Fare thee Well, Whereverthere…

You know that feeling where you read the last word of a book you’ve really been into? The intense satisfaction, the feeling of accomplishment? The mental montage of flashbacks and emotions? The disappointment as you suddenly realize it was the LAST word? That is kind of how I’m feeling as I write this post.

Whereverthere has run its course.  It is officially and affectionately bidding adieu to the blogosphere.

I can’t help but laugh out loud as I skim over our posts and read bits and pieces.  I can’t keep the fun to myself, so here is a quick look back:

Whereverthere had humble beginnings…two creative goddesses extending an invitation to a clumsy would-be goat herder.  Thanks to facebook’s historical archives, I have bits of

Kristin and Erika “kidding” around

Erika’s original invitation to me preserved for generations to come:

Charity Shumway and I have been talking for a loooong time about starting a ‘lifestyle’ blog (whatever that means) together. We kept talking and talking about having another person do it with us and we’ve basically decided that it has to be you. We’re in it for the fun, fame, and fortune – no pressure. We think it will be the beginning of our Empire. Mwah ha ha ha ha.

We’ve been batting around ideas for a couple of weeks, and we thought it might be cool to have the girl in the city (Charity, who lives the glamorous life of wine tastings and celebrity sightings in NYC’s West Village), the girl in the country (yes, that’s you. Two words: goat. shed.), and ummmm…the girl in the Wild, Wild, West (who is wrestling angry, aggressive little wild pigs)?

The way I envision it, posts could be about anything, really – celebrity sightings, the crazy antics of your kids and/or goats, projects, links and clips, overheard conversations, etc.

I think we covered the “etc.” pretty well, don’t you?  And so, Whereverthere was born. I love how Erika summed it up on the About Us page.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”

No, actually it was pretty much just the worst of times.  After all, it was Jr. High School.  As a matter of fact, the best thing to come out of  those years of awkwardness, orthodontia, and grunge fashion might just be this blog.  Separated by years and distance from those days (thank goodness), we are now three thirty-something friends living in three different parts of the country, blogging ourselves into oblivion.”

Charity and Kristin Get Goated.

Here are a few Whereverthere stats for you:

Number of Posts: 108, er 9

Top Commenters:   Jillaire and “that Catherine Girl” (you both win happy thoughts from three ways)

Top search terms:  “turning 32” and “chia seed”

Weirdest search terms: “goat eats my skirt,” “girl urinating behind dumpster” (I do not even know what that one links to) “bacon worm egg” and “window chicks” (probably did not link to what they were hoping to find.) Oh, and any number of combinations using the word “teat.”  We are so proud.

Top 3 posts:

It’s a Walking Dead Man’s Party: Friday the 13th at our house.

Down and Dirty Birthday

Udder Envy: Misadventures in Raising Goats

So What Happened?  Well…

We had a glorious 2011.  The laughs were plentiful.  The pictures were diverse and diverting.  There were touching moments, and even tears.  I look back at my bumbling first year of homesteading and turn as red as my hair.  Charity painted pictures of New York’s quirky side and Erika heated up the Arizona scene with her wit and “spicy talk.” I loved our shared memories of 911 and our attempt at a tri-state cooking show.  And can you say random? I had to share this picture/happy thought on wheels from Charity one more time, because why not?

Charity says: It’s like one of those crocheted toiled paper covers your grandma has, but for a bike.

Charity’s novel, you can’t put it down!

And then three busy girls got even busier.  Whereverthere moved to the back burner and began to thin out.  Charity skyrocketed to stardom with the release of her first novel, Ten Girls to Watch.  It is an awesome read.  Erika is writing exciting chapters in her life story as adventures unfold for her and her family. And me? Well I am just plain shy as a stand alone.  If I were in a marvel comic, I would be wearing the lime green tights of a side kick for sure.

And so it is that the women of whereverthere are branching out in whatever ways.  So perhaps this is not an ending so much as a divergence.  Funny, the homework assignment to explicate “two roads diverged in a wood and I, I took the one less travelled by” popped into mind courtesy of the English class we shared in 9th grade (shout out Mrs Shinn!)  We share common roots, and it has been so fun to see where we have blossomed. (Did I really just say blossomed?)

