Practical advice or true wisdom? You might have rolled your eyes the first hundred times you heard some of these, but now you find yourself saying the same things to the people in your life – little, and grown! The literal meanings might make you chuckle, but the deeper meanings are what get us through life:

• Use tools.
• If you need to, stop work and go get a new tool if that’s what you need to get the job done.
• Once you start the lawnmower, don’t stop until all the grass is cut. Even if it gets dark out.
• If it’s 10pm and you need gas or milk, go get it. You will still need it in the morning if you don’t.
• Read the obituaries. You don’t want to miss it if someone dies.
• If your car is leaking oil, park on the street.
• A well-aimed hose cleans up all messes.
• “I don’t know” is not an answer or a destination.
• Do as I say, not as I do.
• Stop complaining.
• Watch your mouth.
• Shut the door.
• Turn down the heat.
• Eat what’s in front of you.
• Watch old westerns and Spanish language channels – you might learn something.
• Volunteer
• Even now, you can always find an episode of Matlock or Murder She Wrote on t.v.
• A good recliner chair beats the couch, any day.
• Take naps.
• Put out fires, no matter who starts them.
• If you’re a poor sport, you don’t get to play.
• I’m not a bank.
• You’re more likely to get something if you don’t ask.
• You’re fine.
• Don’t ride the brake.
• A little dirt won’t kill you.
• Pay attention.
• Short cuts work, until they don’t.
• Read a map and learn to follow directions so that you can get to places on your own.
• If you want to get home – drive there! [As my father advised me through the car window while I was learning to drive a stick shift, from a stop, on a hill, down the street from our house, just before he walked home and left me there. I drove home].
• A mouse trap is designed to kill mice. Don’t be so surprised when you set a trap and later find a dead mouse.
• Go ask your mother.

Some of these are spoken truths that I might have heard at a slightly higher volume than others, others are examples set and reinforced throughout childhood and adolescence.

My Dad never wore a sweater vest or sat me down for a heart-to-heart. He’s just not that kind of Dad. But he did graciously endure hideous ties, discount store wallets, and warped-dried-paste magazine collages of the foods he likes to eat.

At least now when we go out to dinners or movies, he finally doesn’t have to pay.

She is where I was almost exactly three years ago. Deciding.

I was once in a discussion group with a man who had to choose between one job offer and another. He said that he had made a “decision,” and went on to define what that meant:

Decidio (Latin): To die. To cut off; to settle, put an end to.

When we decide, we select a path for progress. Though, the Latin suggests that a decision is the end or death of an idea.  One idea has to die so that we can give full life to another.

My friend has that “standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon”-sensation, not clear how she will get to the other side. But, she has decided: She is going to the other side.

Deciding may be the hardest, most important part. Giving full life to an idea while resolutely putting an end to another is a commitment to a future you – a promise you make to yourself entrusting the future “you” to  fulfill.

It is choosing this life instead of that life.

The key for me, when I made the decision to change my life, was to not get caught up in trying to clearly define that new life. The early months were about embracing the idea that a different life could be, and would be because I was determined to go there.

After such a long stay on a lonely island (toxic job situation), I had to first master the idea that I could swim away to a new island (change was possible.)  Somehow, while focused on mastering that idea, the ‘how’ takes shape.

Her journey will be different, and her destination will be the one she has been headed toward her whole life (and she will probably wonder, like I did, why it took her so long to get there.) I suggested that she start with the two books that set me on my journey:

The Centered Life, by Jack Fortin

and

The Path: Creating your Mission Statement for Work and for Life, by Laurie Beth Jones

We are enough alike that these two books, read in this order, will probably work for her the same way they worked for me: the first book will teach that the decision is about changing how to measure your life. The second book will teach how to articulate your (new) life.

I reminded my friend of the E.L. Doctorow quote that literally guided my way:

    “Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

First, decide to go. Then, trust that you can take yourself there.

Second, it took twice as much time to recover as the length of time that we had nephews K. & D. overnight.

The boys arrived at noon last Sunday, carrying in a suitcase, backpacks, and a giant tote bag of assorted child-necessary items. I feared that there might have been a miscommunication about how long they were staying.

“Where are we going to sleep?” were the first words out of D.’s mouth. I had tidied our guest room where he and K. would share a bed that night. He unpacked his super-soft Snow Leopard and DeeDee (an elephant), and tested the nightlight I had installed just that morning.

