The Back End of a Boat

The slip'n'slide is out on the one strip of grass we have amongst the construction rubbled backyard. This morning I came in from an early run to the van and then ran back out to snap a picture of our deck draped in beach towels. The sight reminded me of my 29th birthday. Bill and I sailed with friends on the Ionian Sea off the coast of Greece. We bareboated but hooked up with a flotilla of around eight other sailboats most evenings.

Bareboating means you do everything: captain, navigate, cook, crew. No hiring of anyone else to do these things for you. However, with a flotilla, there was a lead boat whose captain determined where you would meet up in the evening. At the end of the day, the lead boat would anchor or moor, and the rest of us would tie our boats up along side, creating a raft -- hence we were "rafting" for the night.

Before we departed in the morning, the crew of the lead boat would give us a little direction on where we would be going next, what tavernas to look for, and where to find water for the boats' freshwater tanks. Our crew of four had bareboated in the British Virgin Islands and the U.S. Virgin Islands in the years previous to our Greek excursion. Never had there been so much concern about fresh water as in these daily briefings.

On the third night joining the flotilla, we worked out the importance of water. The sailors on the other boats dressed for dinner. We sailors on the boat named "Sophia" did not. The others in the flotilla showered onboard their boats. We did not. We jumped into the sea only to cool off and freshen up, for we had given up on soap: it didn't suds up in salt water. By the end of the 10-day trip, we were well preserved by sea salt -- never as fresh as those who lathered up daily in their onboard fresh-water claustrophobic shower stalls.

Near the end of the trip, the captain of the lead boat took his dinghy out to take pictures of our boats all rafted together. From the back, the flotilla looked crisp and the boats looked identical, like the linens the well-to-do English sailors wore to dinner. All but Sophia.

Sophia looked like a hobo. She had big bold beach towels hanging off the bimini top and swimsuits hanging limply in the minute breeze. Little Sophia, the dinghy we pulled with us, was hitched up the back of Sophia. Little Sophia looked like she was trying to climb out of the water onto Sophia's deck. (I believe we hiked her up there so there would be less drag while we were underway.)

Yes, 18 years ago this week, I was happy with a swim in salt water, a towel hair dryer, and recycled clothes before dinner. Last night, I was happy for the slip'n'slide, beach towels, and day-old pajamas. Will and Liam had been thoroughly rinsed and summer-air dried. They looked a little campy, just like the crew of Sophia several years ago. Happily campy. And the stern of our house looks like a hobo.

When the Headlights Came Looking for Me

The humidity of the last couple weeks reminds of the two times in my life I recognized the headlights coming down the gravel road as Dad out looking for me after dark. Thirty-two years separated those two summer evenings. The first time I was 17 and a senior in high school. I wasn’t home by the time I said I would be, but I wasn’t getting into trouble. I ran into a friend, started to chat, and lost track of time. Once on the gravel road leading to our house, I recognized the headlights and Dad recognized mine. We both slowed and rolled down our windows. “Get home.” That’s all he said. Remembering that evening still sends waves of guilt through me.

The second time I was 45 and had the boys with me in Iowa during a hot, humid summer visit. We had been in town picking up a few groceries and visiting my brother and his family. When we left town, I told my brother we were heading to Mom and Dad’s. It was so brutally hot I had picked up a gallon of ice cream at the grocery store for our neighbors. I thought they might enjoy a little cool treat the next day, but as I was driving down their gravel road at 8:30 in the evening, they were all still up and sitting outside, begging for a slight breeze.

I braked, reversed, and pulled into their driveway. My friend Mary saw it was me and walked over to the car. “I thought you might like some ice cream. I was going to bring it over tomorrow, but since you’re still up…” “Oh, my gosh, thank you so much!” The word “ice cream” put a cool energy into everyone: one of the kids disappeared into the house and came back with several spoons, and they passed around the gallon of vanilla ice cream.

The boys and I plopped on a picnic bench to visit. We had just stopped at Dairy Queen so didn’t need another helping of ice cream. Liam studied everyone eating ice cream then broke his silence and pointed at Mary’s brother-in-law, Ben. “Hey, are you from Little House on the Prairie?” Fortunately, it was pass dusk so no one could see my cheeks burn red. Ben wore a long beard, plus suspenders and a work shirt very much like Pa’s. “Yes, Ben does look a little like Pa from Little House on the Prairie, doesn’t he? But he’s not. Mary and her family are Amish, and they dress differently than we do.” As I was explaining away, Ben interjected, “Oh, do you read those books? We love them!” As it happened, we had been reading them – and making homemade butter.

Liam and Will went off with a few of the kids to look at the kittens. A few minutes later, Liam came back to show me a kitten. He had a firm grasp of it. Around the neck. I jumped up to save it. “Sorry, he’s never held a kitten before!” I explained, drawing a few puzzled looks. “Really? Come here, Liam, let me show you how to hold a kitten,” Ben offered. In seconds, Liam was cradling his first kitten in the nook of an arm, petting it with his other hand. How to hold a farm kitten is innate when you are 5 years old and live on a farm.

With full darkness settling in, we said good-night. We got into the car, cranked the AC, and headed down the road. And there were those headlights. I was 17 again. We met. We rolled down the windows. “Where have you been?” “At Mary’s.” “We have been trying to call you!” “Oh… My cell phone was in the car. I didn’t hear it ring. Sorry, Dad.”

Sorry, Dad, but I was in one of my favorite spots: visiting with friends without a cell phone or a computer. We started to chat and lost track of time.

(Another hot Iowa summer memory: Walking Beans.)

Camp Mujigae

After Grandma's funeral in Iowa, the boys and I flew to Albany, New York, last Wednesday for a Korean culture camp: Camp Mujigae. In Korean, Mujigae means "rainbow." Will and Liam each attended half-day camps with kids their respective ages: 9- and 7-year-olds. Each age group was grouped into six kids per counselor. It was a chance for the boys to get to know other kids who were adopted from Korea and for us adoptive families to meet, chat, laugh, and well-up. The experiences are best summed up from the Harrisons, Olivias, and Moms at camp. (Have you met Harrison and Olivia yet?) One slight adjustment: they are no longer preschoolers.

“What do you think, Harrison?” Mom asked after the first day of camp. “I like it. I’m not the odd man out. Everyone here was born in another country.”

"I finally get to spend time with my friends!" said Olivia. Mom was confused as Olivia had just had a playdate with a good friend from school, but camp was different. Korean friends were different.

“Good luck finding your kids tomorrow at camp, especially from behind!” said Mom who has brought her kids to camp for several years. First-time Camp Mujigae Mom nearly yelled at a boy for not responding when she called his name… He wasn’t her son. From the back, all the boys had the same black hair, were the same height, and wore the same colored shirts. (Groups of kids in the same colored shirts are problematic for this particlar Mom... See Mother's Day from a Non-Soccer Mom...)

“Mom,” proclaimed Harrison, “I’m average! Everyone in my group is my age and I’m about the same size they are!”

Shared stories between adoptive Moms... "Olivia said, 'I’m not celebrating my birthday any more. It’s too sad to think of my birth mother being sad that day.' I said I really didn't think her birth mother would want her to be sad on her birthday.

“As for me, I have a lump lodged in my throat every year on Olivia’s birthday. What a painful decision her birth mother made to let another family raise Olivia. This beautiful girl, my daughter.”

There. Another adoptive Mom said it aloud. I’m not alone shedding tears on birthdays.