Whereverthere wraps up with warm fuzzy thank you’s. Seriously though, thank you for reading.  Thanks for allowing us the thrill of checking stats and comments and publishing the ramblings of our minds. Thanks for laughing, sharing, and connecting with us.

And from the bottom of my heart thank you, Erika and Charity, for getting me to write!  I never would have ventured into personal writing were it not for your encouragement, love, and humor.  (Cue heartwarming acoustic music here.) Keep up with Charity on either of these sites: charityshumway.com or spadespatula.com.  And Erika, well, we can only beg for more!!! (Flashmob her house, anyone?)

As the credits roll, I want to exit with an invite, a giveaway, and warm well wishes.

• Come visit me at my new site www.littlepurplebarn.com.  I will continue to write about my farming attempts, my family antics, and my passion for whole living (especially food!)  I am just getting it up and going, but hope to fill it in with recipes, tips, tales and talk.  Connect on Facebook and let me know what you would like to see or if you have interest in guest blogging!

• In the spirit of celebration, tribute to my new favorite author, and good old fashioned bribery, I am giving away a copy of Charity’s novel.  Subscribe to my site or my Facebook page to be entered into the drawing.  I will put all the names in a bucket and let a goat select the lucky winner.  Don’t worry, the book is free of barnyard odors…I think.
• Finally, Whereverthere has been a way for us to celebrate our lives, wherever we are.  Here’s wishing you the courage, energy, and humor to make your wherevertheres exactly where you want to be.

Autumn in New York Will Get You Everytime

When I first moved to New York at age 22, people seemed to fall into two categories. The first was those who LOVED New York and had always had flashing-billboard-Times-Square dreams and for whom this city was THE CITY (one and only!). The second was those who were more reluctantly enduring the outrageous rents and crowded subways, drawn here by work or love or circumstance. I was firmly in camp 2.

I was working full-time but sleeping in a bunkbed and eating 85 cent bagels like three meals a day because I was making so little and rent was so insane and groceries were priced as if “milk” was fancy urban code for liquid gold. (It’s an exaggeration to say I ate bagels three times a day; I always ate trail mix from the office lounge for at least one of my meals, so knock it back to two). Sure, there were some plusses. I loved walking by the townhouses with their pretty stoops, and I was charmed when Mahmoud, whose cart I bought my bagels from every day, slipped me his phone number on a napkin (people and cultures coming together!) but I was also desperate for personal space. The shared bedroom didn’t help, but it was more than that. I remember saying “I want to go just one day without dealing with a crazy person.” And I meant that literally. Because in New York there are, in fact, a fair number of ranting-raving-talking-to-themselves crazy people.  And because subways and streets are shared spaces, they’re not just talking to themselves, they’re talking TO YOU.

But then something wonderful happened. I moved to Brooklyn. [Insert glitter and rainbows and angel chorus here]. And here’s where I discovered another category: people who moved to New York for whatever reason, but then, surprisingly, found themselves falling in love. I don’t think anyone (other than the Times Square billboard lovers) falls in love with New York as a whole. I think you fall in love with your neighborhood. In my Brooklyn neighborhood, Cobble Hill, I fell in love with the old Italian men who sat in the yard of their storefront clubhouse on metal folding chairs next to a statue of the Virgin Mary and smoked cigars all day. I fell in love with the streets lined with big old trees and more cute stoops per block than I’d found anywhere in Manhattan. I fell in love with the fish monger and the butcher and the bakery that sold bite-sized cookies. The pace and the crowds and the height of the buildings and the number of crazy people were all down just one notch from Manhattan, and turns out down one notch is the perfect level for me. I took the subway to Manhattan for work every day, but when I’d get home at night and emerge back onto the streets of Cobble Hill, I’d feel this bloom of love and this warm blanket of comfort and safety. Manhattan was where I had to reply to her emails within two minutes or risk the wrath of my boss. But Brooklyn was all the way across the river, and irritated looks can’t cross bodies of water (rule of physics you may not have previously heard about). I started buying Brooklyn t-shirts for all my family members. It was like elementary school “if you love it so much why don’t you marry it.” I pretty much wanted to marry Brooklyn.