K. gave the room a cursory review, then asked to go outside and play. “Sure, stay in the backyard,” I said, thinking: this is easy.

After a dizzying review of who gets what allergy meds and when, and when to stop liquids for a certain tiny-bladder, my sister was off. I think she might have squealed the tires on her minivan when she left for 24-kid-free-hours…

By the time I had prepared boxed mac n’ cheese (blech) and custom turkey sandwiches, most of our wiffle balls had disappeared into neighbors’ yards. The boys enjoyed the idea of lunching on our porch more so than the actual eating, and I’m still learning not to offer drink choices if I just want them to drink the juice boxes we bought for them especially. They decide that the neon sign that we have up on the porch wall reads “Sunny-D”…yes, that’s it. If Sunny Delight was served in an adult drinking establishment, I’m sure they would have a neon sign, too.

Somehow I manage to scrape the cheese sauce/orange glue off of my saucepan in time for us to walk down to our town’s Memorial Day Parade. The Uncle drove down a little earlier to set up with the band he was playing with for pre-parade entertainment outside our church.

It is a one mile walk from our house, on sidewalks lined with mature trees and houses built 90-100 years ago on small lots – very different from their new-build house on an acre in a young neighborhood of an outer-ring semi-rural suburb. Not better, just very different.

I pull the wagon hauling our camp chairs (D. gave up after a few blocks), the boys collect pocketfuls of “helicopter” seeds, run through “hot lava” pools of bright sun between cool oases of tree shade, and puzzle over a “sleeping” squirrel. Sometimes they do fall out of the tree, and die, I tell them. In a world where the violence of roadkill is commonplace, a squirrel lying still in the grass must be sleeping.

We put jackets on and take them off, over and over, suck down juice boxes (no other option!), and accept brownies from the church. Still, the boys are hungry (“Maybe you should’ve eaten your lunch…”), and are ready to go home after the parade. Thank heavens the Uncle had the car, or I would have needed a pull in the wagon.

I don’t recall exactly what, but I find something to do while the boys and The Uncle play the three drum kits set up in our basement. Take a moment to fully consider that sentence.

Fast-forward through the usual Let’s Make a Deal-dining experience at the nearby diner: I drive home and calculate how many hours until bedtime (mine), and listen to exaggerated backseat whispers echoing Mommy’s reminder not to yell in the car because “Aunt Terra isn’t used to it.”

Aunt Terra isn’t used to a lot of things that she has experienced over the last several hours. I manage not to careen off the road on the way home.

S’Mores in the backyard. I’m just out of the frame to the right…mouth agape, probably.

Is it ironic that we scrambled around the house collecting matchbooks to place out of reach, then light a fire in the backyard and hand the boys sticks to torch marshmallows into flaming blobs of sugar? I have to admit, S’Mores are awesome and I don’t eat them enough. I’d like to try enjoying them while NOT pondering the flame-retardant qualities of our lawn chairs and clothing.

Later, The Uncle stands helplessly in the middle of the yard, guarding the hot grill, while the boys zip each other around in the wagon. I think that I should be filming this, but, with my blood pressure rising at their break-neck speed, I just go inside and hope for the best.

D. left a note on our shower idea board.

Shower time, and the myth I had perpetuated for months about an alligator living in my bathtub finally dissolves. They discover that it is a blue plastic carnival prize that sits on the ledge. As I set the water to a safe temperature, I explain that the Uncle and I have an ongoing game where we move the alligator around the bathtub for the other to find. The boys use up a lot of water and the alligator makes a fantastic journey.

A family movie, then bedtime. D. requests a pad, a pencil, a flashlight, a book, then, please come take the pad, pencil, flashlight and book. He finally decides to lie down. An exhausted and patient K. is elated. So am I.

Sleepless night in a nutshell: up every two hours to investigate a thud (cause unknown, but no one fell out of bed), and two bouts of unexplained shouting (“Oh,” says my sister the next day, “I forgot to tell you that K. yells in his sleep.” Great. Good to know.) I send the tiny-bladder to the bathroom after the 5:30am investigation, and narrowly escape having him then climb into bed with me and The Husband.

It’s cereal and fruit all-around for breakfast on the sunny porch accompanied by soft classical music (don’t offer SpongeBob and you don’t have to listen to it. I’m learning!) I get the boys dressed while The Uncle showers and then send them all out back to play with the last remaining wiffle ball. I might dawdle a little in the solitude of the bathroom. The Uncle texts: Please hurry.

