice little line of minivans and SUV's. Not because I was afraid of getting lost and the GPS feature on my phone was unusable. No. I was silently (I hope -- kids, did you hear anything?) cursing AT&T because I was out of touch. Unreachable. I had no access to phone...voice mail...text messages...email. Not just for a couple of minutes until we traveled to the next town, mind you. We had arrived. We were at our destination and I was unplugged.
What was I going to do? What if someone needed me? I had edits out; I had events in planning mode; I had Facebook messages! How was I going to survive hours without my connection to the outside world? The two friends who had Verizon (and thus service) were nonplussed. My other friend commiserated slightly; she had AT&T service, too. But her concern was that she wouldn't be able to communicate with the other cars as we were driving (this was valid, since we'd temporarily lost two of the moms on the way down).
I don't think I can count how many times I checked for service as we strolled through the buildings and grounds of the museum, hoping I could find a small spot that a cell service tower might reach. I was convinced it was there -- maybe to the left of the sod house, closest to the telephone line, or maybe in the center of the recreated prairie (yes, I did lift my phone skyward, hoping I might pick up on some random phone waves....). No luck.
We continued on to Plum Creek and I checked there, too. We were in the middle of some farmer's land, folding our $4 per car and inserting it into the tiny mailbox at the entrance of Laura's sod house site. Still nothing.
I gave up. I shoved my phone back in my pocket and settled down for our picnic lunch on the banks of Plum Creek. We spread blankets and munched sandwiches, swatted at bees and drank our lemonade. We chatted, we laughed. And, later, we explored the creek. We waded through the cool water and watched the minnows struggle upstream. We sank our feet into soft, squishy mud and squealed as it squelched between our toes. We found logs to crawl across and vines to swing on, out and over the creek.
We spent hours at the creek. Playing. Laughing. We listened to the birds sing and the bees buzz and the wind as it rustled through the willows and the tall prairie grass that lined the banks. It was beautiful. It was magical. I had the best time with my kids and friends. No distractions except what they and Mother Earth provided. I couldn't remember a better day.
We finally climbed back into the cars, soaked and mud-encrusted, sated and spent. I'd like to say that I kept my phone safely stowed, that I didn't check it until we got home. Um, no. I hadn't time-traveled that far. But, you know what? I'd go back...in a heartbeat. My day in the 1800's turned out pretty darn awesome.
Friday, August 14, 2009
My Day As a Pioneer
Monday, August 10, 2009
Halloween and High School
It was the evening of my twenty year high school reunion and I was bustling about, getting ready. I helped my three year old into her pink leotard and slipped her glitter-encrusted fairy wings on to her shoulders. Nick needed help squeezing into his too-small Shrek costume and adjusting his mask. Hayley sat at the table, waiting her turn. I adjusted her ponytail, pushing away stray strands of her long, sun-kissed brown hair before slathering the cool mud mask on her face, transforming her instantly into Spa Girl. With everyone finally in full costume, we loaded on to the golf cart and headed down to the clubhouse for costume judging. It was Halloween in August at White Birch Resort. It was also my twenty year reunion...and I wasn't going.
Not because I didn't want to. The logistics were just, quite simply, overwhelming. I was in Minneapolis and the reunion in San Diego. I was traveling that direction in October and had no reason to make two trips to the West Coast in almost as many months. Those were the reasons that dictated my choice. But, if I was honest with myself, I was a little hesitant about going...about seeing faces that would trigger memories, some of which I'd buried deep, and for good reason. Was I ready to dig up the past? Not just the pretty parts, the memories that would make me laugh and smile, but the sharp, jagged pieces that might slice at my heart just as easily as they had the first time around? I didn't know. This would have been the first time I'd seen most of these people since graduation. I grabbed my diploma that sunny afternoon in June of '89, walked off that football field and never looked back....not for my ten year reunion and not to keep in touch with people in even the most cursory sort of way.
My kids lined up for the costume contest and I watched them. I thought about all of the disguises I'd donned and the roles I'd played in high school. Those four years were like a perpetual Halloween. I tried on identities like a preschooler rummages through a dress-up bin, searching for items that, when put together and adjusted in just the right way, announced the perfect fit. I could relate to all three of my kids' costumes: Julia the fairy, a vision in pink, waving her magic wand regally through the air, sweet and innocent and utterly delectable. Nick as the misunderstood Shrek,with his green plastic mask that sported a blinding white smile, tough but tender. And Hayley the Spa Girl, simple and vulnerable in her bathrobe, the mud mask on her face hiding her...cleansing her, stripping away the old. I realized with a start that each one of these costumes represented me -- at different stages -- in my high school. Was it coincidence? Was I seeing things, making connections that weren't really there?
I didn't think so. I don't think my experience -- the roles I played on my quest to discover who I was and what I was all about -- was an anomaly. So maybe I took some things to the extreme. Maybe. But every situation -- the good and the bad -- shaped and molded me and made me the woman I am today. Two decades later, I finally feel like I know who I am. More importantly, I can say, with a smile on my face and with unmatched confidence, I like who I am, who I turned into after the costumes and disguises were safely stowed away.
I spent my night trick-or-treating with my kids, enjoying an extra Halloween, our Halloween in August. I watched them race from house to house, shrieking with delight and exclaiming over their bags filled with goodies and I couldn't imagine a place I'd rather be. Later, after we'd started a campfire and snuggled into chairs, I cracked open a Pacifico. It was after nine in northern Minnesota which meant the party was -- maybe -- just getting started at the House of Blues. I offered a silent toast to all of those high school friends converging at that club, hair and make-up carefully done, dressed to the nines. I hoped those weren't costumes or disguises. I hoped my former classmates were comfortable with who they were. Where they'd been. What they'd accomplished.
I hoped they recognized how special each of them were. Are. I hoped egos and reputations had been set aside and that my classmates could enjoy each other as the unique individuals they were. That was what I wanted and that was what I was missing, I realized. Not the party, but the chance to see my classmates with twenty years of life experience under their belts, with the disguises finally set aside. Halloween was over and I was sure they were all beautiful.