Or at least get married IN Brooklyn. Greg doesn’t know this (or maybe he does), but even before I met him, I used to walk by the neighborhood flower shop and the neighborhood dress shop and the neighborhood bakery and imagine placing my orders. And then he came alone and we did! Let’s hear it for dreams come true! (I mean, I would have married Greg anywhere yadayada, just saying, the Brooklyn bit was a nice bonus).

Anyway, the point of all of this is that we moved to a new neighborhood in Brooklyn about six months ago now. Dumbo. Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. As you might imagine for a neighborhood under an overpass, it is indeed more industrial, grittier, and has far fewer cute bakeries and statues of the Virgin Mary. But I’m falling in love all over again. Big Time. It’s really just been happening in the past few weeks. I walk out our front door, and that same bloom of love I used to get when I’d emerge from the subway in my old neighborhood wells up in me here, looking over at the graffitied wall across the way or down the block at the hulking power plant. This morning, we walked out of the house to find a new tag on the post office drop box across the street. It said LOVE LOVE in big fuschia cursive. I am sorry but I freaking love that little bit of graffiti. And then we walked over the bumpy brick sidewalk past the pita factory and the furniture woodshop to the new coffee shop that just opened a few blocks away, and then we walked to the new stretch of the waterfront Brooklyn Bridge Park that just opened a few weeks ago. And we walked by the park’s new 1920s restored carousel and under the huge iron span of the Manhattan Bridge and we watched the waves of the East River lap at the rocky edge of Brooklyn. And it’s LOVE LOVE people.

And sometimes when it’s LOVE LOVE you just have to tell everyone.

The Last One Standing

We like to do things in threes around here – including birthdays.  And, as the youngest Whereverthere contributor, I have a certain image to uphold.  It was my big 3-2 this weekend, and it happened a little something like this:

Erika’s Birthday Weekend 2012

Went:  road-tripping to Phoenix, AZ with Mr. Bruce.  It’s a good time in our little fun-wagon.  We sing, we dance, we wear costumes.  Well, sort of.  My dermatologist recently told me that I need to protect my poor Scandinavian skin from the desert sun by wearing a hat every time I drive in the car.  Yes, ma’am!

Ate: the BEST PIZZA IN AMERICA at Pizzeria Bianco (and I’m not just saying that). I’ve been wanting to come here for years, but it’s always been crazy impossible to get a table (four-hour plus lines, no reservations accepted, etc.).  But, they recently extended their hours and are now open for lunch, so it seemed like a good time to give it a shot.  We waited a miraculously short 25 minutes (although it was 97 degrees outside).

We started off with the house brick oven baked bread, a farmer’s market salad, and then the heavenly choirs began to sing.  We opted for the Rosa; a pizza of Parmigiano-Reggiano, red onions, rosemary, and fresh Arizona pistachios. Everything about it is good, but the perfection is in the crust.  There are almost no words to describe it (although pro baker Peter Reinhart seems to find a few, as he dedicates an entire chapter to Mr. Bianco’s crust in his latest book American Pie: My Search for the Perfect Pizza).

And yes, it really is that good.

Saw:  two Phoenix Art Museum exhibitions: A retrospective of the groundbreaking fashion designer Giorgio di Sant’Angelo AND (as if a roomful of hippie-gypsy dresses weren’t enough) it was the last weekend of  ‘Modern Mexican Painting.’  It was a large exhibition with works by all the post-revolutionary Mexican greats, including one rather disturbing little gem by our dear Frida that I had not seen before.

Got:  lots of fun goodies.  Some favorites include a cool new design book (thanks, Charity!), a packet of Goji berry seeds to plant (thanks, Kristin…I think?), and a special multicolored crocheted toilet paper roll holder (umm….thanks Mom!).

Partied:  like it was 1999 (and man, that was a good year).  Thanks to all of you for the love, well-wishes, and celebrations.  Here’s to 32!

Mastery, Mystery, and Misery

As you may have gathered, I am something of a bookworm.  My sheer nerdiness and unbridled enthusiasm for books leads to a lot of people asking me for book recommendations.  It also leads to a lot of strangers trying to add me as a friend on Goodreads.com (it’s like Facebook for literature nerds and probably the only place I will ever be popular).  Because I know you are just clamoring for it, here are my thoughts on a few of the books that have crossed my path in the last month or so.

