Category Archives: Uncategorized

Mother’s Little Helper

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“Wow, your girls sure are comfortable around the kitchen.”

The friend who said this to me was visiting us with his family. He would repeat the statement several times over the course of the weekend, but I believe the first time he mentioned my daughters’ culinary confidence was while watching my seven-year-old slice herself an apple at the kitchen island.

I nodded and smiled in response, acting every bit the proud mother.

What I thought – but did not say – is that the five words that most strike terror into my heart are: “Can I help you, Mommy?” followed closely by, “I’ll do it by myself!”

Click here to continue reading this week’s “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent. 

I Just Can’t Get That Song Out of My Head

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“I want to play you a song, to see if you know it,” my husband said to me at breakfast last week.

My husband is what we jokingly call a “binge listener”—he’ll latch on to a song or the oeuvre of a particular artist, and listen to it on repeat for weeks on end, until the rest of us are clutching our heads in desperation, praying that he’ll move on to a new obsession.

If my husband and I shared musical tastes, it wouldn’t be so bad. To be fair, there are artists that weagree on, but over the nearly two decades that we’ve known each other, our tastes have diverged dramatically. When I’m able to listen to music thatIenjoy (rather than what my daughters are demanding from the backseat), it’s usually something in the alternative/folk genre; anything heartbreaking with a banjo, fiddle, and a twangy voice will do. My husband, on the other hand, likes music that he can play (on repeat) while he works: jazz, classical, rhythm and blues. One of his constants throughout our relationship — and a song that I will never be able to embrace, no matter how much I love my husband — is Joe Jackson’s “Steppin’ Out.”

So, as my husband hunted down his latest favorite on his tablet and pressed “play,” I braced myself.

Click here to continue reading this week’s “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent. 

…And Things That Go Bump in the Night

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It’s happened many times before, but it happened again last night:

I was sleeping soundly, my brain floating through the mists of the sort of vague, rushed dreams one has when your consciousness knows that you’ve gone to bed too late – again – and that you’ll have to wake up too early. Yes, I’m multi-tasking even in my dreams.

Suddenly, with a jolt, I felt a clammy hand on my arm. I jerked awake, and the hand’s owner screamed. I screamed back.  (My husband continued sleeping soundly, of course.)

When both the intruder and I had recovered ourselves, I realized that it was my eldest daughter standing beside my bed.

“Mommy, I can’t sleep. I’m scared,” she said.

Click here to continue reading this week’s “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent.

Why Not?

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Our telephone rang towards the end of dinner one night. My husband picked up the receiver; our neighbor was on the other end.

“Are you hearing noises in the morning?” he asked.

It was an odd question to ask a family with four energetically verbal daughters, 19 chickens (including two roosters), seven ducks a-quacking, and one dog who barks at the slightest provocation.

Are we hearing noises in the morning? When are we NOT hearing noises?

My first response, when my husband repeated our neighbor’s question to me, was guilt. Were our roosters — who crow not just at sun-up, but throughout the day — becoming a nuisance? Did this have to do with my daughter’s ninth birthday party the previous day, when we’d had six rambunctious youngsters telling silly stories and dancing to the music in their heads around our fire pit long past bedtime? Or to that very morning, when four of those rambunctious youngsters awoke in the tent where they’d camped out in our yard, demanding assistance at 6:30 AM?

The answer, it turned out, was none of the above. Our neighbor was simply inviting us to come over and see the white peacock that had settled in his yard.

Click here to continue reading this week’s “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent. 

That’s Lice

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Someone once said, “Life is what happens to you when you’re making other plans.”

I might revise that to: “LICE are what happen to you when you’re making other plans.”

In my last column, I wrote about my fear of flying, which is at root a fear of falling.

So, while we’re on the topic of my subconscious anxieties, my secondgreatest fear – the thing I’ve wanted most to avoid as a parent – is head lice.

You can probably guess what’s coming, but click here to continue reading my latest “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent. 

Fear of Falling

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The other night, I dreamed of snow.

In my dream, the world was white. I was at my daughters’ preschool, sitting on a sled that was perched precariously atop the roof ridge. This didn’t seem particularly odd, because the roof was covered with snow, and snow was piled halfway up the sides of the building. Down below, the preschool teachers urged me to push off.

It’s not often that I remember my dreams, but this one stuck with me.

The obvious explanation was that, the day before, our family had returned to Vermont after a week spent celebrating my father-in-law’s 70thbirthday on a Caribbean cruise. The cruise originated in Florida, and docked at the islands of St. Maarten, Puerto Rico, and Haiti. In late June, these places are hot, with temperatures in the 90s and humidity you could cut with a butter knife, ocean breezes notwithstanding.

By the end of our vacation week, we longed for Vermont’s climate, which, at the time of our departure, was delivering unusually cool temperatures.

Then we exited the Burlington airport into a long and brutal Vermont heat wave, which, when temperatures topped out at 97°F, exceeded anything we’d experienced in the Caribbean – and without any ocean breezes, at that.

Snow was looking pretty good.

But my dream was also about a fear of falling – about that stomach flipping moment just before you push off and lose control to gravity.

Click here to continue reading my latest “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent. 

A Life Lived Deeply

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Until our family moved to Vermont, I had very little exposure to people aged 65 or older – the demographic often referred to as “senior citizens,” but which I prefer to think of as “elders.”

I wasn’t alone; our ultra-mobile society, with its emphasis on education and achievement, encourages young people to follow educational and employment opportunities. As my husband and I moved from college to early jobs to graduate school in major metropolitan areas, we were primarily surrounded by members of our own generation – give or take a decade at most.

Vermont, as many Vermonters know, is aging faster than the rest of the United States: The 2015 census put Vermont’s median age at 42.8, which ties Vermont with New Hampshire for second oldest state in the nation (after Maine.) Caring for the aged is a growth industry here.

That Vermont is an elderly state may have something to do with why I came into closer contact with my elders after we moved here. But the main reason is our church.

The church that my family attends, Memorial Baptist, has an age distribution of roughly 12 months to 91 years in the pews each Sunday. Because the congregation is small — about 60-70 people in church on a given week — there’s little opportunity for people to form cliques based on age; you rub shoulders with babies and nonagenarians alike.

This June 7, our church and our community lost one of our best elders: my 91-year-old friend Persis Rowe.

I’d love to introduce you to the extraordinary Persis Rowe; click here to continue reading this week’s “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent.