Seattle 87, or While I'm Here...

I'd love some book recommendations. Nothing super heavy, but maybe some good fiction or memoirs? I also love short story collections, and YA literature.

Let me know your favorites.

Seattle 86, or Ice. Rest. Elevate.

The first time, it was on a ski slope. The second, in the woods of southern Vermont. This time, it's at work. On a staircase. I'm trying to avoid stepping on a kid, misjudge the distance, and go flying sideways down the stairs.

In midair, I hear a distinct pop in my left knee.

By the time I hit the ground, I know it's happened again. The pain is familiar - acute, ripping, the feeling of an anterior cruciate ligament tearing itself in two. I hear the kid screaming: "Is she okay? What did I do?! Dane, are you okay?? I'm so sorry!" She sounds a million miles away. So do the staff voices, "Dane, we're here. Talk to me. What do you need?"

I come back to the present. Ice. I need ice, and I need to get out of the way - all the kids will see me lying here in the hallway. Someone brings me an ice pack. I prop my leg up on a laundry basket. Elevate. Ice. Rest. I've moved myself next to the laundry room, out of direct sight. Someone comes and says "Can you walk if I help you? Let's get you up to the office." I can walk, with help.

In the office I start going into shock - shivering hard, as my body rushes to investigate the injury, forgetting to keep me warm. All the staff are outside, keeping things calm. I call my friend in California who's been there for the last two injuries. "I'm in crisis, I'm in shock. Help me make a plan."

Together, we come up with: blankets, for the shock. A ride to the ER. Get a housemate to meet me there. Make sure they bring the Rescue Remedy.

Someone comes in to check on me, brings a blanket and some paperwork. I start on it right away. It helps me calm down, focus. I'm pretty good in a crisis. I call Joel, Neal, Masha. No answers. I call Asya. She picks up on the first ring. She'll get help, she says. Sebastian will run down to Aleph and get everyone's attention, someone will meet me at the hospital. I call my boss, explain what's going on.

My coworker offers me a ride down. I bundle up, borrow a pair of crutches from work - they're meant for a kid, but I can use them for now. She drives me to the ER, which is calm, not busy at all. It looks very new. The lighting is soft, the intake workers are friendly. My brain is scrambled. My coworker gets the worker's comp paperwork started for me. Thank G-d she can remember the phone numbers. She leaves once I'm set up and waiting.

Joel and Debs come in a few minutes later. They've brought cookies, and a big thermos of tea. They settle in, assuming the wait will be long. Debs walks me to the bathroom. A few minutes after I get back, Neal shows up, with DVDs. As soon as we've all said hi, the nurse comes to get me. I hobble down the hallway, leaning on Joel.

Debs helps me get into the hospital gown. Masha arrives, her backpack stuffed with games, my Rescue Remedy, chocolate, a stuffed hedgehog puppet. Everyone's laughing, taking pictures, making jokes. The nurse looks a little surprised, says the doctor will be in shortly.

It isn't more than fifteen minutes before the doctor comes in. She listens, performs a few tests. I know this part of the drill. She says my knee seems fairly stable, but I remember this from last time; the swelling after the tear immobilizes everything, making it seem stable. She says this is possible. I should make an appointment with the surgeon tomorrow. I know the guy. He gave me a post-op checkup right after I moved to Seattle. I like him.

She fits me for a pair of crutches and sends me home with the same old instructions: ice. elevate. medicate. Not much, just ibuprofen. I'm dismayed at how easy it all seems now. It's been less than a year since the last time. My body falls into the old patterns of movement, of compensation, with alarming ease. My right hip aches familiarly from the weight already.

The Kibbutzniks drive me home. Debs is coming over tomorrow with a thick bone marrow soup. Masha says call when I get up; she'll come tell me stories. Joel and Neal offer whatever they can do.

I'll be calling on them for a lot in the next few months. Thank G-d I'm here. Thank G-d for them.

This time had better be the last time.

Seattle 85, or The Omnivore's Delight

Today's farmer market haul:
- 2 beets, about the size of softballs
- 2 delicata squashes (I like to dice them, roast them with rosemary and pepper, and eat them like popcorn while watching movies.)
- 3 Jerusalem artichokes (new root for me! Never made 'em before.)
- a bunch of dino kale
- a bunch of curly kale
- 1 dozen eggs from the farmer boy who looked at me incredulously and said "bugs, grub, leftover vegetable scraps...what do you think chickens eat?" when I asked what his laying hens ate.
- a half pint of spreadable cow's cheese that made my tongue dance when I tasted it
- a small jug of sweet honeycrisp cider

Lunch: the Jerusalem artichokes, sliced thin and sauteed in olive oil, rosemary, pepper and salt. One fried egg, served on top. Eaten in a square of sunshine, in wool socks and tough pants.

Sourdough: rising in the oven.

Cooked yams: cooling, and waiting to be turned into orange gnocci.

It's good to be back.

Seattle 84, or The Trip Home

As I made it to the front of the security line, the TSA agent checked my ID and boarding pass, stamped it, and without looking at me, gestured that I should move along.

"Merry Christmas," she said as I passed.

Without thinking, I replied, "Gut Shabbes to you too."

(I was grumpy. It was my second pass through the security line, due to an Xray machine malfunction.)

I was a few steps away when I heard her voice again.

"Shabbat Shalom," she called softly.

I didn't stop, or turn around, but I did smile. It's not bad to be a Jew in an airport on Christmas.

Boston 2, or Dane And Joel Do The Pike

(All the pictures in this entry are property of Joel Rothschild!)

It was supposed to be simple, yet serendipitous - I was taking a four day stint across western Massachusetts and southern Vermont at the same time as Joel, a fellow kibbutznik (of "Vote For Joel!" fame) was to be visiting friends in southern Vermont. Tickled at the prospect of seeing my Seattle neighbor out of context, we made practical plans: since Joel was traveling by train, and I by car, I would give him a lift from Brattleboro to the train station in Springfield - about an hour and a half drive - on my way to Worcester for my evening poetry feature.

So how did Joel and I end up in Albany?

It started with a snowstorm that walloped central and eastern Massachusetts, and everything south of there. However, we were safely west of the snow line, and so assumed we'd get to the train without trouble. We didn't stop to consider the possibility of accidents further down the highway that would put us in a dead-stop gridlock for over an hour. Silly us.

As we sat, unmoving, watching as car after car desperately pulled (very) illegal u-turns across the median, we realized we needed a new plan. Joel, the geography major, pulled out my mother's very well-loved maps, hooked his cell phone up to his laptop to get some internet access, and started making plans.

He thought he might be able to still catch a bus in Springfield that would take him to the next stop in time to catch the train, but those hopes died as we inched along. Then we thought I might be able to drive him to the next stop, once we got off the blasted highway, but time ticked on, and we soon realized that the only way Joel was going to make his train to Chicago was if he caught it in Albany, NY.

And hell, what was I going to do anyway? My poetry feature had been long canceled, due to the snow, and there was no way I was going to fight the roads to get back to Boston before nightfall.

It seemed as good a time as any for a little adventure.

We eventually got off the cursed highway, and (after being shuffled along a few detours) started plowing down the Mass Pike towards New York. We played road trip music and called Joel's partner, Tamar, in Israel, to say hi and share the ridiculousness. I marveled at technology - Joel's cellphone internet gave us turn-by-turn directions to the Albany train station, and helped us find a place to eat dinner, and my cell phone hooked up to the car so we could both talk without holding the phone or using speakerphone. It was as stress-free as if we'd planned the thing.

Once we got to Albany, we had some time to kill, so I introduced Joel to my great New York Lotto Tradition, and won two whole dollars!



I think Joel was amused. After that, we ate dinner in what could only be described as an Upstate NY pizza place - you know, six menu items, an Italian flag painted on the wall, a hockey game on TV, and a woman at the counter who seems perturbed that you should dare interrupt her recounting of yesterday's soaps to order a pizza. I asked for some tap water for us, and she handed me two cups and pointed me to the bathroom.

But, as is also occasionally the case with New Yorkers, she eventually asked us if we were waiting to catch a train, and we explained our whole saga, which she found amusing. Finally, stuffed on thin crust and canned mushrooms, I left Joel at the platform and headed back down the Pike for Boston, where, three hours later, I found my family's open arms and a welcome couch to crash on.

Boston 1, or The Stuff that Dreams are Made Of

Have you ever had a dream in which you knew where you were (eg home, at work, at school, etc) but the place in your dream looked nothing like it does in real life? How did you know "where you were?" Chances are, there was one thing in your dream to anchor the setting - a piece of furniture, a person, some detail that clued you in.

My dream goes like this: I'm at home, only it's not home because it's in Boston, and an apartment, but all my childhood furniture is there...and the phones ring the same and my parents are here too...and my mother and I even sat up until 2am talking on the couch we used to sit on, talking at 2am.

But it's Boston. So therefore, it's now "my parents' place." Not "home." Right?

There needs to be a new definition of home.

I like "Home is wherever there's someone you love to pick you up at the airport."

Jah?

Seattle 83, or Short, short synopsis. Elaboration later.

Had an amazing day - my first Seattle ferryboat ride, first time ever recording a song in a studio, tutoring a smart, imaginative kid, then getting to do comedy improv with Clean Slate/Unscripted folks! Recognizing that I live with a hilarious, smart, roll-with-it bunch of people, even when we're stressballs and arguing. Let me remember this enough to look back on it one day and remember how much I loved it.

Seattle 82, or Chanukah Questionaire

One menorah, or several? Hillel or Shammai? (just kidding about that part)

Growing up? Just one, the silver piece with movable arms on which I learned how to polish silver (with my father, after each Chanukah). In college, many – we each had our own, and on the final nights, dozens of candles gave us enough light to read/sing/do homework by. This year, I’ll be with my parents for most of Chanukah, which means one again. Depending on when it falls next year, I might see what the Kibbutz does.

Do you buy your children gifts for every night of Chanukah?

Oh, I will, eventually. Just as my mother swore every year that “this is the last year of presents-every-night” and then managed to always throw in an extra book or pair of good wool socks or box of colored pencils to make it last.

Do you and your spouse/partner or any other adults in your life exchange gifts?

In my family, the rule goes something like this “you’re a kid until you have kids but parents don’t get presents.” I was never expected to give gifts to my parents, or other adult relatives, but I do, sometimes. Both my parents’ birthdays tend to fall within a few weeks of Chanukah, so there’s a lot of doubling up. As for other adults to whom I’m not related – I give gifts to my friends, but they’re usually small and edible. I love giving presents, though.

Special family chanukah traditions?

Eh, the usual. Dreidel. Latkes. My father likes to seize my hands when we sing Ma O’tzur and move them around like he’s the puppetmaster and I’m the puppet. That’s about it.

Latkes or sufganiyot? If latkes, sour cream or applesauce?

We never ate latkes with sour cream growing up, but I fell in love with the combination in college. The last couple years, I’ve started putting salsa on latkes, and making sweet potato latkes with corn, scallions and cilantro. Totally not what my ancestors would’ve approved of, but hey, I’m a cook. Sufganiyot were never a big thing with us.

Favorite chanukah book?

Herschel and the Hanukah Goblins, hands down.

Do you actually play dreidl? If so, what do you use for counters?

Sometimes, yup. Usually pennies. I’m a dreidel master.

Seattle 81, or Night Owl, or In Which Dane Has Thanksgiving

My mother is a night owl. I have middle school memories of waking up at 2 or 3am, walking to the bathroom and pausing in the doorway of the still-bright office den, eyes closed, but knowing the hard klicklicklick of her old keyboard.

"Go to sleep," says my groggy 12 year old self.
"I know, sweetie, but I have to finish this. I'll see you in the morning."

As a kid, I assumed that she was finishing Important Business - she wasn't yet running her own business (that would come the following year) but she's always run the family finances, and, since I never looked into her office that late at night, I assumed the floor was covered in Important Papers to Input. Or something.

It wasn't until I was in college that I became familiar with my mother's nighttime routine. I learned that I could call her as late as 1:30am (as long as she could pick it up on the first ring and not wake my father) just to talk. I learned that she played a couple hours of some computer game - it used to be Solitare, but lately she's been on a Mahjong kick - to wind down before going to bed. A couple of hours. I had no idea why. Sometimes, she'd stay up until 2 or 3, knowing full well she had to be up by 7 or 8. College kids do this, I reasoned, because they have that much work (or that much procrastination) and can muscle their way through the morning with coffee.

I've never asked my mother when or why this habit started - and I'm sure it didn't start when computer games became common. She's a bit of a crossword puzzle fiend, too, and I can imagine her sitting up with the daily Times puzzle in the days before computer Solitare. But lately, I've begun to form a theory.

This week, I worked a full 40 hour week for the first time in awhile - including a double shift (7am-11pm) on Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving was actually kind of a fun day to work - I got to hang out with lots of kids' families who had come to visit, eat turkey, give presents and share the day. Although it's sometimes frustrating to face the families at first ("oh, so you're the reason this child is terrified of the dark? lovely to meet you") I really learn a lot from watching them interact with their kids. What kind of parenting did they have? What's important to them? I try to check in with parents at the end of their visits once the kids have left and ask them these things - what's most important to you? As a parent, what values and beliefs do you want your kid to grow up with? How can we help you achieve that while your kid is here?

The end of the night was exhasuting - one tough restraint and mild amounts of chaos, right as I hit hour 13 of my shift. One of the staff pulled a muscle in her thigh and spent the rest of the night limping around with a package of frozen peas clamped to her pants. One kid tried to run away. We caught her in the middle of the field, because the 3-inch mud had tripped her and she'd fallen, and she didn't stand up. She wasn't hurt; just crying too hard. "I don't have a family! I don't have a family!"

The rest of us were just wrung out, staggering a bit as we cleaned the kitchen - even the kiddos get a 9-course Thanksgiving feast, cooked by yours truly and many, many others.

When I got home, I went over to house Bet, not quite ready to face my own house's Thanksgiving, and found Joel and a houseguest quietly talking in the kitchen. I told them stories about the day, heard about their Thanksgivings, and then Masha came in with a request: her clients had been talking all day about "Alice's Restaurant," and could we please explain this American phenomenon that had somehow escaped her?

Of course, Joel had the record (his record collection is...shall we say...extensive) and the four of us trooped into the living room. Joel sat at my feet, and I worked on his neck and shoulders, Masha plopped down next to me and scratched my back and head while I worked, the houseguest looked up facts about Alice's Restaurant, and we all listened to that sweet old album. I've shared Thanksgiving with Arlo and Alice and Officer Obie since I was a kid, and there, in the living room, in my filthy clothes, with back scratches and my home-people, it felt like a holiday. I left the house ready to come home and sleep.

But I didn't. I did instead what I've been doing for weeks now, after a long shift - I come home and I play internet backgammon, or mahjong - just for a couple of hours. Just so it feels like the day is a just a little bit mine, a few early dawn slivers of being alone. I don't think I could sleep at that point if I tried, no matter how tight I shut my eyes. Lately, I've been using the time to plan peoples' Chanukah gifts. It's peaceful, even if I know I'm shaving precious hours of sleep off the clock.

And I think about calling Mom, just to say, "hey, look - I do it too. I think I get it."

But I wouldn't want to interrupt the part of the day that's really, truly hers.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Seattle 80, or Whirligig

"Allemand left. Now ladies' chain. Left-hand star. Back to the right. Actives down and back. Cast off. Everybody swing!"

Couples turned in circles, skirts rippling. Brent stared. It was a human whirligig, set in motion by music instead of wind. He sank into a chair and watched dance after dance. Suddenly, a young woman rushed up to him.

"We need one more couple." She held out her hands.

To his great amazement, he agreed. A few people clapped when he got to his feet. As before, the caller walked them through the dance slowly, without any music. Brent now recognized some of the steps. Knowing hands turned him left instead of right and pointed him toward the proper partner. Then the music started up at full speed and the dancers, like clock parts, began to turn. Arms reached for his. Faces whizzed past. He was instantly enmeshed with the others. Wordlessly, they corrected him, adjusted his grip, smiled at him. He'd always been gawky. this hadn't changed. But the pattern of steps, repeated over and over, slowly began to sink in. the galloping tune had an Irish feel. It was exalting to be part of the twining and twirling, and strangely thrilling to touch other hands an to feel them grasping his. He felt like a bee returning to the hive, greeted and accepted by all."

~excerpt from Whirligig, a novel by Paul Fleischman

Tonight, I went dancing for the first time in a very long time. I was needing contact, needing to feel the familiar steps, the comfort of that hive of motion. And it just so happened that my favorite dance band was playing in town. My knee, completely healed, did not complain once.

Here's why I love contra: it's restrictive, prescribed movements leave so much room for variation. You can tell everything about a dancer by what they do in the moments between movements. Do they wait? Bounce their knees rhythmically? Fit in an extra twirl or two? (That's my standard.) Your personal variations in the dance become your mode of communication - does your hand sink a little lower than the standard spot on your partner's back? If so, you're probably flirting, or just really short. Do you twirl your partner when your partner is expected to twirl you? You're flirting, or showing off, or both. Mastering the dance to the point where you can play between the lines is like learning to write poetry in a foreign language - you make it your own, despite the fact that a guy with a microphone is calling out each next step.

It was a good dance, full of experienced contra folks who had come out to see the special traveling band. As I passed through dozens of bodies, skirt whirling, I grinned like an idiot, showing off and flirting for all I was worth - an extra beat of eye contact, grabbing another woman's hand to twirl her in a spare moment, taking an unexpected lead with a male partner, switching places - all of these things, to show belonging. Contra dances are the same everywhere - Greenfield, Massachusetts, Seattle, Washington. Hell, they're probably the same in Nebraska.

The last bus left before the dance was over, but I wasn't worried - I know dance folks, and they're kind and generous. I wasn't disappointed - two women offered me, the new girl with the nice skirt, a ride home. They didn't even know how far they'd have to drive me, and they offered. My dancing told them everything they needed to know - I might come from somewhere else, but I'm a dancer. I'm one of them.

Now, everybody, swing.