Maisie Dobbs by Jacqueline Winspear
Stars: ****
N.C.L. (Nice Church Ladies) Book Clubs Grade:  PASS

Although Maisie Dobbs certainly falls into the mystery genre, it is much more than that. Like Alexander McCall Smith’s No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency (which is set in modern-day Botswana) it is really just a wonderfully well-executed exploration of a particular time, place, and people – using the mystery framework of order-from-chaos as its platform.

In the case of Maisie Dobbs, the place is London and the time is that oft-overlooked but fascinating period between World War I and World War II.  Winspear takes us to a time when political, social, and cultural mores were changing profoundly and sets her title character, Maisie Dobbs, right in the middle of the milieu.  A delightfully complex character, Maisie is a self-titled ‘investigator psychologist’ whose first assignment leads her deep into the shadow of the Great War, and forces her to confront the lingering demons from her own experience as a battlefield nurse.  Weaving between the mystery Maisie is out to solve and the mystery of her own past, it’s a captivating look at an era,  seen through the eyes of a memorable heroine.

I give it four stars:  definitely worth reading – something I might even consider reading again someday.

I also give it a N.C.L. (Nice Church Lady) Book Club PASS.  It’s a totally accessible read with lots of good topics for discussion:  the effects of war, women’s rights, intuition vs. logic, etc.

State of Wonder by Ann Patchett
Stars:  ***
N.C.L. Book Clubs Grade:  PASS

State of Wonder tells the story of Dr. Marina Singh, a Minnesota-based, big-pharma scientist who ventures into the Amazon to a remote research site to investigate the mysterious death of her lab partner. At the same time she is asked to take stock of the fertility drug research being conducted there by her former mentor.

Patchett’s strength is in her descriptive powers.  And her evocations of place are certainly the most compelling thing about this book. She takes you into the heart of the Amazon jungle, in all its mystery and misery.

The plot however, is a bizarre mix of being both too slow and too rushed, as well as too messy and too tidy.  The first two-thirds of the novel keep you in suspense – just what will  Dr. Singh discover once she gets out to the research site???  In the meantime, you are subjected to a lot of waiting around and amateurish antics by the protagonist and most of the secondary characters.  As a matter of fact, I found all of the characters to be rather shallow and undeveloped.  They were too much like stock characters (The eccentric genius! The buttoned-up CEO! The dumb surfer!) and difficult to identify with in a meaningful way.

In the end, when Dr. Singh finally gets into the heart of the jungle, the setting is wonderfully strange and magical.  But it’s at this point that the plot veers rapidly toward the Dickensian, becoming both ridiculously convoluted, and then, without much warning, it’s all conveniently and neatly resolved.  It’s sort of abrupt and even somewhat baffling considering the long buildup and the complexity of the ethical issues Patchett attempts to address in the novel.

I give it three stars:  worth reading once, especially if you are interested in Latin America and the Amazon.

N.C.L.Book Clubs:  PASS.  Lots to talk about with the writing, and lots of interesting ethical issues: colonization, the exploitation of people and the environment, the allocation of resources, etc.  Plus one puzzling act of cheating (not explicit) that raises some interesting moral questions.

Flannery:  A Life of Flannery O’Connor by Brad Gooch
Stars: **1/2
N.C.L. Book Clubs Grade:  FAIL

This is an extremely well-researched biography of Flannery O’Connor, one of America’s greatest short story writers and Christian (Catholic) apologists.  It’s well written, but I do think that the success of a good biography is probably due as much to what the author chooses to leave out as to what they choose to put in.  Unfortunately in the case of Mr. Gooch’s Flannery, it appears that nothing was left out.   It is just too exhaustive for the casual reader.

Flannery O’Connor’s life is undeniably fascinating; from her privileged upbringing in the Jim Crow South, to her deep and abiding Catholic faith, to her fraught relationship with her devoted but disapproving mother, to her terminal battle with lupus. But, I found myself skimming through large sections of the book, from the lengthy descriptions of the campus of O’Connor’s elementary school, to page after page of what seemed like every piece of correspondence she ever wrote to anyone…ever.

While it’s probably a fantastic resource for O’Connor scholars and students, I found it to be a frightful lot of Flannery for me.

