We share toothpaste and kids, but not a suitcase

I used to routinely pack for the husband whenever we went out of town, but a few years back I stopped. I can’t remember the exact circumstances. I suspect it was a combination of time shortage on my part and a preference for waiting until the last minute to pack on his part.

In any case, since we initiated the “Everybody Count Out Your Own Socks Policy,” it has become increasingly apparent that we have very different approaches when it comes to packing.

When we first started packing separately, I wondered what sort of random, haphazard packing method he might use. When I witnessed him packing methodically, carefully and neatly, I wondered if perhaps I was indispensable. And then he tossed in hard cover books, newspapers and heavy dress shoes on top of his neatly folded clothes. So maybe I was still indispensable.

Mathematically, our split packing should have meant going from one suitcase to two. It did not. I take two bags for his every one. I long to be one of those people who “travel light,” packing only three articles of clothing and turning them into 15 different outfits, but it is not in the stars. Or the luggage.

I tend to pack for every conceivable weather condition (heat wave, torrential rain, drought, hail, hard freeze, blizzard), while he packs like an optimist who assumes the weather will be sunny and 72 regardless of the destination or season.

His modus operandi for packing is “Have khakis, will travel.”

Let it also be noted, the man doesn’t do “outfits.” He is of the mindset that everything he has goes with everything else he has. Why argue at this stage of the game?

I’d be concerned if I saw him laying out shirts and pants on the bed, seeing what goes together for hours at a time the way I have been known to do. He appears to put little thought into packing, but always looks put together.

The greatest difference in our packing revolves around shoes, which is currently running at a 4:1 ratio in my favor. What can I say? I have needy feet.

We also differ in that I will start packing days before we leave, while he often packs the morning of, based on the motto: “What’s the big deal?”

It turns out I come with a lot of baggage. Literally. Meanwhile, he has successfully become the minimalist that I always wanted to be. He’s gone from packing one medium suitcase to a carry-on bag, to a business overnight bag that wouldn’t even hold my hair appliances.

We recently returned from a weekend trip and I asked if he had unpacked, as I was going to start laundry.

“I brought in the clothes I took on hangers,” he said. “I just need to unpack a few things I stuffed in my camera bag.”

Is there anything more annoying than someone else’s success?

 

 

Lives of trees intertwine with family

It took seven strong men in four big trucks little more than three hours to take down 30 years of history.


Two 80-foot white pines bit the dust. Or the grass in the backyard in this case.

Bark beetles had taken their toll on our once-lovely towering pines. The beetles leave pinholes in the bark and mounds of sawdust at the base of the tree to let you know they’re hard at work. If you’re ever driving along and see a row of pines looking deep fried, extra crisp, or an entire mountainside with trees that look like they have been painted with rust, say hello to the bark beetles. They are dastardly little things.


Personal history and memories often intertwine with trees. There was a stately row of poplars in my first childhood home. I never picture the house without the trees.

Out on the farm, our grandparents always cut a Christmas tree from the fields. It was short and squat, had stiff needles that left scratch marks on your arms and smelled wonderful. That tree was a family tradition.

The pines in our backyard were only 5-feet tall when we moved in. They grew right alongside our kids and in the same manner—silently and quickly, but without the orthodontia and pizza.

Those pines once stretched a hammock between the two of them. They watched over swimming pools, campouts, rounds of hide and seek, snowfalls, one unauthorized bonfire and countless family gatherings.

A huge willow tree once stood in the backyard as well. The kids had a treehouse in it for a long time. Neighbor kids enjoyed it, too. The old willow rotted from the inside out and had to be taken down. The kids are in their 30s now and they’re still mad about the willow.

There’s a sadness to a fallen tree, a hollow thud that echoes death when it hits the ground.

My husband and I were working as newspaper photographers in the Pacific Northwest when Mt. St. Helens exploded. Forests were annihilated. Sprawling stands of evergreens stripped bare and splayed like bristles from a hairbrush on the charred and barren mountainside.

It was jaw-dropping, not unlike the aftermath of hurricanes and tornadoes. The loss of trees somehow compounds the even greater losses of lives and homes.

Trees tend to be symbols of strength and beauty. The death of a tree is a reminder of our own vulnerability.

The trees returned to Mt. St. Helens —and they returned faster than the experts predicted. To all who had witnessed the devastation, the regrowth was invigorating.  Those small seedlings cradled the beauty of new beginnings.

We’ve filled in the empty holes where the pines stood and dug a new hole that waits delivery of a Norway spruce.

One of the grands asked how tall the new tree is.

“Not much taller than I am,” I said.

“Can we decorate it for Christmas?” she asked, eyes twinkling.

New growth and new memories.

Getting a lock on your true friends

I heard a man say that your true friends are the ones you can call at 2 a.m. to bail you out of jail.

Why I’d be out at 2 a.m., arrested and in jail, paled next to the question of who my true friends are.

I immediately thought of a friend of 30 years. Definitely. She’s the one I’d call.  Plus, she lives in the neighborhood, so I’d be an easy drop-off. But the more I thought about it, I realized she’s not the sort you want to rouse out of a deep sleep. I’d need to wait until around 9:30 a.m. when she’s fully functioning. That would mean nearly eight hours in the slammer. I scratch her off the list. I guess we aren’t as close as I thought.

Another friend sprang to mind but she’s one who thinks the best of everyone, myself included. If I called at 2 a.m. to say I needed her to post bail she’d come unhinged and wouldn’t be in any condition to drive. Another one off the list. Maybe it’s time to run with a tougher crowd.

I realized a number of my friends are at that age where they’re tooling around the country visiting grandkids or taking grandkids on trips. Some friends. Never home when you need them.

A few others came to mind, but being in a police station could be unsettling for them. Then I thought, well I imagine it would be unsettling for me, too. I scratched them off the list and was miffed at their attitudes.

Striking out with friends, I moved on to family.

My first thought was the husband, but he has a way of tuning his cell phone completely out at night unless it’s dinging with a breaking news alert. Those he hears. He’d bail me out, but to get his attention I’d need coverage from a cable news network. More than 35 years of marriage and he’s a maybe.

I could call my brother if he lived closer. He’d come. Then again, he can be a tough love sort of guy when it comes to these situations. I could hear him telling me maybe I should sit there and think things over. I scratch through his name and make a note to give him a piece of my mind later.

I could call our youngest. We once picked her up at 1 a.m. when she was out with friends and her car was towed. She had parked in a drugstore parking lot—right in front of a sign that said “Customers Only, All Others Will Be Towed.” It would be like a payback. Nah, she’s married and has babies now. I couldn’t do that.

I have decided it is best not to go out at 2 a.m. or run afoul of the law. The hypothetical question may not have told me who my true friends are, but it was certainly a good deterrent to crime.