Still Enough for a Butterfly to Land

Shifting into drive after a week of vacation in the world of “No problem!” is an arduous process.   St. Martin is a land of heat, sun, and water.  Of half Dutch and half French and all Caribe.  Of gourmet food.  Of long expanses of time of nothingness.  Getting used to that rhythm took a couple days: letting go of “should, need, must, remember” and settling into days less articulated. Bill and I were last on St. Martin twelve years ago.  Then, the island was quieter and less built-up, freer from American influence.  The island’s infrastructure is trying to catch up with the influx of time-share tourists and new concrete resorts and big cars on small roads.

Years before that trip, we sailed the waters around St. Martin, anchoring in bays and visiting the bi-ethnic island via dinghy.  We carried our own scuba gear and dove on wrecks and reefs in those beautiful waters.  When we anchored at night, we were careful to drop anchor in sand, often snorkeling to find a sandy spot to for the anchor, and sometimes diving down to make sure the anchor set.  We didn’t drop anchor in coral; we didn’t let the anchor drag for yards on the bottom to grab ground.  We watched others who took much less care to set anchor for the night.  Last week, snorkeling the dead reefs in Simpson Bay – bone white coral skeletons – I thought of those “drop it and forget it” sailors we watched years ago.  Today, bare boaters are not allowed to drop anchor; they must pick up a buoy or go into harbor.  Maybe the reef will be back in 25 years?

Warmly, the Butterfly Farm was much like I remembered during our first visit there, perhaps hotter.  Water trickled down our backs, faces, and legs before the tour even started.  The heat slowed our vacation tempo even more.  Wiping sweat from our eyes, we watched an Atlas moth fluttering inside its pupa in mid-cycle of that mystical event called metamorphosis.

Each butterfly species has its own preferred plant on which to lay eggs.  A butterfly can smell that plant nine miles away.  The plants and caterpillars are as exotic as the butterflies and moths.

I’m interested in these facts, but I’m so hot I just want to leave the farm and get back to the beach breeze.  We probably haven’t made good use of the entrance fee, but it’s so very hot.  Hot, hot, hot.

I find shade waiting for the boys to catch up.  I hear gasps from the small crowd: people are smiling and pointing at me.  An owl butterfly has lit on my hat.  The owl features of the butterfly are so clear: When this arthropod flies, it looks like the face of an owl swooping through the air.  I stand still and have Bill take a picture before it leaves.  But, I needn’t rush, for it hangs on my hat for 20 minutes while I move slowly.  I feel like Minnie Pearl with a butterfly as a price tag hanging from my hat.

Continuing to sweat, the novelty is over. I need the cool ocean breeze.  The tour guide transfers the owl face off of my hat.  I’ve stood still long enough for a butterfly to hitch a ride.  That’s the speed of a relaxing vacation.

(The flowers from the Butterfly Garden reminded me of those in England -- perhaps not quite as exotic but beautiful garden inspiration!)

The Commonality Between Cat's Cradle and Crossback Bras

We are going on a warm vacation for spring break next week. I’ve dusted off the few sleeveless tops that I have and the one crossback bra that miraculously makes the criss-cross straps disappear under said tops. Yesterday – following coffee, two Advil, and a pep talk from a friend – I made my way into the mall for the spring shopping trip. I pulled the receipts out to make the returns on items I bought in November but never wore. From experience, I planned to have three full hours in this place: two to find shirts and one to find bras for under the shirts. This plan was derived from lessons learned in past less well-planned shopping trips. On one trip, I found the most delightful, summery bras: one with bright pink stripes another with beautiful plum and soft yellow stripes. Living on the edge, I bought them in preparation for summer. A couple weeks later, I went shopping for tops and was quite successful in finding light cotton tops with my signature necklines that scoop or are v-shaped.

I’m not one to plan my outfit for the next day before I go to bed. At 7 a.m., excited by my new purchases, I pulled a spring mint green v-neck over by head and stepped back to see my reflection in the full-length mirror. Then, I counted the pink stripes on my bra. Through the shirt. My entire spring wardrobe was mismatched: the light colors and material of the shirts were opaque to the screaming striped bras. The spring bras went to the back of the drawer and waited for their re-assigned season: winter, under black v-necks. My black shirts and khaki pants look simple and hopefully stylish, but it’s a hot style mess underneath. Bras screaming, “But I was meant for spring! Spring, spring!”

Yesterday, I found brightly patterned v-necks and scooped tops. I’ve discovered that in addition to those particular necklines, patterns draw the eye away from my current roundish mid-section. A few of the tops were sleeveless. I took that shopping bag directly from the top shop to the bra shop, determined not to create the seasonal drama of last year.

I knew the size and the style I wanted in the bra – the exact same crossback style as the one that worked at home. At the display case, I threw open my shirt bag and worked at color coordination. Finding three that would work, I decided to try them on with the tops just to confirm. It had been an expensive seasonal goof last year.

Peering into the puzzle of straps and holes and judging where my arms and head must go, I had forgotten the game a woman must play getting into a crossback bra.  I yet again think of Cat’s Cradle: the string game played with two players. As you create the cradle and pass it back and forth between two sets of fingers, one slip and that’s it. There’s no recovery and the string must be re-strung to play again. Looking into that upside-down crossback bra, the view is the same as the one requiring a player to go into the cat’s cradle, pinch the x’s, and bring them out, up, and under the outer strings, taking the string off their partner’s fingers with just the right tension. Getting a crossback bra on is equally as complicated. Only it's played naked.

I study the path, knowing only too well that I haven’t done this since late summer. Focusing, I see the two holes to either side where my arms must go and the one in the middle, under the X, for my head. Taking a moment and a small breath, I dive in. Instantaneously, I am ensnared. My head and left arm are through the left arm hole. Two clear visions of possibility strike: Just take my head out of the arm hole and put it through the head hole. Hit the call button to get some help. Neither are good: the first impossible and the second too embarrassing.  I must heave the elastic contraption completely over my head and start again. Trembling, I push the bra up and pull my arms and head out. I have escaped! Attempt number two results in twisted straps, and I again disentangle -- easier this time.  On the third attempt, the cobwebs of fall and winter fall aside and I succeed in spring’s first game of Cat’s Cradle.

Now I am set for the season.  I will remember not to try any quick re-adjustment techniques from twisted straps or misplacement of limb or head, for there is no recovery. The string must always be re-strung.

Let the styles of spring and summer commence.

(My 9-year-old Liam helps me with Beauty Tips.)

P.S. Lazy summer afternoons and long car rides beg for the real Cat’s Cradle!

Tolerance of Cow Manure Between Your Toes

When I promote my stories on social media – Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest – I know that I will get a good handful of followers to click on my story if I use this picture of Mom and Dad’s barn: People love it.

I look at the photo and think about 48 years of stories that could be written about this barn.  Now, having 9- and 11-year-old sons and living in the city, I have stories bubbling in my head with a common theme: tolerance.  Of fresh cow manure between your toes.  Of picking up eggs from underneath a mean setting hen.  Of keeping two paces ahead of a mean, nasty, spurred rooster.

When I take the boys to Iowa, my senses keenly pop open looking for experiences that get close to these.

Lately when I shamelessly post the picture of this beautiful barn, I have a flashback to a winter when I was around the same age as my sons.  And the setting was near the barn, specifically at the hydrant.

The base of the hydrant is surrounded by straw insulation to keep the pipes from freezing.  When the temperature drops and stays below freezing, the insulation can fail.  Back then there was no water heater in the tank.  A  pipe with a little basin at one end hooked over the hydrant and a long tube ran through the gate to the water tank.  The pipe was shaped the same as the one my grandpa used to smoke.  If water froze in the base of the hydrant, it needed to be manually thawed so the cattle could get water.

The etching on my mind: I was standing on the south side of the hydrant facing the barn.  Dad stood on the north side of the hydrant with his back to the barn.  It was late afternoon and Dad was using a blow torch to thaw the hydrant.  The sun was sinking, the temperature was too cold, and the wind chill was spectacular.  And I stood there helping.

However, I have absolutely no recollection of how I was helping.  After the sun sank, then perhaps, I held a flashlight.  The memory is so visceral I want a winter coat to protect me from that crazy cold.  We were out there for well over an hour.  Me standing, watching.  Dad silently, stoicly working.  I can’t imagine I was much help.  The cold ate at me as I hoped Dad would give up and call it a night.  He didn’t.  I remember thinking, “I’m not helping at all.  Why can't I go in the house?”  But I couldn’t move.  My feet stood firm next to my Dad.  How could I walk away and leave him out here by himself?

Last week, an Iowa opportunity arose in Massachusetts.  After a loud squabble in the back of the van on the drive home from school, I confiscated the iPods.  I sent Will into the house to do homework, and I took Liam outside with me to take down dead evergreen boughs and unwrap the 10 strings of 100 lights from them.  I was so hot that I didn’t ask, I didn’t use manners, I told:  “You are coming outside to help me.”

Our twinkle lights looked awesome in our 100 inches of snow this winter.  I had put a whole afternoon into putting them up.  Now, the transformation away from winter was more laborious.  I gave Liam a bough to unwrap.  “How do I do this?!?”  Start at one end.  “I’m never going to finish this!”  Keep going.  “OK, I’m done.”  No you are not; we’ll work on this one together.  “Look, now we’re done!”  No we are not; now we move to the front.  “More?”  Yes.

The boughs in front came down much easier.  As I freed each set of lights, I sent it with Liam to put it on the deck at the back of the house.  With only two sets left to untangle, Liam said, “Am I done now?  Can I go in?”  No, hold this string of lights.  It was a bundle of lights that really didn’t need to be held.  I needed his feet held to the ground to see the end of this project.  Liam held it, not knowing why he needed to hold it.

Scraps of needles scattered all over the steps.  I swept with a big barn broom and told Liam to pick up the little clusters of needles on the ground.  I watched as he scuffed them into the snow.  “Whatever you don’t pick up now, you will be picking up after the snow melts.”  He uncovered them and picked them up.  I pulled the dead wreath off the door.

We carried the wire cutters, broom, lights, boughs, and wreath away from the front.  “OK, I’m done!” No, not yet.  Wisps of steam escaped from his ears.  In the garage, I found the spring wreath.  I gave it to Liam to carry to the front door.  I told him it was a crown, and he put it on his head.  “OK,” I said, "turn it any way you like and hang it on the nail.”  He did.

“Now, every time we come home and you see our front door, that wreath will remind you how much you helped today.”

Liam comments on the wreath every day.

 (There will be some aspects of growing up in Iowa that my kids will never know, no matter how often they visit.  The whole "chicken experience" is one chasm between my farm experience and theirs.  The Fowl Story is not for the faint of heart.  If you ever helped your family butcher chickens, it might give you a chuckle!)