I give it two and a half stars: not bad, but worth reading ONLY if you are very interested in the topic.

N.C.L. Book Club:  FAIL.  Everyone will give up before Flannery even hits puberty.

Quick Note:  Charity guided me to another book featuring Flannery O’Connor which looks a little more promising.  It’s called The Life You Save May Be Your Own by Paul Elie.  It deals more directly with the part of O’Connor’s life that I am most interested in:  the intersection of her faith and her fiction.  The book actually follows the spiritual and literary journeys of several prominent post-war American Catholic authors, including Thomas Merton, Dorothy Day, Flannery O’Connor, and Walker Percy.  And because I know you will just be quivering in anticipation, I will let you know how it goes.

House Tour: My Office

The hallway leading to my office

When I look at magazines, I’m drawn to serene, neutral rooms. But it’s like girls who say they like book-ish guys but keep dating jocks. I think I like white rooms, but then in real life, I keep falling for color. And not just one or two colors. EVERY COLOR. Most often in a floral pattern. In our apartment, we’ve tried to contain the color explosion — it creeps out into other spaces, but mostly it lives in my office.

Here’s what I look at every day, from my desk:

The three paintings of women are by an artist I love, Cassandra Barney. I love love love them. In fact, sometimes I talk to them (after I listened to the Elizabeth Gilbert Ted Talk on summoning the muse, I just couldn’t help it). The sofa is a West Elm number that folds down into a full-size bed, which is super since the office doubles as a guest room when we have visitors. In my dreams, I have a big, fluffy tufted sofa with huge arms, but sadly, that neither fit the room nor the budget.

See that many-colored cross stitch up there at the top of the wall?

It lived in the guest room at my grandma’s house during all my growing up years. I remember reading it with grave seriousness as a fourteen-year-old. Every time I look at it I’m reminded of her. Also, I think it’s evidence that this excessive love of color is genetic. Come on, Greg. Cut me some slack! I can’t help it!

Here’s my desk:

Originally, I had it set up so I was facing the windows, but turns out I just stared at the skyline all day, so I had to turn it around. Plus, this way the desk faces the couch, so when I have visitors, it’s like I’m interviewing them, which makes me feel like the boss. Of whom and what is unclear, but the boss nonetheless. The desk is another West Elm number. I LOVED it in the store, but in the months since it arrived, I’ve kind of been wishing I’d gone for something more vintage and woody. With the couch + the desk, there’s a lot of grey and a lot of blocky lines.

But I’m combatting the grey and the blockiness! I’ve ordered flow-y yellow drapes. They’re going up this week. Fighting my love of color is a losing battle after all, and surrounding myself in a cocoon of yellow silk seems like a good way to surrender.

Gwyneth, I’ve Always Loved You. How Could You Do This to Me?

While Erika was having Missoni adventures yesterday, I was having a zig-zaggy experience of my own. Although the zig-zags were decidedly less designer. There were the zig-zags when I walked across the room. There were the zig-zags when I opened my eyes. There were the zig-zags when I closed my eyes. There were the zig-zags on the ceiling, and the zig-zagging piles of kleenexes. Basically, I’m telling you I had the flu. Bad.

It all started on Friday with the movie Contagion. Greg was out of town for work for the weekend, and when he’s away, I pretty much always head straight to the movies. Hitting up a theater alone, I dunno, it always makes me feel like I’m playing hooky. Hooky from what? Again, I dunno. But it’s that delicious feeling where you think “for the next two hours, I am FREE.” (You sing that last “free” like the “yipee” Lisel sings in the Sound of Music). The trouble on Friday was that I wasn’t quite alone, and therefore not quite free. I was accompanied by that prickly feeling you get when you’re starting to get sick. This is a problem when you’re watching a movie about a global viral pandemic.

I kept feeling like Gwyneth Paltrow had infected me through the screen. My pinky and my ring finger on my left hand got this weird cold feeling, like when you’ve slept on your arm funny. Except it didn’t go away the way it does when you sleep funny and then shake out your arm. Of course this led me to believe that I was dying. I started feeling the sinus headache coming on, which made me think maybe I wasn’t dying, just getting sick, but then more people on screen were dying, and I went back to thinking maybe I was too. It was all very confusing.

Somehow, I made it through the movie, and I made it home, and instead of having the productive weekend I’d planned, I ended up laying around feeling sick, though I was sure I’d be better by the time Greg got home Sunday night. Sadly, not so.

And then Monday, I thought I’d get up and shower and be a person, and I made a valiant effort. I mean, what’s so bad about having to breathe through your mouth? Should it stop you from participating in the world? No! I was about a paragraph into a document I was supposed to be editing, when the urgent need to send Greg an email descended. I typed something like “we go should to are you dinner.” And then I looked at what I’d typed, and I decided maybe calling it a sick day was the wisest choice.

Fine fine. But surely by Tuesday I would be better. Tuesday! Please remember that I came down with my contagion during Contagion on Friday. This was turning into the longest movie ever.

I feel like there’s etiquette for this. No one actually wants to hear about sickness. So right now, or probably three paragraphs ago, I’m supposed to stop and just call my mom, because really, she’s the only one interested in the strange, tingly feeling in my hands.  And even she is probably only pretending to be interested because that’s her duty as a mom. But isn’t this what the internet is for? Violating etiquette? I am therefore, forging ahead.

Tuesday, I thought I might be getting better. If I closed my mouth, I could probably get 70% of the air I needed by breathing through that one nostril. I planned to spring back into action at noon. Apparently, my body was against this. Right around noon, the migraine arrived.

Here’s the thing about migraines. I always think, am I really going to lie here in this room, very still, covering my eyes and pressing this pillow into my forehead? Really? Am I doing this because this is what they do in movies? Because some character in a book from the 1920s did this? And then I get up and zig-zag across the room, before getting back and bed and putting the pillow back in place. Because, yes, that is really what I’m going to do. Migraines are horrible. Sometimes, I take my fancy migraine medication, and boom, I catch them, and I’m left feeling a little woozy but okay. But other times, nosiree. I take the pills, I feel the wooze, and the pain blazes on. It honestly feels hot in there. Like there’s this hot thing in my forehead.

I think I probably damaged my liver with the amount of medication I took yesterday. I mean, no weird feeling in my pinky and ring finger, so I’m probably not dying, but just saying.

Greg worked late, and when he finally got home at about 11:30, I was wide awake in the dark. He got a cold wash cloth and put it on my forehead and then joined me in bed and told me a story that made me laugh the deep, husky laughs of the respiratorily ailing. But still, it felt good. I finally fell asleep around 2.

And guess what, I woke up this morning with no more migraine. And now, who even cares if I still can’t taste my food?  Here’s my little zig-zag journey, in flip-book form:

See that at the end? That’s me, delighted as can be to have returned to the land of the living.

Excuse Me, Miss

Very Berry Daring

Today was a day of unexpected pleasures.  Especially because it started off with a flashing “check engine” light and a very long drive across town to get the car looked at.  I had some time to kill while I waited for the car, and so I did what any normal person would do:  I immediately looked for the nearest nail salon and got a pedicure.

After that chore was complete, I thought, “Hmmm…isn’t today the day they are supposed to be launching the Missoni for Target collection? Maybe I should head over and check it out…”

10:00 a.m. - Accessories.

Apparently, every other person in America had the same idea.  A bewildered employee told me that there had been a line forming outside the store since before 7:00 a.m.  People had come rushing in, grabbing multiple carts and stuffing them with every Missoni item they could get their hands on.  One man bought about $2,000 worth of Missoni and then came back in for more.

Despite the apparently much-too-late hour (10:00 a.m.), I did encounter a very determined cadre of women cruising from department to department, hunting for any of the remaining zig-zagged treasures.  Some were camped outside the dressing room, waiting to see what might emerge as cast-offs.  One of them told me that she had already been on the Target website (which had crashed) and to two other Target stores earlier in the morning.  She never did get any of the towels that she had her heart set on.

You'd think it was Communist Russia - Housewares, Bedding, and Shoes

My own vague notions of finding a cool sweater or maybe a cute scarf had evaporated entirely, but I did manage to find one Missoni masterpiece that I liked.

My first ever set of designer bobby pins.

Obviously, I couldn’t put such valuable and sought after designer bobby pins into the mangy mop of hair I have been sporting lately, so my next time-killing activity was clear.

"Could you just put a little zig-zag into the hairline?"

So, now I am just waiting for someone to stop me and ask, “Excuse me, Miss, but is that a Missoni bobby pin you’re wearing?”

I THOUGHT SO.

Ten Years On

KRISTIN:  For our generation 9/11 is the definitive “where were you on this day” moment.  Unforgettable, and still unfathomable.   Ten years has passed, but the memories are as vivid as smoke smell.

I was attending school at BYU and had been engaged to Shea less than a week before.  I was driving to work–I had an editing position on campus–and was listening to X96 Radio From Hell in the morning.  Not where you expect to hear serious news.  DJ Bill had just mentioned something about breaking news: a plane crashed into the world trade center.  That is about all I caught and as I walked into work, I thought perhaps some freak accident had led a small time pilot towards a tragic, but minor fate.  I logged onto my computer, one in a line of about ten computers hosting college students doing the same, when the overhead speakers came on, tuned into national news.  In full detail, with no pictures, the story unfolded.  We listened live as broadcasters tried to make sense of what was happening.  We heard, actually heard people screaming.   We heard the second plane hit.  I remember one reporter saying “things are falling from the upper floors, My God! It’s people! People are jumping!!”  I remember time stood still.  I looked briefly to my side to see my coworkers with their mouths open and their hands hovering frozen over the home row keys of their keyboards, like they stopped mid-login to listen.  Then I looked down to see my hands in the same stance.  It was surreal.

I didn’t see actual footage until much later that day.  I didn’t own a TV and caught snatches of coverage at neighboring apartments.  It was like watching a horrible movie.  Surely those were special effects.  The emotions of the day were many and muddled.  Shock. Fear. Horror.  I don’t have to go on, you all remember.  One emotion that stands out is my longing for Shea.  This may sound insignificant.  I was new to the idea that I would be with him forever.  As ecstatic as I was to be engaged (The BYU dream, right?), the Mrs. concept was a little weird to me and hard to imagine.  But as I heard the incredible news of the Trade Centers, as I imagined moms and dads who went to work and never came home, as I felt the waves of broken hearts emanating from a city so far away, I longed to run into Shea’s arms and stay there. I wanted my family, which hadn’t even started yet, to be wrapped in a protective bubble far away from terror.  Shea was attending school up at the University of Utah, and although he was only a 40 minute drive away, it felt like he was far, far away.  9/11 planted a seed in my heart that day….I hold my loved ones tight and resolve to express my love with every coming and going, good morning and goodnight.

Three days later, on what was declared a national day of mourning, I celebrated my 23rd birthday with my sweetheart.

ERIKA:  In October 2007, my little brother joined me for a trip to New York City.  A major priority for both of us was to visit Ground Zero.  Of course, it was under heavy construction and you couldn’t really get a sense of anything at the actual site.  But I wasn’t prepared for what I would see or feel once we entered the World Trade Center Tribute Visitor’s Center, which was housed in the former NYFD fire station across the street.

The thing is, I was on my mission from 2000-2002, and during that time my access to any sort of media was intentionally limited.  While no one could really escape the tragedy and horror of that day, I had not been exposed to many of the images and stories that came out of it.  So I took in, in one afternoon, what most people had already processed over a period of months or even years.  I was overwhelmed in every way.

At the end of our visit, they gave us each a card to fill out that said,  “Share your September 11th story.  How have you been changed by the events of September 11th, or what action can you take in the spirit of Tribute to help or educate another?”

This was my response:

I was serving as an LDS (Mormon) missionary in Tallahassee, Florida at the time of the attacks.  I saw the second plane hit live on television in a doctor’s office waiting room.  That day, we didn’t go out to proselyte or visit people; but the next day, and for many days afterward we went out, knocking on people’s doors and asking if we could pray with them.

For a brief time, religious prejudices and intolerance were set aside, and we all prayed together.  We prayed for those who died.  We prayed for those who lived.  We prayed for the families of the victims and heroes.  We prayed for the leaders of nations.

We prayed for each other.

CHARITY: In 2001, I wasn’t yet living in New York. I was still in Boston, and I spent the day gathered around the television in a dorm room with friends. Most of these friends were from New Jersey, from a commuting suburb where parents took the train into the city every morning and came home every evening. The night of September 11th, late in the evening after the train station’s parking lot had mostly cleared out, one of these friend’s moms reported that there were still cars — one here, another there, two over by the light pole, another in the back. Terrible, ghostly indicators that the people who left them that morning weren’t coming back for them. That image has always stuck with me.

This weekend in New York is all about remembering. One of the memorials that strikes me as most poignant is an installation in Bryant Park: 2,753 empty chairs. It reminds me a little of that terrible parking lot.

I know how important it is to remember, and I’m grateful that we’re coming together to remember at this 10th anniversary. But I’m also grateful for something else.

I moved to New York in 2002, when September 11th was stills so fresh that there were guards armed with machine guns in all the major subway stations. I used to pass through Times Square every day, and I remember the fear. You’d get used to the machine guns and the searches, and then one day, something would jolt you out of it — like the day I could have sworn I smelled something strange and chemical — and there was that fear again, bristling and almost ungovernable. But we stayed safe day after day. And finally the armed guards left. And now, nearly a decade later, I can almost (almost but not quite) laugh at how scared I was by that smell. (People who are afraid of smells should not take New York City transit).  Almost a decade later, I am very glad there aren’t armed guards in the subway anymore. So while I’m grateful for the chance to remember, to think back and to mourn, I am also grateful that we humans are able to forget. Not to forget completely, but to forget enough to carry on.

Carnavalera

That’s right, folks.  It’s another World Music Wednesday at Whereverthere!

Please enjoy the salsa stylings of Havana Delirio…

The only thing I really know about the band is that they’re Cuban and that this song, Carnavalera, was a hit somewhere in Latin America in approximately 1999.  That’s because I’m fairly certain that I first heard it on a random ‘Grandes Exitos’ (Greatest Hits) cd that I picked up when I was living in Brazil.  The cd is long gone, but my LOVE for this song has lived on.

And yes, you had better believe I am doing that choreography in my living room right now.

Family Vacation Five

The Wahoo Eatery, just down the road from our house this weekend. Did I try every kind of hot dog they make? Of course!

We spent Labor Day Weekend with Greg’s family, all under one roof, in a house in Vermont. While his family isn’t Mormon big, it’s Catholic big, which runs a close second, so we had some pretty decent numbers. The whole weekend was great. Swimming in the lake was great. Hiking in the mountains was great. Eating every hot dog off that there menu from the local eatery was great. But those weren’t my favorite parts. My favorite parts were the filling in the cracks between those parts.  I wanted to capture them, so I made a little list. Ahem, ahem. Ready? Here we go.

My favorite things about family vacation:

1. When you wake up to the sound of voices downstairs, and you want to get out of bed and race down as fast as you can, so you don’t miss anything. In fact, you’re so excited that you consider all sorts of things: do I really have to brush my teeth? My hair? Put on a bra? I’m wasting precious minutes here!
2. Car shuffling. You’re too many people to fit in one car or even two cars. And every time you go anywhere, there are new combinations, creating endless permutations of backseat driving.
3. Easy reading lounging. You know those times between, when you’re not making or cleaning up from a meal, when you’re not coming from anywhere or going anywhere for a while, when what everyone is doing is milling. Some reading, some talking, some inside milling, some outside milling, and you’ve got a Diet Coke and you’re just sipping and talking and drifting in and out of your book or magazine and conversation. It’s that easy flow I love.
4. Sitting around a fire, trying to remember lyrics. The sing-a-longs are great, but I also love the surprise solos, which I think only come out because of the magical combination of mostly dark but just enough light. (Note: this weekend once again confirmed that I need to get myself in gear and finally learn to play the guitar. Everything is more fun with a guitar. And seriously, how have I not learned to play the guitar yet? I should go learn some chords the second I stop typing!)
5. Sitting around late in the evening, and falling asleep to the sound of the same voices you woke up to. My very favorite is the precise second after you’ve closed your heavy eyelids, when the voices take on a warm, muffled timbre, and you know you’re slip, slip, slipping, but it hasn’t quite happened yet. And then someone you love nudges you, how much later you don’t really know, and you, and all those other people you love shuffle off to bed, another day of the same thing ahead.