A whirlwind 23 hours have passed, one hour to go. We didn’t get to do all the fun activities I imagined, but somehow I think that K. & D. will still remember this as an adventure. We have just enough time left to hike the woods at the end of our street before Mommy arrives.

The Husband goes upstairs to retrieve the suitcase that K. neatly packed right after he made the bed, but finds the bag open and clothes strewn all over the guest room. It must have happened about the same time that the D.-sized hand print was left on my office window.

My sister and the boys roll away, and The Husband and I turn to each other and each see the face of a shell-shocked babysitter. How long until cocktail hour?

Look at those faces. A sleepover will be fun…right?

Today, a new frontier. I’ve done all day babysitting, evenings, after-school bus duty for a season, special days out… but this is uncharted territory.

Nephews K. & D. are coming to stay overnight.

My sister and her husband are off to a wedding, and a kid-free hotel stay. The boys were delivered at high noon today, and are completely in the care of me (the Aunt) and The Husband (the Uncle), for 24 hours straight.

The local zoo is walking distance and our town’s annual Memorial Day Parade takes place today at 3pm. Along the parade route is a frozen yogurt shop, a sub shop, a pizza place, then there’s mini golf, and the wooded park with ponds and hiking trails just five minutes away…Oh, the places we’ll go!

Tune in next week for the full report. Until then, enjoy the holiday, remember why we have the day off, and wish me luck!

The Husband has been up late nearly every night for the last three weeks working on our porch: Stripping off old aluminum siding, repairing the siding beneath and preparing it for a new coat of paint, painting, painting, stripping old paint off the wood floor, painting, stripping more paint off the wood floor, painting the ceiling, removing blue paint from the cat, and then removing blue paw prints from a freshly stripped floor… you get the idea.

While he works at that, everything that usually resides on the porch is in the living room. Also while he works at that, we cannot enjoy our porch as we normally do 75% of the time during spring and summer, including all mealtimes. It doesn’t feel normal that it is sunny and 75 degrees outside and we are drinking coffee in the dark dining room…staring at our porch furniture in the living room.

So this morning when The Husband didn’t have to play drums in church (yes, that is normal), we both took the day off. We slept in, until the extravagant hour of 8am when he had to get up to return the floor sander rented last evening from those evil people in orange smocks. What a wild life we lead.

The routine really went off the rails when I was going through my bathing repertoire and found myself doing things out of order. I actually “harrumphed” to myself when I realized it.

I puttered, straightened the house (as best I could within a construction zone), folded laundry that came out of the dryer just yesterday (a new record), chatted with neighbors, walked the dog, got ready to go to an early dinner, shopped for groceries on the way home, and generally felt both well rested and efficient. I even ate ice cream.

Then I got a weird feeling. Weird like sleeping in on a Sunday when I’m usually at church. Weird like I’m doing my shower routine in the wrong order. Weird like it’s 8pm on a Sunday and I haven’t written my blog post.

Weirder yet…I didn’t think about it once today. Not even when I opened my laptop to randomly look up shoes online. I’m usually much more conscientious.

One tiny change to the day’s routine was all it took. Or, maybe it was the continuous weeks of interrupted household routine, with the porch construction zone, my husband turning into “that guy who works on my porch,” and the obstacle-course living room.

I love the outcomes of these house projects, but the weeks (sometimes months) of discombobulation can be slow torture for a creature of habit (I know, First World Problem.)

I do much better on a routine.

But the real lessons?  These are in the mundane day-to-day admonishments, chore assignments, scoldings, and one-liners – all the stuff you hear in your first 18 years of life. The remarks you rolled your eyes at or slammed your bedroom door on.

And now, you live by these words (you know you do). It all seeped in. You find yourself repeating these lessons to spouses, kids, nieces and nephews. And, to yourself when no one is around.

Some of it is practical, some of it is true wisdom. It all depends on the situation:

• Make your bed.
• Don’t put dirty fingerprints all over everything.
• Don’t touch glass windows and doors (see above).
• Wash your hands.
• Take your shoes off in the house.
• Put your things away.
• Clean it up. Now. This isn’t a pig sty.
• Buy quality, but buy it on sale.
• Take care of your clothes and shoes.
• Put on your makeup and style your hair. You’ll feel better.
• Moisturize, preferably with sunscreen.
• Use eye crème.
• Take care of your teeth.
• Get your eyes checked.
• Wear sunglasses. Good ones.
• Wear whatever makes you feel good.
• Tweeze.
• Don’t ever pretend to be less smart than you are.
• Look it up in the dictionary.
• Do your homework.
• Read the directions and figure it out.
• Do it yourself.
• Do it right.
• You don’t get a reward for doing what you’re supposed to do.
• Have pets. Love them.
• Have plants. Love them, too.
• Eat your vegetables.
• Sweets are an occasional treat.
• Don’t fill up on junk.
• You don’t have to eat it all.
• Just try a little.
• Don’t overreact.
• No one is going to do it for you.
• Know when you’re being your own worst enemy.
• Be tactful.
• Be reasonable.
• Let it out.
• Don’t hit.
• Don’t take any crap. Don’t give it, either.
• Don’t embarrass me. Or yourself.
• Admit when it’s your fault.
• Life’s not fair.
• The squeaky wheel gets the grease…
• …but whining won’t make anyone go faster.
• “Because I said so” – is a valid reason.

I’m sure there’s more, and different iterations of each nugget. I don’t always succeed at each or remember each lesson exactly when I should. But, as Mom would say, it had better not be from a lack of trying.

My office.

At the back of the house, this room-of-windows overlooks our backyard – a mature pine tree and garden are the scene of entertaining squirrel and bird activity. This is better than facing the street and the traffic of Garbage Day three times a week (due to three pickup companies).

But facing the backyard presents its own challenges, as does having a home office in general.

Fauna

My two closest “co-workers” are my dog and cat. My cat Elsa is like that co-worker whose sole function is to annoy. Only consistent “removal” has convinced her to stay off of my lap/desk/keyboard/mouse while I am working. And her mixed howl-meow coming from other parts of the house usually signals that she will soon be barfing, unless I can call out to her and talk her out of it. This is especially great when I’m on the telephone with a client.

Which brings us to my dog, Valentina, who 99% of the time is asleep somewhere. Unless she is awake and suddenly decided that a treat/her dinner/going outside is a life or death matter. Cue the whining.

“Is that your baby?” “Um, no, that’s my dog.” “Is she okay…?”

Doggie whines, though, are preferred over screeching squirrel disagreements three feet outside my window. Any day.

Machine

Before I transitioned to full time freelance, I worked in an office park, a cubicle farm, an art deco downtown office building, and even in a little converted rural cottage. All of these places were climate controlled and strictly business surroundings.

Street traffic noises might waft up several floors, but in none of those settings did I contend with daily lawnmowers, weed-whackers, leaf blowers, snowplows or the whine of child-sized motorized vehicles.

It’s true that this is only an issue now that I can open the windows – and there in itself is little cause for complaint. Right now I hear the gentle rustle of pine branches-on-breeze and the chirps of several species of birds.

Machines are white-noise distractions that I can tune out or camouflage with music. But there are a few made-made sounds that don’t blend well with writing.

Man

Moving my home office to the back corner of the house means my windows overlook the backyards of two neighbors. In a neighborhood of city lot-sized yards, and houses separated by only 10-15 feet, we are lucky that these neighbors are *very good neighbors.*

Really, they are. So good, that I can gauge the time of day by their activities.

Two houses over lives really great neighbors and their boys, one son a late-night-employed twenty-something. He gets up just before lunchtime, takes their dogs out back, then runs through his morning workout of bouncing a tennis ball against their garage door.

Plunk.

Plunk.

Plunk. (Must be about 11:30.)

Plunk….

Immediately next door are three elementary school-aged siblings who are really fairly quiet. Release from the school bus at the end of the school day, however, is a time for celebration, and sometimes the resumption of breakfast-time squabbles. I get it, I remember my own after school elation, and then I silently note to myself that it must be about 3 o’clock.

In My Natural State

Rather than running outside and demanding quiet while disguised as the local wild-haired writer/recluse, I remember that I am getting to do exactly what I want to do – what I’ve always wanted to do – and how I want to do it.

In a very lucid way I love the screeching squirrels, shrill weed whackers and tennis ball plunks.

These are the sounds of my home office, and where I’m supposed to be, in this writing life.

Ahhh, spring!

A little sun
A little rain
Grass is first to wake –
The landscape no longer plain!

Standing tall daffodils
Hyacinth
And tulips –
“Okay, it’s time to DO this!”

So why am I in here tapping these keys?
It’s warm
It’s transformed
And I have to pull up a million little trees…

These are everywhere. Pull ‘em before the roots take hold!

Both fit me perfectly.

A few years ago when I went to Boston to visit one of my oldest and craziest (and best) college friends, I came off the plane wearing my usual traveling headgear – a Yankees ball cap. My friend, knowing that I’m not a rabid fan, just a lifetime resident of New York State, raised an eyebrow and said, “I’m not so sure about that.”

I shrugged and said, “It’s just a hat. Who cares?”

The next morning as we walked her dog, a guy actually stopped cold to stare at me over the roof of his car. Point taken. We went out later that day so I could buy a Red Sox cap.

Full Disclosure: I don’t stray far from the house while wearing my unmistakable “B” emblazoned cap. Around my hometown, it is not uncommon to see a Hummer roll by with a decal of Calvin whizzing on two little red socks. Case in point: I once wore my Yankees cap while wearing a Boston hoodie (just the word ‘Boston’, not Red Sox!), and a mouthy guy yelled at me that I was cross dressing. Nice.

Now, I just don’t endorse sports rivalries (as if we need more division), and personally think that the whole Yankees-Red Sox rabid-fan-thing can get tiresome. Both teams are legends. And I love that both cities have rich history, singular energy, and  incomparable people. I suppose such deeply ingrained identities can fuel a long rivalry, the Curse of the Bambino notwithstanding.

In reality, I’m not so sure that any two other iconic world cities could be closer together in history and sensibility. Boston roots are deep and tenacious, as are New York roots.

I think, way down, far below New York’s 191st Street station and Boston’s Big Dig, those roots are tightly intertwined.

There’s a lot to see in the woods.

My nephews love the woods. Past hiking trips last summer and fall were highly successful outings – and, being outdoors kills time that I would otherwise spend tuning out SpongeBob or getting trounced at the Wii game of the day. Also, I hope the boys are developing their appreciation for nature, which will serve them for a lifetime.

It must be working.

When I agreed to take them for an afternoon during their recent spring break, they had one request: hiking in the woods. Binoculars from Grandma and new hiking boots from Mommy sealed the deal – all I needed was some cooperation from Mother Nature (who has been a bit testy this spring.) The weather was raw, but dry, so I dressed in layers and picked them up from daycare, where the buzz was all about K. & D.’s aunt taking them to the woods.

There were a few raised eyebrows. “You’re taking both of them?” Honestly, I feel safer taking them to the woods than I would to the mall (which my sister probably wouldn’t allow anyway). The trails at Tinker Park are flat, mulched paths that are raised above and buffered against the natural wetland of the area. It’s quite literally a walk in the park, but to K. & D. it is “The Woods.” They are allowed to run, touch just about anything, and can make noise as long as they don’t sound like banshees. I guess, for little boys, that’s pretty close to heaven.

At ages 6 and 8 they are no longer so high maintenance, so when they decide in the car that they don’t want to carry their water bottles, I say, “Well, take a long drink now, because I’m not carrying them.” (If it were summer and we had backpacks, I would have insisted that everyone carry their own water. Compliance seems to follow if I tell them, in anything related to hiking, “That’s how it’s done.”)

We spend TWO HOURS hiking a 1.5 mile loop. We see deer tracks and poo, a nesting Great Horned Owl (I do, not sure if they really do), hear courting robins and territorial woodpeckers, and then scoop mud and leaf muck out of the swamp with a stick. We’re out there so long that I have to administer an inhaler (scheduled), and dodge the stream of, uh, the same boy’s “relief.” (AGAINST THE TREE, D.!!)

K. and D. are becoming nature lovers. They choose and discard downed branches looking for good walking sticks, that they then leave at the trailhead for the next hiker to use. They learn that a Canadian Goose needs a wide berth and does not want to be fed a weed (“I told you so that they hiss and chase!”)

All they did was walk continuously through an admittedly gray, early spring wood. No flowers, no green leaves, and very few birds. They did not once complain that they were bored or ask to leave. In fact, it was me who wrapped up the trek, not being equipped for outdoor “relief.”

I tell them about hiking in the Adirondacks, where their Uncle and I will hike all day, eat lunch on the trail, continuously climb over boulders, and reach a mountaintop where we can see for miles. I tell them that, someday, we will take them with us.

“We’ll go to the top of a mountain?” asks K., while D. just stares into space, trying to process it.

“Yes,” I say, “we’ll hike all day, and we’ll probably get tired, but we will get to the top of a mountain.”

Maybe they will carry my water for me.